Business As Usual / Something's Wrong

Business As Usual.

Lewes Garret. I wrote this last night at 7.35pm, according to Big Ken, the Clocktower I can see clearly from my window.

A spectacular evening, a beer at my left hand, inspirational music on the boogie box, I should feel great. In fact I am just about OK, too tired and deflated even to go swimming (my usual Monday night pastime).

Got away in fair time from the Day-Job and went food shopping. Had sausages and mashed potato for tea… and almost jumped out of my skin when my flatmate John burst into the living room, one of his clients, a hyperactive man, in tow.

A manic half-hour followed, with the hyperactive chap constantly going into the kitchen to get bottles of booze or cola, and John trying to stop him from drinking them.

In between all this crazed activity, John said to me: ‘What are we doing then - you and me?’
I said: ‘I thought you were staying till the 24 of August when the contract ends.’
‘Yeah,’ John said, ‘if that’s all right.’
I explained what Mr Rigsby had told me – that leaving early was not an option. John was surprised by that, and also that I intended to seek a new flatmate and keep on the pad.
‘I thought you’d move into a big shared house,’ he said, clearly not suggesting I move into the same big shared house as he intends to.

So, business as usual. . .

Lots of banal small-talk followed until his client started pogoing, making the CD player jump, and John felt the need to take him out again.

But he did also make some comments about the Council Tax being spread over 10 months and including some from the previous tax year. It sounded horribly like I would be even more out of pocket.

I let it lie.

Just had telephone conversations with Christina, my pleasant London Garret tenant who is returning to Canada vacating a room for me, and one of my oldest and dearest friends – DJ E – who says he is finally divorced and has almost disposed of the matrimonial home.

He was chipper. I love DJ E to bits – he was a great friend at varsity, Best Man at my wedding, and, is an all round, good guy.

I told him about

Oliver's Poetry and he gave me some technical advice. (He is an I.T. genius). He is also going to look at the site and tell me, honestly, what he thinks. I suspect he will be my first visitor!

It is eight o’clock. The sun is setting over the chimneys, TV aerials and brick and slate rooftops of my little world here. The can of Carling (65p) has been swapped for a cup of tea. Much better. Mr Bob Marley is doing his stuff on the music system. Church bells are ringing out across the Leam.

I am going to try to write some poetry for this week’s update…

That was last night. After that entry, I went down to the Jug and saw three bands, taking photos. They were the winners of a Warwick student band contest. Not bad at all.

I particularly liked a girl singer called Fiona Elizabeth, who had a fine voice. I said hello, but when she found out I was not from the press, she quickly vanished.

Afterwards I talked with John in the flat until nearly 1am. We skirt around the issue, talking about photography, pop music and football. Only two and a half months to go.

Today has been tough. Had to take the Last Word in for its MOT and then cycle to the Day-Job. With my back it almost effing killed me. Then a little resistance from a colleague to my little attempt to help some AIDS victims in Uganda and two meetings in which I felt very jaded.

I have decided to go to Cotesbach tonight to see my friends. The stress of being around John is doing my bloody head in.

Something’s Wrong (Flashback to Bank Holiday Monday, 28 May 2006)

Lewes-London Victoria train. Just past Lewes. 4.52pm. Made the train by a couple of minutes, enough time me to get to the front carriage. I am seated opposite a young bosomy woman wearing a yellow and grey stripy T-shirt and reading an Ann Pritchard novel.

She had her legs up on the seat next to me until I sat down and placed my Albert Camus case on it. She immediately retaliated by putting her headphones on. What a way I have with young ladies!

A pleasant enough day. We have recently returned from Seven Sisters Country Park, where Francesca and I walked hand in hand, and Marina rode a hired bicycle in her inimitable, unstable fashion. The sun shone and the rain fell intermittently.

We got wet and dried out and got wet again. Francesca pointed out a skylark, hovering high above us. What wonderful birdsong! One sees so few skylarks these days. Also saw a heron across the water and enjoyed the whole constantly changing land/sky/seascape.

Chloe had stayed at home to study mathematics. I was glad in a way because she had been in a grumpy mood all day and, I suspect, that arguments would have marred the expedition if she had been there.

Francesca got a little lost through Alfriston on the way back, and I had to rush to make my train. Glad I did. Even on this one, I shall probably not be back in the Leamington Garret ere ten o’clock, unless I am very fortunate.

It will some 11 days since I was last there. I do hope that John has not managed to get my gear nicked, and that he has bothered to repair my bicycle. My natural expectations are fairly low.

I have a bad feeling about my return; part of the reason why I decided to come back today – I can cope better with upset and disappointment when I am not dog tired. I texted him this morning to say I would be returning, but he has not responded to that message.

What also concerns me is the launch of Oliver’s Poetry which is due to happen this Friday – 2 June. There are still plenty of things I need to do, and I have not really organised myself. To help, I shall try to make a list and prioritise:

1. Statistics package – Weblog Expert simple package downloaded but not wired up yet (I need to find out how to do it).

2. Publicity – nothing done as yet. Need to write press release and contact possibly interested journalists (but is it premature?).

3. Poems – I need a list of poems, so I know the new poem I am putting up each week.

4. Pictures – I need pictures to go with those poems.

5. Classic poems – for blog. A list also needed here, but no pictures.

6. Friends’ poems – have three but should not try to badger friends any more: ‘You can take a horse to water but you cannot make him drink. . .’

