A Bristol Novella

In the sixty three days that I have been absent, inspiration has come and gone and there is very little to fill time in this city. The streets and the buildings are wearing very much thin. And the majority of my days are spent nostalgically trying to recreate moment in which I felt...what one must only describe as hopeless, and drunk.

I pondered for a period of time if office work, as described by London Preppy, was mundane as he eluded, and in truth, it is. But I have come to appreciate the mundaneness of every day living. My life very much runs around my new professional routine. And in the corner shop, I am often mistaken for the opposite of which ever personality I am portraying; the drunk, the suit or the prep.

I lived life, not long ago, very much as a prostitute. Not whoring myself for money (which in hindsight may have been a better idea) but for attention, and the connection. But it is through this that I have realised myself, and have very much secured my position in the Clifton Elite, acquainted with businessmen, waiters and barmen. They say there is no such thing as a free lunch, but I beg to differ.

Had you have asked me sixty two days ago where I would be on the first of June 2012, and the answer would have been anywhere but here. In a way, it still is. However I have grown to realise that professional interests, can quickly overtake personal. And this, like many of us I assume, is something I already grow to regret. There was a time, four years ago, that I promised to leave this city, if only asked by a certain someone, but realistically, real life got in the way.

I have eight boxes on the living room floor, and no pictures on the walls.