It's Friday and we're in a bar and its pretty crowded but we manage to grab a table, order a few drinks. A few familiar faces come and go, and mostly this bar is filled with people who I probably went to school with, but probably don't know.

And I lean in, and over the music tell Jessica that I'm gonna leave, go some place else. And she smiles, and we make our way though the crowd and out onto the beach. And the weather is wicked, minus twelve, and the pavement snow covered.

As we talk she tells me that this guy, Tim, who we went to school with, who she goes to university with, about how he has been sectioned. Insane. And I look at her and say,
"Well babe, some people don't loose it their entire life, and it must be terrible" and I smile as I'm saying this, and she just looks at me, takes my arm and says

"Well we're not exactly normal now are we"

And I'm trying to think of all the people I knew that used to live around here, and I cant. I can't picture them with out thinking of our High school photographs. Everyone still sixteen, seventeen.

The ones they thought would make it, burnt out in lifeless office jobs, the ones we knew wouldn't, with child in lifeless council flats. Others trying to stay sane, trying to escape. Get out of here.

And I'm watching the spit of the sea crash on the pebble, and the florecences and the street lights, and just staring into the night.

It's Friday and we're in a bar and its pretty crowded but we manage to grab a table, order a few drinks. A few familiar faces come and go, and mostly this bar is filled with people who I probably went to school with, but probably don't know.

And I lean in, and over the music tell Jessica that I'm gonna leave, go some place else. And she smiles, and we make our way though the crowd and out onto the beach. And the weather is wicked, minus twelve, and the pavement snow covered.

As we talk she tells me that this guy, Tim, who we went to school with, who she goes to university with, about how he has been sectioned. Insane. And I look at her and say,
"Well babe, some people don't loose it their entire life, and it must be terrible" and I smile as I'm saying this, and she just looks at me, takes my arm and says

"Well we're not exactly normal now are we"

And I'm trying to think of all the people I knew that used to live around here, and I cant. I can't picture them with out thinking of our High school photographs. Everyone still sixteen, seventeen.

The ones they thought would make it, burnt out in lifeless office jobs, the ones we knew wouldn't, with child in lifeless council flats. Others trying to stay sane, trying to escape. Get out of here.

And I'm watching the spit of the sea crash on the pebble, and the florescences, the street lights, a trawler in the bay, and I'm just staring into the night, into the future.

I'm waiting outside the station, standing next to my luggage, red Ralph Lauren weekend bag and a 1967 Wooden Champagne create, sealed. And snow starts drifting in, caught in the fur on my ski jacket. Jacques pulls up in his silver A3 and we hug hello, and exchanged the kind of pleasantries that old friends do and load my luggage into his car, and he looks at the create as if to suggest its unessential and I laugh.

'You and I know you can't get the good stuff out here' the rough wood catching the orange street light. The moon reflecting in the centre mirror.And it's crisp outside, minus 6, and Jacques looks up and smiles and drops the boot shut.

And we get in the car, and don't say anything until we get to where we're going, just stare at the familiar streets, note the small changes, new hotels, bars, old haunts. And we pull up outside the library and make out way to a wine bar, Gandy Street, and slide into a table.

'So do you think you'll survive, it's not the bright lights here baby?' Jacques
'Sure, why not?'
'It's been months'

I finger the menu. Shiraz or Merlot? 'Three, and I'm pretty sure I'll be fine. I'll just have to cut out going to nice restaurants' Shiraz. 'Super premiums' Berry Estates. 'cigarettes, you know, all the good things that you cant find out in the sticks.'

silent laugh 'I'm sure mummies little prince won't go without'.

And several bottles later we split, and end up cruising the streets that we walked at college, reminiscing, and the CD clicks repeat and we make our way home.

And it feels weird, being driven on these roads, lanes, no driving. Being here. Knowing I'm home. Almost like I've been missed out. Jacques's wheels spin on ice at the bottom of the drive. And I get out, tell him I'll see him tomorrow, turn, and look up into the stars, the light catching the cottage above, and smile as I make my way towards the house.

Yes?

A comment on a video I am watching reads...

"The whole point is that elitist people are missing out on real life. Let them have their luxury, they're wasting their lives!"

And this comment has two thumbs up. And I'm thinking about the dinner, a sixtieth wedding celebration, that I went to on Friday, or Saturday. How happy the hosts were, are. And I'm wondering if I'm wasting my life, if I should be married, settled, in love? And I'm wondering if I care.

And then I turn on DMAX and watch two episodes of LA Ink, which, for the record is so much better than Miami Ink.

The TV's on mute. And the presenters are faking smiles, and probably talking about snow, and Christmas. And I'm just watching them, lip reading.

And Don Henley, Boys of Summer, is playing out over the sound system. And

There was a heatwave that summer. My brother and I spent most days at the beach, with my mother. The heat so intense that that tar buckled, expansion gaps failing. The terrace, with its concrete tile so hot it scorched feet, skin.

Come late September the heat was forgotten, and almost every day were overcast. But still Grandpa would take us to the beach. From the deck we'd watch the surf. Whilst Grandma would cook inside. It often rained,momentarily, and you could taste the salt drifting on the wind. Grandpa would still swim, forced by the current, disappear under the surface and reappear hundreds of feet away, how the pebble would cut shins. And the smell of gas from the stove.

Several small boats were recovered from the mouth of the river that year, and I remember thinking why didn't their owners tie them up? The beach was broken, and by October only one flight of steps gave access to the lower level, the rest they said had be found washed up across the channel. Just like the shingle had been washed over the sea walls. Across the streets.

We never had holidays like that after that year.

I'm staring in the mirror, mounted on white tile. Just staring at myself, naked. The stubble on my face. And I should shave. And I'm thinking of things I need to buy, accessories for my dinner jacket. A tie pin, a new pocket square, a real bow tie.

