A right old jam and pilchard sandwich of a week.
To dwell first on the positives, things that pleased me:
1. Spotting a black Jaguar XJ-something sports car with the Wankerplate "HEF 3". This car belongs to someone - a man, I'm guessing - who identifies closely with an octogenarian sex-reptile. Was anything ever more tragically hilarious? I contemplated hanging around for a while, casually on the look-out for an old man with an errupting prostate and wearing a smoking jacket, but had a train to catch. My joy knew no bounds when 100 yards on, I passed by my old friend '70s Porn Film Man', wearing a pink linen tunic, stonewash jeans and the inevitable moccasins, who was arranging himself carefully at a table outside a cafe. It would be so perfect if the car were his... I had to hurry past quickly with my head down once again. His effect on me is, as I've said before, identical to Sally Philips' character in 'I'm Alan Partridge.' It was a good end to a crummy day.
2. My BF from Primary School 'poked' me on Facebook. We haven't been in touch for 25 years, and it was great to chat with her online. She's surprisingly similar to me in where she goes, what she does, and how she feels, so it was all delightful stuff. I only got roped into Facebook because somebody lured me there. I refuse to play Scrabble on Facebook with friends who live 10 minutes walk away, and I don't want to 'be a pirate', thanks, but if I never do anything else with it, it will have been worth it to have made contact with Sinead again. She used to be in the 'Beanz Meanz Heinz' ads in the late Sixties, you know. But she's not the least bit starry.
3. I had a lovely phone call from one of the judges of an International Short Story comp, part of a fairly 'proper' literary festival, that I'd entered a couple of months ago and forgotten about. One of my stories had been given third place, which as there were apparently nearly 400 entries, was pleasing. But she had phoned me specifically to talk about the 'unplaced', second story, which was a comedic piece I had sent in knowing full well it was wrong for the rather rarified panel who would be judging. "I don't normally do this," she said, "but I wanted to let you know that it was one of the funniest things I have read. I argued like crazy for it to at least be shortlisted, but there were rather, shall we say, "stuffy" elements on the panel who thought it was inappropriate. I just wanted to tell you how good I thought it was." I've been invited to a presentation ceremony as part of the festival, to meet the semi-famous author who chaired the judging panel, and to read my story aloud. At the moment I'm undecided about that bit, but this woman was so sweet, and her phone call was so unexpected and cheering, that I feel I'd like to meet her in person.
4. I hadn't blogged on this, as I didn't want to dwell on a negative, but I haven't been able to run since June. On holiday in France, I ricked my knee going up a hill on a very heavy bike in the wrong gear, and I thought I'd torn my right medial miniscus ( I did the left one three years ago, and though they keyhole surgery to repair it went relatively well, my recovery was slow). I've spent the last three months seeing M for regular, painful and expensive physio sessions, and I have been as good as bloody gold, restricting myself to rowing machine, cross-trainer and Keiser Bike with not a single step on flat ground taken faster than walking pace. Today I felt I could take a risk, and I ran 3K, slowly, with ( so far) no ill effects. I'm waiting for the results of an MRI scan, but am really hopeful that with M's bullying and my reluctantant acceptance, we've cracked it. I have missed running more than I can say. Nothing, apart from the French Blues I used to buy from that girl in Kensington Market years ago, has ever given me the same buzz.
5. L has gone to Cardiff to watch the rugby with his brother; they'll have been holding hands and singing the Welsh national anthem, like a pair of sentimental fools.This means I have the house to myself for the whole weekend; I can run up and down the stairs, play my Seventies Disco records, keep the place REALLY TIDY, and cook food containing beans. I was going to go out later, but I actually feel like baking a cake while listening to 'Westway' on BBC7. So I think I shall.
But it's not all cakes and Westway. Here's the downside.
1. Yo La Tengo at Concorde 2, Brighton, Wed Sept 12. What a fucking bad-temprered, chippy audience. Presumably the 'troubled' and hence 'troublesome' element comprised people who don't go to many gigs ( average age was probably 38-40), and who therefore were completely unable to cope with other audience members moving back and forth through the crowd to the bar, loo, etc. One particularly un-mellow individual threatened to 'deck' C, who is the gentlest soul you could hope to meet, because he'd had to stand back for him twice, and who then grabbed S, bared his teeth and announced "You can go to that fucking bar if you want, but I ain't fucking letting you back this way again if you wanna come BACK, alright mate?" S is a soft indie-boy with glasses and a selection of Fieldmice albums, so was rather taken aback to have apparently 'caused' such ill-feeling. Anyway, Yo La Tengo were their usual amiable, unassuming selves, but the gig was spoiled for me by the bad atmosphere and so we ended up taking to the bar and leaving early.
2. My NHS job. I think I may have to resign. What I'm being asked to do is impossible and unethical. But sitting out here on the roof, with the sun just starting to sink and a glass of cold fizz by my side, I don't actually want to think about that.