7. Blog/Backblog – in fairly good state. I have created no-frills blog pages for all the backblogs I have written. Need some thumbnail pictures of the views from the Garrets to be placed on the interactive Blogspot site.

8. Marketing material – Need to look at printing up marketing material for the site. This will be expensive but a good investment in the long term.

That will do for the time being. The more I blog, the less I get done!

6.31pm. London Marylebone – Warwick train.

Just out of the Marylebone tunnel, sunshine bright. I am finishing a cheese and onion pasty from the station and another cup of tea from the flask. A Brummie crone with dyed orange hair and an unintelligible punk/hippy/England fan son are to my left. The man coughs his cigaretter’s cough. The ancient woman dozes.

I have been trying to gauge how much work Oliver’s Poetry is going to be once it is up and running. What strikes me immediately is that the onus will shift from the organisational to the creative.

I shall have to write and put up a poem and seven blogs every week, plus a transcription of a classic poem. I shall also have to find or take a photograph to illustrate my poem. On top of this, there will be the site maintenance, publicity and marketing and reading and publishing submitted poems and also replying to some emails.

It is a good thing I have all but given up the bottle.

7.23pm. Bicester North. Had to change the battery on this laptop – a sure sign I have been working too hard. It is bright and sunny outside, blue sky on my right, cloudy on my left. God, that bloke looks in a state!

I have sketched out a calendar for Oliver’s Poetry with weekend slots, when I shall be publishing most of the material. It is not too desperate, with enough backlog (and backblog) to cover against writer’s (poet’s) block.

But it still means I need to start writing a poem at week (and also transcribing at least one a week). If the pressure becomes too great, I shall simply have to economise on blogs and backblogs.

As it is, I am diarising at the expense of my poetry.

7.49pm. Britain’s railways are so badly run. We have all had to move up a carriage (which hurt my back) because ‘the train [short though it is] is too long for the platform.’ Balls!

Now I am sitting opposite someone who looks like Bruce Lee, straight of a Smile of the Dragon-esque movie. Scary.

Leamington Garret. 9pm. Sky is like a giant grey duvet with a pink, frilly edge which just allows an iota of white light through. Big Ken – my friend the Leamington Clock Tower – says nine. I must say I feel tried and disagreeable.

The garret was in a terrible state when I arrived some half an hour ago. Unwashed dishes and scattered papers all over the living room floor; discarded towels; a surveyor’s contract; insulin injection gear; some of my CDs, all lying around.

There was even a cheque for nearly 600 quid lying face down on the floor. Discarded cups of tea and beer bottles were everywhere. It looked like some kind of crazy party had been going on.

I went upstairs into my room and found my alarm clock and tape player were missing, soon found in John’s bedroom. When I am away, my possessions seem to osmose in his direction.

My cameras and lenses were still here, I was glad to note, but my mountain bike was absent. John was missing, although the flat was unlocked, so I can only assume he has gone out on it.

Otherwise, he has managed to get it nicked, which would be very bad news. I am going to have to try to get him to be a tad more security conscious.

But, for now, provided my bike is still around, no harm done, eh?

I instantly feel lonely in this place. I don’t know why – and I still feel ill at ease. Somehow, things are not right – John would normally have left the flat more presentable - but I can’t quite figure out what’s going on.

11.37pm, although I can hardly see Big Ken. Eating a kebab but, as John kindly pointed out, ‘not drunk’; ‘Late Night Lurve’ on the appalling local radio station; very dark through the port hole, only the yellow crane really visible.

John returned as I was finishing my last entry. We had a good chat. He has spent most of my absence trashed, which does not entirely surprise me.

He has repaired my puncture and is still using my bike, which now, according to the landlord, has to be stored in a shed, far below my bedroom window. John said he needs to borrow it again tomorrow. I said that was fine.

He played a great reggae band called Fat Freddys Drop on the stereo. Fat Freddys Drop is a great band. (I think Fat Freddys Drop could be huge.

John said some decks would be arriving on Friday. So, I might bring up my records. I mentioned the security thing and he said he would lock the flat if it made me feel happier. I told him about the Civil Service course and he told me about some guy who was really bugging him at work. His tormentor did sound like a prick.

The local radio is so appalling. Here’s a conversation I just heard:

W*nker DJ: Hello
Phone-in Young Woman: Hello
W*nker DJ: Are you the kind of girl who has sex on the first date?
Young Woman: Well, it depends?
W*nker: HAVE YOU HAD SEX ON THE FIRST NIGHT?
Young Woman (Embarrassed): Yes
W*nker (cutting her off): DIRTY GIRL!!!

This kind of radio should be banned. The station is called Kerrrang. I suggest you avoid it.

But I digress. I went down to the Jug and found there was no band on, so I read my Alan Clark Diaries. When it gets to the bit about him forcing a Defence Review over the head of Tom King (who strikes me like a political version of Cormac Murphy-O’Connor), it is fascinating.

You start to think that Alan Clark could have been a serious politician (if it were not for his manifold flaws that make his diaries so readable).

There is a bit of Christy Campbell about Clark and that I like, although Christy (or his wife) cut me yonks ago.

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