I'm staring mainly at the location of my next tattoo, lower left peck. But it seems like such an effort to book an appointment. And I don't want to talk to anyone I don't know. Not right now. That's my thing this month. Reservation. Brogues.

And I've thought it for a while now, the comparability of myself and Clay,Hayden. And my mother calls, asking what I want for Christmas, and I tell her nothing.

'Nothing' I say
'Vouchers? Clothes? '
' I don't really want anything...someone to pay of my credit card? Nothing really.'

My spirit animal is Wolf. I remember a painting my mother commissioned of her spirit guide. She used to say we looked a like. But I don't think I could even guide myself. What is the snow fall like in Alaska? I want life, real life, outside of institution. And a wage. I want to be a capitalist, not a survivor nor parasite. Leather gloves. New outer coat.

When I leave on the Sunday the canopies of are still red, orange, intact. Come Friday the only remnantce of this is scatted across the drive, the road, the windshield of a Black VW Polo.

And I'm told that I look more European than before, and I feel pale. And I contemplate a spray tan, the sun bed, but decide otherwise. And I'm looking for a new three piece and the wind is slamming rain against the sash windows, and I'm thinking about summer. The Minack theatre, the north surf. Christmas. And I want to go home. Sell up. Leave this apartment. Live again, free from restrains. And I intend too.

It's the twelfth of August, or maybe it's the thirteenth, and I wake up in Balham, Greater London. And I'm staring at the joint where the wall reaches the ceiling, just staring.

And my phone rings, and it's been ringing continuously since seven am. And eventually I give in,get out of bed, walk over to it. It's a number I don't recognised. And a conversation I don't recognise entails. A solicitor.

I'm wearing a Royal Blue JW Polo, 2008, with cream shorts which have blue pin stripe detail and Camel moccasins, which are actually slippers, but who's to know. And I'm this road in Balham, in the suburbs of London, somewhere near a polish church and I'm not really sure where I'm going. I just kind of walk into the morning light. The air, cool yet close and somewhat Autumnal for this time of year. Balham to Warren.

And at the bank I catch my reflection in the ATM whilst I'm entering my pin, or trying to, and I look...fresh...if you discount the shadow under my eyes, the redness of the right, and uneven tone of my rosed skin. Fresh enough for three hours sleep.

Six, four, four, zero. Declined.

And I've done this twice, so I try another ATM, and eventually it gives in and lets me use it. And I withdraw two hundred pounds. And then I use the ATM next to the one that gives in, and withdraw another two hundred. And then I'm approached by what I can only assume is a Maitre'd of the bank? And I tell him, 'I need more'. And pretty soon my Tote is full of twenty pound notes counted and held by red sleeves. And they cant take this.

And as I emerge from Bond Street my phone rings, and I answer it not really listening. And I head to Ralph Lauren, but only make it as far as Hanover Square before it starts to rain. And I tell the person on the other end, mother? That they cant take all they want from her, but they'll never take it from me, and that it's in a tote bag, underneath the bench on which I'm sitting. And droplets stain patches of the maroon fabric deep red as they fall from the canopy. And a man lifts weights in the open air, and a taxi drives past an old couple from the East End, and I feel free.

I'm thinking about writing, about the words on the page, black ink on off white. 80gsm, maybe more. Running the bath. Sitting on the edge, just starting at the white tiled walls. Tempted by the water around my toes. The cool ceramic. And the phone rings, and I'm listening to the ring, just listening. Ring.

Staring now at a the condensation on the mirror. The buds of the Peace Lilly. And something like twenty minutes pass and I'm just sitting in silence in front of a bath of water. Just sitting. Staring.

I'm sitting, kind of, staring at a blank screen. And I can't put in to word what I want to say. And the only thing resonating in my head are the six words I said perhaps three or for times today.

'It's good to see you again'

And really it was. But I wish, in a way, that I didn't see you at all, because now I want to see you all the time. Tomorrow, Sunday, next week.

It's weird to think of all shit that's happened in the two, three years since we were last together. And it surreal to think of who you're with now. And I can't really explain it.

And maybe I'm just over analysing.

I'm staring at the line up of pills that I've been prescribed, listening to clock ticking in the hallway, the washing machine in the utility, the traffic on the Triangle.

Right now I'm thinking about cancelling it all. My current contracts, future contracts, my apartment tenancy, flights to Berlin, various social networking websites, this website, licences, utility bills, enrolments, memberships, flights to London, Brisbane, Paris.

And in my head this summer played out completely differently to what it has. A minute hand ticks over to three pm, a cathedral bell chimes somewhere in the city and the bright sun is tinted by Wayfarers. A girl is drinking Cider from a bottle, whilst the guys throw a Rugby Ball around the green. A train is pulling into Lime Street Station. People are letting, subletting houses, rooms, weekends in various cities over the country. A young girl skips past. Birds fly in the flared sky. The waves crash on a familiar beach. A Car is stuck between the dunes of another. The familiar smell of country side, of trees, the common.


And yet none of this has happened. Nothing.

It's three am, maybe four. And I don't really know where I am. Somewhere between Bristol and London, somewhere off of the M4. Somewhere with bitter coffee. And Styrofoam cups, and this truly is a shit blend.

And through my headphone Bon Iver, The Wolves (Act I and II) is playing. And I'm thinking about the line 'In the morning I'll call you' and I'm thinking, who would I call if I were alone. And I can't think. My eyes are dry and gritty and have been since surgery. And the polished glass of the for-court doesn't help. And my car; Electric blue, hard top, charcoal interior, discreet, but light and powerful enough to push 140 on the empty motorways, sits empty, alone, under the unnaturally bright lights. And I'm thinking we're all alone.

