The Last Word Is King! / 'Git!'

The Last Word is King!

Leamington Garret Just dashing this off in my lunch hour before dashing back to the Day-Job. Today is beautiful - bright, sunny, wonderful in every way (see picture below of ducks on the River Leam).

I set off from Lewes in the The Last Word and made it door to door to Leamington in under three hours. The Last Word is king! She is in amazing form at the moment, fully deserving of her MOT tomorrow.

I should be outside, of course, topping up my tan, but, needs must, and the website has to come first. Busy morning at the Day-Job. Always is on a Monday (Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!)

Rigby – he calls me Mr Oliver – was keen for me to find a replacement for John and to keep on the flat (not surprisingly). I will have to put some thought into the best way of doing this, so that the Leamington Garret is not too expensive.

Otherwise, all is well. Had a good time at SalsaMagic, in Lewes, last night, although I had to drop out of the final third of my SalsaMagic lesson because my back was playing up.

The tutor, Miguel, has promised to put in a link from the SalsaMagic website to Oliver's Poetry. I love SalsaMagic - SalsaMagic is the friendliest salsa club I have come across.

'Git!' (Flashback to Tuesday, 29 May 2006)

Leamington Garret. Sunny outside, yet the window is mottled with big drops of rain. Weather working its artifice once again.

Stephane Grappelli is on the stereo downstairs, extra-loud because the hall speaker fell down this morning. Great music.

Deserves to be played extra-loud. Playing Stephane Grappelli always reminds of Anne with whom I went out many years ago. She was a great fan of Stephane Grappelli. I remember it playing on her car cassette player as we drove overnight to Paris, swigging wine from a bottle as we went.

It has been a hectic day at work, catching up after a week away. Back has also been playing up, as ever. At lunchtime, I went into Superdrug and found you could buy 16 tabs of Ibuprofen painkiller for 37p. Who needs the National Health Service!

I ploughed through my work and had a handle on it by around 5.30pm. It is 6.15pm now, by Big Ken. After work, I picked up an email from an old friend who emigrated to Iceland, with more gen about his 'orgy'. Do you want to hear it? Of course you do!

He writes: 'The orgy, yes. Well, for some time now I have been aware that two of my colleagues at the school here in the east - husband and wife - were swingers.

'In fact, it was a standing joke last year with my ex-girlfriend - when we heard that they had had a threesome with a black girl, who lives in the town.

'The wife has also made it clear to me that she wants me for a long time now but I have no interest in her. Husband and wife tried to get me involved in a threesome earlier this year but I didn't go for it.

'Then on Saturday we got drunk with the black girl and her Irish boyfriend. Before long everyone was taking their clothes off. That's it, really.'

A bit disappointing. I have confessed he might have employed his descriptive powers rather more fully.

However, he adds: 'I had a really bad few days earlier this week, due to too much booze. I smashed up my computer, wiping out all my email addresses, records, diaries, etc.

'Fortunately, my book is on another computer so that is at least safe. I actually am not too bothered about losing the computer. I was watching far too much porn so this avenue is now denied to me permanently. It will act as a nudge to find myself a new girlfriend.'

I also got another one with - hip, hip, hooray! - a poem for the Friends' Poetry section of my website. It is from the man known as The Master of Warmstonne Hall, an Oxford varsity friend of my brother Nic. Warmstonne Hall was where they lived. The Master did his official duties in his dressing gown, I recall.

The poem is rather good. No doubt you have already checked out Oliver's Poetry and read all the poems (ho, hum!) but just in case you haven't had the time, here it is:

A Conversation between George Bush and the Dalai Lama by the Master of Warmstonne Hall

aggression arsenal bad biological
beings brotherhood
cease chemical
compassion concern
deception defiance destroy
friend goodness happiness heart humanity ignorance insights
Iraq
love
nuclear obligations oppressor
optimistic pain planet
regime responsibility
shelter sisterhood suffer
terrorism threat
understanding unity
violated war weapons.


Well, I’m going for a swim. . .

8.38pm. says ye olde clock. Eagles on the stereo (not the tower), garret empty except for me. John is still out. I must recover my bike from him, or he will think it's his. Thinking about it, it occurred to me that I lent him 20 quid last time we went out. I must ask for it back!

But let us not concern ourselves with such trifles. What about the big picture? This backblog missive -3, which means we are just three days away from launching Oliver's Poetry.

I have to confess I am nervous - and not ready. I am not working on my poetry enough. The stats package is not up and coming, and not even here (it is at the Lewes Garret). I am wondering if I can pull this off. Think I will start quietly and only publicise it when I am sure I am on track.

Outside, there is a wondrous sunset. It started as soon as I started writing about Oliver's Poetry. A good omen, surely. Big Ken looks magnificent and grand clad in orange sun rays against a curtain of dark grey cloud.

11.50pm. I think. I am not focusing very well tonight and can hardly see Big Ken in the darkness.

Had a horrible scene with John. We were sitting around talking. Had been since around 9.30pm, after we watched the England-Hungary match, and then listened to music. He told me he was still planning to move out - on August 24 - when the contract comes to an end.

I said that was fine and we discussed the handover; how I would have to find someone new and so on. Quite business-like. He said a debt collection company had caught up with him, and he had to pay £100 a month of a £1,500 debt (for 500 quid he had owed a credit card company four years ago). We talked a bit about women, a bit about football, a bit about music.

I went out to the kitchen and made him yet another brew and, made peckish by watching him wolf down his cereal, I made myself a ham sandwich. Returning to the living room, I sat on the floor, presented him with his tea and started to eat my sandwich.

John rounded on me. 'After all the food I have made you, isn’t there one for me?' he demanded. 'Have half of it,' I said calmly passing it to him. He took it and went on: 'The real reason I am moving out is that I think you’re a git. I don’t like your lifestyle. You are conceited and self-obsessed.' That was the gist of it.

I was more than a little taken aback. 'I think I’ll go to bed,' I said, thinking he was probably off his head. There had been something strange about his manner all evening, particularly when he had accused me of being bored.

He ate the sandwich and then came up here and basically said we were not getting on and he would probably move out sooner rather than later. He said he felt I had been tactless in pressing him about the debt problem and other matters.

I said he should forget the whole thing - he had just lost his temper. He said he had not meant it all, but he did not apologise. Not properly.

I said: 'Maybe I am a bit conceited' while adding that I had wondered if I could help him sort out his problems. 'I can do that myself,' he said. 'Yes, maybe you can,' I said, frankly not too bothered at that instant whether he resolves his problems or not.

John is basically a nice guy, but I am very hurt that he should take such a strong dislike to me. What I am supposed to have done to him? I am not even here most of the time.

In my decades of sharing accommodation with people, I have never made such an effort to get on with anyone before (excepting my Beloved who is worth it in spades).

I cannot see what allows him to take the moral high ground. I am certainly not getting into a blazing row with him over it. It does not matter that much to me.

If that is what he thinks of me, fine! I could describe his numerous faults in excruciating detail, but, this time, I am not playing tit for tat with a flatmate.

For once, I shall rise above it.

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