I'm gonna bake me a cake.
Song of the Week: Ruler of my Heart
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Irma Thomas Ruler of my Heart This week’s song is a classic tune from
‘Soul Queen of New Orleans’ Irma Thomas. I’m not generally a huge fan of the
slow b...
3 days ago
16 comments:
Congrats on the short story! Sorry to hear about the job not going well. I must say, however, that I'm kinda young (28) and I think the Hef is a cool guy.
Sound like on the whole the positives outweigh the negatives. They're'll be other gigs. Ones without twatbags.
You have the house to yourself? YAAAAY. Out comes the Cava to consume with the viewing of 'Dirty Dancing' and 'Pretty Woman'
Well done on the return to running and congratulations on the short story. I think you should publish the details of your 'reading' so I can come and heckle you.
On the job resignation front, if what you're being asked to do is 'unethical and impossible', then it sounds as if you have no choice. But as the cliche goes, 'As one door closes...' (so do all the windows... and then you're alone in a room..with a bat.)
I've got the house to myself at the moment. So the weekend comprised watching the entire current series of The Sopranos, eating meatballs, reading in bed, having a bath at three o'clock in the afternoon, eating crisps, lying full-length on the sofa and generally doing what the hell I liked. It can't be beaten.
However, if you're job is making you fret, it's time to kick it into touch.
Become a full-time author. Sounds like you've got the gift.
Tonight's gig is British Sea Power, and is guaranteed 'Twatbag Free'. Hoorah!
Thanks for your nice thoughts on my immense writing triumph, both. As it turns out I won't be able to get to the 'presentation' as I've got tickets to see Sean Lock ( having recently rediscovered and loved his under-rated masterpiece 'Fifteen Storeys High' on DVD, I can't miss him). As I only came third, I'm sure they'll manage without me. I know it was another chance for you to get the 'wetsuit' painted on, Vs, but frankly they'd never have let you in.
Job dilemmas abound. Had an inerview this afternoon for the 'other side'. It went well. My conscience went less well....
I'm more than just an empty wetsuit isbw!
I could have worn the full 'Margot'. They might have balked at the height and facial hair, but I can get quite menacing when cornered in slingbacks.
What's this about an interview with 'The Other Side'? Do they need practicing noggin-wranglers in the afterlife?
I SHALL become a full-time author. All I need is a kindly patron who will cover my half of the mortgage and smile indulgently at me while I slip off to spend more time with my muse. Any offers?
In the meantime, I have also decided to become an Anti-Therapist. This means I get paid for engendering neurosis or, ideally, psychological crisis, in total strangers. I go up to women at bus stops and tell them their arse looks massive from behind, and I stop random men in the street and point out to them that their choice of footwear markes them out as sexually inadequate. Then while they are crying, I slip them my card. It's the way forward, I tell you.
Hmmm I think I'm a twatbag.
People at gigs moving back and forth through the crowd to the bar/loo etc really piss me off...as do people who chat through gigs and people who spend the whole time recording the gig on their mobile...it doesn't make me resort to violence though, I just sigh heavily - presumeably annoying all the people who get really irritated by heavy sighing.
I have a feeling that the Secret Ingredient which can transform a Heavy Sigher to a Violent Psycho is our old mate, Charlie. Likewise it will turn a previously benign and attentive audience member into a chattering, self-obsessed jackass. It should be banned. Oh, hang on, it is.
I can cope with people moving around gigs, as long as they don't tread on my feet, but the gasbags and the ones who wave their mobiles in my face ( taking photos that are almost certain to be crap ) do make me baitey.
I SHALL become your kindly patron, so you can write full time. Oh..wait ...hang on a minute..I've just remembered. I SHAN'T.
Soz etc.
But I've just told my boss to stick it, and booked a £5,000 'research' trip to the Alpujarras Mountains!
I'm sending you a bill, mate. And suing you.
I've had a word with your boss, and she says she'll take you back if you take more care when dusting the top of the Welsh dresser.
As for the research trip? Cancelled! No one wants to read your utterings on the effect of Lycra on Spanish men's legs.
Do I still get to wear the gimp mask? It was the only perk of that bloody job.
And I'm off up the Alpujarras whatever you say. On Friday morning, in fact. Research trips are tax-deductable, aren't they?
Well done on the book front. I am sure that you will become a full time author one day. The thought of all these research trips to sunny climates should persuade you if nothing else does.
It's so much easier now VS has kindly stepped in to bankroll me, Gwen...
It's so hard to tell whether you're wearing the gimp mask these days. Maybe we should get one that is less brown and wrinkled?
Bankroll, no. Steamroll, yesssss.
Listen mate, all those years in Essex got me into the habit of sleeping on my sunbed. You call it 'brown and wrinkled, i call it "Ilford Fresh ( with pentapeptides)'.
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