And on the passenger seat, in the glove box, scattered around the foot well, extracted pages of Exit Through the Wound. And it's a story with which I am familiar. A story which I have read, six, seven, eight times now. And there's something soothing about driving at speed and reading from a page, something, uncontrollably relaxing. And I can only remember the first line, the first three words, the lights on my dash. The night.

There's a sign in the record shop, that's pillbox read, like my jeans, and reads 'Keep calm and carry on' and I'm looking at it, and thinking 'If only you knew'.

And I'm not really looking for anything really, just filling time before heading back to the office, and I'm certainly not looking for any CD's or DVD's because I don't own a single CD or DVD and don't wish to. And I'm wearing jeans because I can. And they are red, because I want people to think I'm a little bit different but I'm actually very 'middle of the road'.

I'm dialling a number, actually dialling from memory, on my phone, and it rings and no one answers, because no one picks up because my phone cuts the call after the second ring. But I keep the hand set next to my ear and walk towards the cashier, and I'm just thinking about how undesirable she looks, and how undesirable most of Bristol looks. And I'm just staring, trying to remove the awkwardness I've created by faking a phone call.

And now I'm in a book shop. One of the only ones left in town. I'm picking up Imperial Bedrooms and I'm flicking through the pages, and trying to find the mention of London Preppy, but can't. And I'd buy it, if it weren't hardback and larger than the other books I own. And the yellow dust jacket makes me feel sick. In the self-help section my phone receives several text messages all at once.

'I'll call you when I'm at Hong Ku Lou, Lunch? I'm in a client meeting until 1245 x'

'I'm outside, where are you? x'

'______, call HR when you get this.'

'I've been here twenty minutes now, I guess you're not coming.'

I'm walking through Victoria Square, and sipping at a milkshake from some Coffee Shop. It's warm in this neighbourhood, but not humid, unlike the centre. And the trees offer some shelter from the sun, and the streets create light breeze. And I'm staring at my reflection in a laminated sign that reads 'Dog walkers...my name is Archie'. And then Im staring at my reflection of my reflection in my Prada Sport Sunglasses. And I guess this is how people fill their days when they've nothing pressing.

Judging by the light its four of five,long shadows in open grass, and a group of maybe six or seven school children run around the undergrowth. 'Pretend you're having a baby' she says. And this sentence resonates in my otherwise empty mind, and I wonder if I'll ever conceive. I can smell the earth, and I'm watching the social interactions, and it feels like I'm looking at something that I'm finally a part of. And this is slowly happening all over the city, the street view between Colston Tower and Colston Hall. Maple green leaf juxtaposed against the old brick. The sense of space created by the gates of Bristol Magistrates Court. And I'm designing these feelings in my head, exploring relations between man and environment. And this is something I've been trained to do, and I can't see it ending.

And the sun is warming my back, arm, shake, and the milk is starting to split. And my phone clicks active, and I stare at the screen, and it seems like ages since I last took a breath.And I don't know the number and neither do I want to. And all manner of sounds propagate my silence, traffic, screaming, barking, a violent wind that rocks the trees. And I realise, this moment of calm, I've just created, this moment was in my head.

A Bluebottle is ricochetting between the panes in the window, seduced by escape. And the evening sun is hung by dust as it breaks through the slats. And the courtyard is a merge of suits.

This must be the four hundredth time I've walked this building, and as I'm carrying a fluted tray, working the crowd, Cassis is spilt onto my otherwise pristine shirt. And apologies follow as a rolled up fifty is pushed into my free hand.

And it's three a.m when I return, and the streets are still empty. And I'm pushing a key into a lock. And in the bath/dressing room I change into a clean shirt, Grey Stripped, unbranded, and take off my Chinos. And pretend the shirts yours. And on the Robi coffee table, piles of pressed clothing, accessories and an empty Cafetiere. And I'm caught somewhere between day and night, morning light breaking the street light polluted cloud.

And in a travel bag I throw a few items, a laptop, a phone, Hugo Boss dress shirts, polos, the swim shorts from my race sponsor, two 75cl bottles of Goose. Tonight I'm leaving on a train. Heading, South. Walking through the kitchen I cogitate the idea that we co-inhabit and you've waited for me to return, and it's nights like these that you'd say don't go but you'd be happy that I'm happy. And I'd tell you I'd be back soon, and you'd smile and press my lips with yours.

I'm watching muted re-runs of a British chat shows on DAVE or More4 or some channel like that. The images the only light cast over the room, the smell of summer rain lifting from the pavements outside. The breeze, blown through the sash window, damp.

And from the Bose dock on the sideboard CocoRosie's Lemonade is playing, and it's by far the best track on the otherwise disappointing album. And I'm trying to pin point just exactly what it is that people find so amazing about it, and all I hear is a cheap Bjork imitation. Saved only by saxophone, and a slightly twenty's tinge.

And I'm thinking about all the things that I haven't achieved today, and how empty my apartment looks, half furnished, and the orange balloon adrift in the silent three am street, silent except for the shards of piano from my window. And the apartment I used to stay at with the lads, and the people we used to see, and the places we used to go, and the clubs we'd frequent, and the crazy things we do. And how we'd probably be sitting in a beer garden right now, drinking, laughing, and how I'd probably say something like 'I'm going to make a call' and we'd all know that I'd really be going to vomit somewhere. Or how we'd probably be drinking Snake Bite, and talking about better music than CocoRosie, planning a evening drive, and how nothing would matter except the night ahead, and who'd pull more girls, or who'd get more numbers, and the promise of muscle guys and podium dancers, and nothing would matter except now. And how we could be sitting in a beer garden right now, if I weren't sitting here. And I guess I'll see you on Friday old friend.

