(Soundtrack: “Soul Cities” Kent Soul Collection)
Why do people wave in? I mean, if they are walking past and I am sitting here at the table inside the flat, why do they wave in? It doesn’t seem appropriate to me. If they were close friends it would seem right, but these are neighbours I have hardly shared two words with. Like “Mr E” next door – he looked in and waved at me so I just stared back. And then I felt guilty, as though I had been rude… But then he should stop flirting with my girlfriend… But then I suppose we do use his wi-fi for free… I wonder if he can tell?
A girl who lives the other side waved in a few days ago, and beckoned me to the door, so I went, thinking she was in some kind of trouble. She said she had seen me in here and wondered if I was a writer. Can’t you even get privacy in your own home now? A while ago a chap waved in and asked if he could borrow ten pounds as he had run out of petrol. He said once he got the car going he would drive to a cash-point and return with the money. He offered to leave his phone and house-keys as security, but I declined and gave him the ten pounds. he never came back, so I suppose I was had… but I felt happier being the trusting soul who was had, than I would have done turning him away. Didn’t like him waving in though.
I am now two days into a new day job. An opportunity came up on Friday to start yesterday working for a couple of months for Paramount in their film catalogue department. This was too good to turn down, as I was getting nervous about money, and film catalogue genuinely interests me, and they seem like decent people. Also, I can walk to work – takes about forty-five minutes, which is very good in London, where any journey to work that takes less than an hour is seen as a plus. I aim to save some cash so that I can return to writing in a couple of months time, and keep the writing going in the evenings too.
By the way, the photo is one Bridie snapped of me with the Golden Gate Bridge behind.
Really felt like relaxing with a pint after the first day of a new job, but didn’t because it was Day Fourteen of our alcohol-free Lent. So far, it is going really well – I haven’t found it difficult at all, which has surprised me. In fact, giving up for a period like this has proved much easier than trying to avoid drinking on a single evening, if you see what I mean. I tend to get into circular internal debates such as “I shouldn’t really drink tonight as we are going out tomorrow, but I really fancy one”, which usually end up in drinking virtually every night. I don’t feel much different, but am sleeping better.
It may be tempting to binge a bit when we start drinking again, which I guess would not be healthy. Before he died, my father made me promise to have regular health checks. he said that he wouldn’t have got so sick if he had acted sooner when he noticed any changes, or if he had had regular prostate checks. So I went for a full check up about eighteen months ago, which ended with a session with a German doctor who was going to check my prostate. First of all he examined my testicles. He asked me to undress and lie on my side and then he started fondling me. Unfortunately as he did this I got a fit of hysterical giggling. I mean like a shy schoolgirl, or a tickled Norman Wisdom. He asked me what I did and I explained that I was a song-writer. He told me in his strong German accent that he loved music, and that he was also the captain of a semi-professional sailing team. Each year they chose a song as their theme when they entered the big competition, and his favourite was last year when they had a Queen song. He racked his brain to remember which one it was. “We Are The Champions”? I suggested. “No, that wasn’t it”… “Er… Bohemian Rhapsody?… “No, not that one”… “Er… We Are The Champions?” I offered again, in the way that people do when they have already been told it is the wrong answer, but can’t believe that it actually is the wrong answer. By this time, he had finished with the testicles and had picked up a pair of latex gloves, preparing to go for the prostate. “Oh, what was it, what was it?” He was getting frustrated…. “I know!” he suddenly shouted, and snapping the glove onto his hand he loudly sang “One Vision!”, and shoved his fingers up my arse.
So I don’t hear that song in the same way any more. Luckily it was not one of my favourites from the Queen songbook.
Intending to get a check done annually, I went to the local clinic the other day, where they just gave me a blood-test to check the same thing. As I sat and read in the waiting-room, a family came in, who I think were going abroad for a holiday as they were each getting an injection one by one. I took an instant dislike to the older son, who had that posh public school, the world owes me, air about him. I have nothing against posh people, or public schools, but there is a certain type of complete prick that they produce that Bridie reckons I am prejudiced against. She is dead right. And this one’s first name was Mills. Anyway, when he came out from having his injection, he started acting up to frighten the younger son who was due to go next. Mills pretended that he was dying from the pain of it, freaked out the kid, then revealed that he was joking. “Oh Mills!” cried father. Mills sat down satisfied with his jape. The thing is, a few moments later, Mills did genuinely have a bad reaction to the injection. At first they didn’t believe him, then there was a commotion and all the nurses and doctors came out to help. He looked like death, but was alright again after five minutes or so. I was sitting pretending to read, but actually delighted with Mills’ misfortune.
He would probably wave in too.