Coffee the usual morning beverage, often fails to take the edge of the monotony of daily life. Addiction to any substance, however, seems to blur the edges and is highly recommended. Addiction to alcohol is by far the most favourable. With several advantages over other addictions. Notably it's easy concealment. Is that Vodka O2 or Perrier in that bottle? This insures day drinking can take place at the office, in the board room, in the design studio, in the car, at a party or public event and even whilst making idle small talk with colleagues.

Whilst alcoholism may make it slightly harder for those holding down a 9 to 5 you should remind yourself that it is a good thing, its the only constant in your otherwise passing life. And let it be known that those of us with meaningless design/part time jobs salute you.

It's fairly well known that my personal collections and tastes, are vast and varied. House pours are usually take the shape of lower qualities,why spoil yourself? Everyone knows that Elite Premium in your display case looks better than it tastes. Never open it.

Most days I stick to a regimented Alcohol routine as part/entirety of a healthy balanced/unbalanced, liquid diet and well, here's how I do it.

0800am - Breakfast:

Beverage: Bailey's Irish Cream (Liqueur). Goes excellently with Coco-pops. Don't measure it, who even does that? Go all European and pour until the cereal floats.

Recommended for sipping at: The breakfast table.

1100am - Elevenis

Beverage: Absolut Ruby Red (Flavoured Vodka). Smells like Grapefruit. Taste like Grapefruit. This one counts towards your five-a-day. Like the Titanic tastes great on the rocks, or mixed with cranberry and passion fruit juice.

Recommended for sipping at: Desk/Office kitchenette

1400am - Late lunch

You'll probably be too full to eat at this point, but in case you aren't I'd go for something that will keep you alive until your next hit.

Beverage: Guinness (Ale). Practically a meal in a glass. You might want to throw it up, or only have a half, so not to get to fat, after all it is a ale. Ale = Added Fat

1600 - Afternoon snack

Usually a hand full of nuts, seeds etc, will be enough to keep you going until after a grooling office shift. And for this reason I choose...

Beverage: Frangelico (Hazel Nut Liqueur). You'll need about ten 25ml shots to make up one of your recommended portion size.

Recommended for sipping at: Sly at the desk, or in the toilets, you can't have more than one break a day!

2000 (Although can start as soon as work finishes) - Dinner

You've had a hard day, drink what you want.

Beverage: Anything as long as you mix Beers Spirits and Wines. Don't forget, you've eaten a lot to day and need to puke it up so not to store it as fat.

1200 - Night Cap/Night catalyst

Going out? Staying in? It's all the same these days. Get completely sloshed.

Beverage: Balkan (Neutral Vodka). The perfect equivalent to Rohypnol. If you're shaving an early one, wash your Benzodiazepines down with this. If you're going out, well you wont need/want to remember what happens anyway.

Recommended for sipping at: The medicine cabinet/the kitchen floor.

I've been thinking recently, if you class recently as the last three years, that I'm just not that popular any more. Or maybe I am, its quite subjective.

When I was younger, two or maybe three (judging by photographs) I was quite popular. But then, we were part of a baby boom. Every birthday my mother would bake a cake usually with a cartoon character on it or it would be the shape of a football, or other very manly straight thing. And people, some fat, some still in nappies, some people who I didn't even like, would come around and wish us happy birthday.And eat my cake and make a big deal out of me.

And during the summers, kids could come and play in our garden. Or my brother and I would go to the orchard, there were always people we knew there. We'd spend hours running across farmlands, shooting, fishing, playing cricket. As time went on, I can't say things changed much, nothing really does where my family are from. We discovered other towns and other people, but still remained popular. Perhaps because of our family status? After all we were in fathers jurisdiction.

At highschool there was a slump, perhaps for a year or two, but I was also tagged as the nice boy, the popular, yet not cocky boy. Which often resulted in my having the 'new kids' attached to me. Popular and successful, I guess is a win win situation. I remember my first fight, and how I sort out my brother, and how he turned around and told me to deal with it. Whilst I stood there, helpless, bleeding.

By the time I reached college, my brother and I has grown apart. He studied away from home and I did not. And for some reason, I remember filtering my way through the people at highschool stripping away all the fake things you're conditioned to do. Like stay in contact, pretend to care when someone has a child, meet people. Instead I kept a few close friends. There was one, Ethan. He got heavily involved in drugs, but I'd follow him to the ends of the earth. And I suppose at the time, he was a crush. And he'd tell me the horrible things people do for drugs, and the things he'd seen, and I'd give him money, and food, and we'd spend days trying to bring his work up to standard, or chatting about stuff that didn't matter. Eventually we grew apart. Our entire group did. We all went separate ways. I to Brighton, others to Bournemouth and Bristol. And we lost touch.

And when I moved here, in my mind I drew a picture. Friends coming and going, people always visiting, no need to create new relationships. And real life never turns out like that. And there must be about two of us left now. And even fewer who are in regular contact. And no one calls any more. Sometimes we look at each others facebook. It's all very distant.

By the way, I'm looking for one of these:

Pictured: Mini Chaise Lounge Telephone Chair

I now live alone and need furniture and dare I say it, this would look darling under my bookcase. Find me one in a close geographical location to Bristol, and for a prince no more that £50, and you'll win a signed...technical drawing or something equally as shit.

...although rumour has it someone has just bought me one.

I've realised I don't really know you at all. And I don't really know anyone at all. Seven years ago, everyone knew everyone, and social circles demanded popularity, and prestige, but now that doesn't exist, and doesn't matter. But at least I knew people then. Now I'm distant with most, and those that I am not, I'm not sure I truly know.

And this year I'm not taking a summer vaccination at my parents, and I wonder if this is an excuse to drift away from those that are left. And I don't want it to be, but it might be. And there are friends, I've known for years, that I speak to perhaps, once a year, and it not because we've drifted apart, it's because we're living separate lives, in separate cities. And there are friends I've never met, that I feel closer too than anyone else, and that just ridiculous.

But you, I'm never really sure I knew you to begin with, and I'm defiantly sure I don't know, and don't care to know you now.

I'm drinking some disgusting cocktail that they make in the slums of Rio. Whilst watching over weight, rouged, topless Bristolians as they watch their children playing in fountains at Millennium Square. And I'm thinking of the oxidisation of the bearings in the wheels of a small boys scooter, and I feel sick. And someone talks to me in Spanish, and I don't really understand, and my phone rings. And after I click off I recall the conversation in my head, and decide that an VIP invitation to a gig, even if it will be shit, must be accepted.

And several Bloody Mary's later, I'm at the gig, and as I thought, it's shit.

And to avoid problems like this, and because I'm feeling a little melancholy and angry at myself, because I can only sleep between the hours of 2am and 5am, I have decided that, despite the sun, today I am staying inside. Pale and English a classic combination.

So I'm watching re-runs of Grand Designs on More4, only I'm not, and calculating how many days I have left in this fucking city, and its only 547.5. And that number makes me quite happy, and I wonder what I'll be doing on that half of a day.

Five hundred and fourth seven point five.

I'm standing in a basement vault. A sound system hung by tension wires from the exposed brickwork. Red. Staring at a television monitor which is playing some music channel, possibly VIVA, slurping at a Wyborowa Blue Redbull through a straw. And I'm dragged by the arm, through a passage away from a bouncer, and pressed against the wall by her hips.

Leaning, long hair brushing my cheek, soft in my ear
'You're other half is waiting for you' and as I forge a reply, a pill is pushed between my lips and pressed with a kiss.

And we're running down the street, jackets flaying, half chased. Through parkland, and on to a boat. The hull surging, the internal sea of the dance floor. Bodies grinding like gulls in the wake. A waitress, guided by my hand, opens a bottle of Zybrowka as I hand her my a copy of my fathers Visa. And before I realise I've taken the card I'm topside. A lipstick stained cigarette shared between our aching jaws. Eye liner, smeared on my white polo, dirt on my Fred Perry canvas tennis shoes.

And under a heat lamp a blazered figure. Royal blue, white flashing. Grey chinos, possibly jeans, black tie. A conversation, fragmented, and as dignified as my state...

“I’m fine.”
..You ... "look" fine
“Tired”
join me “...inside?

"Give me a minute"

And as I look up from the cherry of the cigarrette, my phone dead, the rain rolling from an umbrella across my left temple. I realise I'm stood amongst strangers, the sillohette of a girl, company, walking to shore, and I'm really just another face in the crowd.

So it's Wednesday. And I'm thinking about London, and what might have happened if I hadn't have left. And I feel like I'm over this city. There's nothing here that really interest me any more, not the blossoming streets, the cider boats, the vodka bars, the neighbourhoods. Nothing. And I'm quite honestly stuck in a fucking rut.

And after I've eaten three frankfurters from a jar, that I've no idea how reached my kitchen, the intercom buzzes, and I watch my reflection in the glossy paint of the door as I pull it open, and then I catch my eye in the window of the buildings opposite, and I'm handed a T-shirt. And this is the first time I notice that its dusk, and the orange glow of the street lamps fuse the air with a hum. And the shirt reads DC 10 and has a picture of a tree, and I take it, and god I wish tomorrow would be over. And I start making plans for two years time, and I'm listening to Dizzy by Jimmy Eat World, and that's when I realise what is missing.You. You're not here. At least, not in this city.

And it's Friday of last week, and I'm listening to The Smiths and staring at myself in wall length mirrors whilst I'm having a shower. And my apartment intercom buzzes. And I'm getting out of the shower to have a look who's there, and I can't really see anyone, so I just press the door release and get on with my life.

And I'm drinking a cider, cos that's what people in Bristol do, and someone actually knocks on my door. And eventually after I've finished pouring I answer it. And some guy hands me a clip board and asks for my signature and I don't really understand what's happening so I just sign, and he hands me a box, possibly a new pair of custom designed shoes? And pretty soon I'm having dinner in Browns, and it used to be quite the place, but has since gone down hill. The house pour is Smirnoff, and the house gin is Gordon's. And the Kir Royale that I'm necking tastes like it's made with Chateaux Chaumet, and the fishcakes I find myself eating are pretty...average, and the Maitre d' can't even tell me what fish it is. And a chavy group of balding men are disregarding the establishment with which I hold an account. And I ask to move tables, and I'm shot a terrible look. And money really does talk. And long story short, it's a shit dinner. And so we skip desert and head to a Goldbrick House.

And, let me just say, it defiantly isn't made with gold bricks, it's actually pretty average, and the Mijoto's are disgusting, made with Gomme, pre-prepped juice and clapped mint (?). After an argument with the Waiter,who has one tooth missing and terrible hair, which I win, we head to the 'sun terrace'. Where it looks as if someone has dumped an Argos gazebo, and it's all pretty scummy, so I accidental knock my overly iced, glass of shit onto the street below, and watch as it smashes into a thou' tiny pieces narrowly missing a woman. And I'm pretty bored, so I leave and 'forget' to pay my tab. And I'm thinking Hey baby, this is real life.

A clock is ticking in the hallway outside. Sunlight is thrown into the room through the bay window, absorbed by the Indian Ivy walls, the linen Roman blind, reflected off of the white satin wood, the mantle, the skirting, the frames. Shadows created by warm air filter across the varnished oak floor by the bay, guilded frames glint with refractions from traffic.

Drawing board on knee, cartridge paper scarred with lines. Drawn, erased, drawn over. The dark walls casting shadow on to the plain on which I draw, onto the chaise lounge. And I take the Voss from the coffee table, and wash the dryness from my mouth, and rest my temple against the wall. Cool. Sill. And a restless child cries from upstairs.

So, erm just like wondering, does anyone wanna get married? All I'm looking for is a nice town house in Nottinghill, were we can raise the kids, I can stay at home whilst you work, do a bit of colouring in, you know, all that shit. Interested, I've got a pretty big dowry?

And so after some in depth emails to the CEO's of Double Cross, an invitation to Bratislava, and some serious consideration, I still can't source and Double Cross in the Uk.

Double Cross Vodka(750ml): Available online(USA ONLY) / New York / Slovakia.

Whoever should place three bottles (and/or a case) of this on my desk by the end of the week, shall win my heart, and bank account. That is all.

And there's a mint leaf stuck in the straw of the mojito that I'm sucking, which I made myself, and majorly over-poured (a first) with vodka and extra rum, and I'm pretty fucked. And its 1449. And I'm waiting for the washing machine to stop spinning so I can put another load on, but its been stuck on 00:09 minutes for what seems two hours. And I stumble across a bottle of Jager in the cutlery draw. And my suitcase isn't even packed, and I've work in, oh I don't know, perhaps five hours and I'm pretty fucked and its only gonna get worse, and I'm loving it. And did I mention I cleaned the oven, and still havent eaten? Make it a sweet goodbye. Roll on the hills and beaches.

And here's a picture of me in a wetsuit. Make me wet. Oh wait, that's a bush, sometime in mid 2007. You've got me popping champagne I'm at it again.

Somersault is playing from the kitchen and I'm drinking black coffee, a Cath Kidson mug. And I'm wondering will anyone notice when the cherry trees no longer blossom? The fungi on the trunk the only sign of subtle decade. Or when the tarmac will buckle under heat, or if anyone will care for a water ban.

And a girl is riding a bike in circles in the car park, whilst her farther watches on. And I'm just waiting for the summer. The beaches, the slow days, leafy parks around the city. The cider, the sun burn, cold showers. Road trips. Sea salt, BBQ's, beach fires. Laying in vegetable gardens, earthy smells, Perrier, shadow cast across faces, evening sun , harvest. Dirt roads, dusty sports cars. The 96' defender, chaise lounges. The smell of sun lotion. Cursing under oak leaf canopies. Hot sand. The sheltering cliffs.

A laptop no longer in use. A playlist no longer played. A CD I wonder if you still own. Filled with songs I know longer know, but once did, and at the time I guess I felt the same about myself. And a message is sent with out reply.

And come Saturday I'm standing at Victoria, at London Bridge, at Bank, and I can't stand here without thinking of you, in fact I can't be in this city without thinking about you. And if it not for those four weeks, three years before, I'd probably never have come here, the streets and the buildings. Mansion House, and the hours we spent outside St Paul's and the questions I'd ask that you were able to answer so freely.

That morning. How we lay, entangled. And how the November chill rouged your cheeks. The streets close, and warmed by open doors, busy with people. Drinking coffee. The new library. And we were much alike then, and now so far apart I'm unsure. But if one could wait. Two years. Or perhaps we need not, if you'd ask me now, I'd take the 318 mile drive. And in the summer, we could frequent the cottage, a beach I'd pine for you to see. A sea view to lose you. And we'd waste dusk by the waterfront, through reeds of the estuary.

Bring me home.

And it’s 1706 greenwich mean time. And I’m lying on a bed whilst sunlight floods through the louvers of the windows, inviting glare as it does so. Wishing the Finlandia and Pom in hand, was a Polish Bullet. Feist playing somewhere in the background, the open-season chords broken by the ring of the telephone on the bedside cabinet. And as I turn to answer it I realise I’m late. And I really can’t be bothered.

I take a Perrier (can) from the mini bar and make my way to Diagonal, where I use a T10 and get the L3 to Catalyna, where I stop at the market. Which is closed. And eventually the metro carriage pulls into Espanya. And by the time I reach Montjuic I can’t actually be bothered, and so I swap the meeting at Arte De Cataluná for the sweet English tea at the Fundació Joan Miró, which of course is worth the extra fifteen minute walk. And it’s the first time in three days that I have a pot, and I’m stealing it into the gallery, where I’m pretending I’m interested in the art, and some woman has used her vagina to recreate a famous painting, and the Mercury fountain, which has been here for what seems years is still pissing its silver liquid into the skyline. And a host spits a string of complex Catalan at me and I have no idea what she is staying.

And it’s around 1930 (gmt), and I’m walking back via Mirador del Palau Nacional, and the cityscape; a jewel in the evening sun, stops me. And I just sit on the steps and think, and stare, and jot some sketches. And I’m taking the slow way over to Van Der Rohe’s, late for a meeting with the CEO of some agency at BCN Montjuic, and my phone rings and I click on loudspeaker, as I pull the Dior sun glasses from my face, and drop them into a Vuitton Utah Leather messenger.

I'm staring at a blank screen, and the images that are running in my head, are reluctant to construct into coherent prose. And I guess this is writers block. And the cursor is still flashing, beckoning for movement, for characters to be produced.

And I find myself in the back of a new silver Fiesta, and the lights in front are glaring in the evening hue. The Hendrick's I've consumed causing a momentary loss of focus. And it reminds me of that night it felt like the south of France. The car pulling up curbside, unloading luggage, whilst the unusually thick, unusually warm May air hugged our bodies.

Only, the driver is smoking a Mayfair Smooth and the car moves freely though the empty Sunday streets. Cruising to a couple of apartments. Where some people enter and others exit the vehicle. And the smooth, freeness of the drive reminds me of similar journeys, comforting and grounding. And for the first time in several months, I feel at ease. At home.

And as the evening fades to night, and the Fiesta's red lights merge into the grain of the city, I'm dropped at the Church cornering my apartment. I have an inclination to go inside. But don't. And instead walk to my front door. Inside my shirt is pressed and folded, and tomorrows outfit, for a Stoli laced dinner has been composed, and is waiting in my dressing room.

The rain, so light and warm, yet heavy enough to push creators into sand, before burning away. The walk through the dunes, through campus. Dark cloud replaced with patches of long evening sun, hidden by falling dusk. The surrounding woods. Music from across the courtyard. Music from the room which we shared, Feist. The light in the kitchen, unshaded, attracting insects, bringing the smell of cut grass on their wings. A poster on the Jade wall. The click of a kettle rising to boil. A taxi ride. A cool night-wind channelled by the linear street. A hospital. The spring rain. Fresh, clean.

Days filled with coffee and magazines, cocktails and shopping. A suitcase filled with designer clothes. High-street,low-end boutiques. A cashmere jumper. Mcdonalds. Foam gathering in the fountain. The old city, the castle. Two litre, cinema Cola. A shop which sold steroids out back. Vitamin supplements, three days grace from the gym. Abandoned warehouses. Steel works looming across the bay. An apple striped shirt. Sand on our feet, your back. The view of home across out stretched sea. Long nights. Your taste, your touch. A photograph, memories. The night fires. Grey Goose. A train journey. The riverside. A hospital.

So I wake up after a string of nightmares, mostly about drowning. And a wave of apathy washes over me.

Outside it's mild, and dark. I'm wearing slippers, and a hat. A hat which I last wore in 2005. And I'm walking and its 2103. And as I'm walking I'm listening to Sometimes by City and Colour, and I haven't listened to this album since last summer. During that week where we drank gin and swam in the pool, and lay on the concrete floor in the sun, tanning. And the mildness reminds me of those late September nights and I'm thinking of the summer to come.

And a rented house in London. And for a week, or maybe more, depending on how long I can last we'll watch Secret Diary of A Call Girl. As the open windows channel the evening breeze past the morning papers on the table and into the room, carrying the smell of melting tarmac. And by night we'll stay out drinking in bars, and coffee shops, or walking the streets until dusk or maybe even eight or nine in the morning, and then we'll collapse and sleep all day. And eventually MTV will win us over.

And by the time this scene has played out I'm sitting on the door step, smoking a cigarette. And I can't inhale, so I stub it out. And go back inside, and close my eyes, and as I walk up the stairs I wonder what it would be like to be blind. And I lay down.

And the chill makes it around two degrees, and the lack of sleep makes every step an effort. An attendant peals back the cage, and white-light from under the street level floods through the stairwell. And by the ticket machine I glance in to an office, but your not there. And I'm on the complete opposite side of the city. Victoria, South-bound, is dead, and delayed by two minutes. And eventually one station becomes another, and then nothing more than a vast flood lit hall. The steps on which we first met, empty, and the windows behind, towering shadows. And platform seventeen, and that moment three years ago, seem so distant that they become almost irrelevant. But because of this I'm reminded of you. And I'm no longer sure what exactly it is I'm reminded of.

From the bed that I'm lying on the ceiling wont stop spinning, and is no longer white. And in the en suit a five hundred pound ice sculpture, that reads "21 Prince ___" is slowly melting. And a phone, on loud speaker, projects screaming from a club, and I just can't party like I used to. And in the taxi, the driver wont allow the sculpture in the boot, and a police officer turns a blind eye as it's rammed into the back seats. And someone is cutting powder with a Nectar card, on a drawing desk in a bedroom, and passing around a twenty. And from the en suit someone shout laughs 'This is dedication'. And a bouncer thumbs a tag that is pinned on my chest that has an address written on it, and the words 'Return to' written above the address. And someone is taking photos, and flashes are blinding.

I've spent the last week in a Garden city on the South-coast. Wearing the same outfit. Red skinny jeans, a limited edition white print t-shirt accessorised
with black three d wayfarers and a vodka stained light charcoal hood, which I occasionally swap for a plumb cardigan. And today I'm wearing the plumb cardigan. And as I'm sitting in the winter sun, smoking a cigarette that someone placed in my pocket, and drinking a black coffee I catch my reflection in window. And my eyes are thick and black and my hair, styled, but messed up, my lips split dry. And my headphones lead the eye to my waist, which is looking lean and prefect. And the soundtrack to this coffee is by Simon and Garfunkel. And this truly is the best of times, and although my head feels like shit, I'm actually looking fucking amazing, perhaps even better than my reflection tells.

And luckily someone is around to take photographs, and if I were to show you a photograph that would sum up the trip it would be this:




And because life can't be all rosy and sweet, my return has shown that my days are mundane and numb. And if it weren't for the three week old Evian water that I found yesterday morning, in my bedside cabinet, I'd probably be dead. Or on a massive come down. And right about now both of these options seem enticing.

Tuesday at the clinic, I receive a repeat. And I notice four people I actually know, and awkward is a word that couldn't even begin to describe. And after dispense I walk to Starbucks, where I sit at a table. And the coffee which I get for free was never warm. And has spilled from the cup onto a napkin. Staining the white sheet brown. And I think about my teeth, and stare at their reflection in my communication device, whilst Latitude tells me that all contacts have left the city. And I contemplate driving down to the coast for a couple of days.

And those couple of days come and pass, and with the absence of company, I simply stay behind glass for the duration. And eventually when I feel the need to go outside, it's not all that great. And in a photo I find, a boy wearing a Black t-shirt with an MTV logo on it, and in the background is an Oman beach, and it reminds me to book so some sort of flight. And I add a comment which reads 'Where is this must have from?' And it's been four days and still no reply.

And in a twist of events which probably involve boredom, small orange tablets, and gin, I'm watching Five-hundred Days of Summer. And basically what the production team have done is taken a rough outline of my life and watered it down into five hundred, less dramatic days, and the likeness is uncanny. And really there is not much more to say other than, watch it or something.

I'm talking to a friend on Tuesday, in a Starbucks somewhere near a station. And he is telling me about the time he listened to Radiohead for about eight months of his life, including most of a spring, summer and autumn. And I'm thinking it's pretty cool, and that I want to achieve something this cool. And so far I've listened to the song Nude 42 times, and have 6 hours 9 minutes and 44 secounds of songs to go, not including the Greatest Hits.

And to allow Radiohead to take over my life I'm playing songs from Ok Computer whilst I'm standing in the shower, and the water is spitting above, and I notice the tiles are no longer white and I go to touch them, and I'm standing there leaning against the wall, just standing, doing nothing. And it's pretty good. And I can feel the blood in my veins. And on the other side of the wall length window snow endlessly falls, lifted on the wind, silent and fine like rain. And somewhere in the background No Surprises plays, and I want to go outside, like this, and stand under the street lamp, and feel the snow sting my chest, arms, shoulders.

The night just wont end. And it might be the gin I've been drinking or it might just be that it's extremely difficult to sleep in these conditions. But either way, the shivering wont stop and my mind is racing. Filling with images from years ago, and some not so long ago, and thoughts of stupid events, and money, and the trust fund that's run dry, and trust, and exams and travelling and all manner of things.

And basically I've been popping Doxilamine Succinate like there's no tomorrow, and hell, I've even tried snorting it. And what's left of the powder, dashed across my desk, keys, credit card, egg shell blue. And Radiohead rhythmically floats from my flat pannel low watt crappy speakers, and fills the room. And a fan heater sends convection towards the ceilings. And I use the hair-dryer to warm the bed. And the snow from Siberia never comes. And eventually I start to lose focus, and sink. And at 0401 a car alarm wakes me, and radiohead at still playing, and I crave Ribena, and at 0847 my house mate returns, and at 0903 leaves again.

And I eventually force myself to wake up at 1028. And make a coffee for breakfast, and eat the foam for desert, topped with chocolate. And when it comes to reading some official documents, my head starts to race again, and I watch as the cars outside, a BMW 3 Series, and a Citron of some sort, struggle up the street, and I start to think about snow, and how it's formed and suddenly it's 1239 and these documents ain't gonna read themselves. So I head to Starbucks.

And in the song Walls by up and...erm gone band, All Time Low; Who have recently received a lot of airtime. The opening verse goes a bit like this, at some point: "Take off your shirt, your shoes, those skinny jeans I bought for you."

And I'm thinking if:
a) I had them on in the first place
b) Someone asked me too.
then I would happily do as the man says. 'Cos I'm not one to rock the boat.

So in a moment of quarter life crisis/self-reflection I decide to buy some shirts some shoes and some skinny jeans...for myself. And so I log onto a UK (Nondescript) store, punch in my credit card details and add a few items to my basket. And after about forty minutes and three hundred pounds I've finally reached the checkout.

And if this where a real store, right now I'd be asking to have these items gift wrapped. But its not, so I don't. And instead as a little treat I opt for 'Next day delivery(Order Before 1400)' and it's actually 2034, and whilst I wait for about three days for these items to arrive I am simply going to pretend that time only exist for people who worry about it, and they usually don't have much left.

And there is no sea air to keep the cold a length. And like my lips the pavements are cracked with ice, and the weather, more like Prague than Bristol. And I pull furniture away from radiators, and plug in extra heaters, but with no avail.

And in the place I shelter the cold dampened sheets remind me of that winter. The storm. How we stayed in bed for hours. And how you wore T-shirts of a particular brand to impress me. And the skill it took to sleep two to a single. And how my house mates thought we so alike. And how you called me little one. And even though by beaches, the South winds brought only cold, no golf stream. And how we cruised the parade, the satellite navigation, which spoke only French. And the windows, to which our breath clung. And a terminated contract. And how we parted in London Victoria. And those three students on the train, drinking wine, talking profanities. The lanes. And the way I brushed your forearm on the tube. And how simple things were, and how complicated I made them. And Bat For Lashes vibrating above our room. And City and Colour at the station terminal. Screens or orange digits. And the night the police called. And the last of the September nights that we spent in the marina. And your smile. And our now infrequent conversation.

The roads are iced, empty, and the journey probably not manageable, but for old times sake I take it one more time. And on that drive, the song Bring Me Your Love, City And Colour, frequents my head, and in a turn of events, which involve some illegal driving plays out of the system.

And I drive through the flood defence of the sea wall, and down onto the pebbled beach. And as my wheels choke on the stone, I knock the gears out. And I just sit there. And I pull a blanket over my legs, and turn the heat up, and just watch as the waves crash down. And my gaze is broken when a flash of hunter lamps cross my dash, and on the concrete ramp above a 96' Defender waits. And the blinding light fades out, and from the defender, two figures approach, and climb into back seats. And we watch as the waves crash down, surrounded by each other, and ice cracks as someone pours a drink, and smile crack as conversation flows and We Are Kings plays out, slightly drowned by the heaving vents.

And the sky is clear and once again afloat with stars. And as I pull into the drive, the south westerly winds rock the bare trees, and no Rooks fly, and no dogs bark. And it's all pretty barren. And in the tub we've been discussing life for the best of three hours, and its hard to see across the valley tonight, on account of the 104water which is creating more steam than imaginable, and actually it's hard enough even seeing across the water. And we talk of new years, and new year 2011, and eventually 0103 rolls round, and we decide we should make a run for inside. But a light snowfall transforms the run into a reluctantly brisk jog, and inside the fire roars, as feet tingle, and a kettle boils.