I Do Loads of Gardening. And a Small Amount Of Thinking. I Preferred the Thinking.

Deciding that the hoe just isn’t cutting it – haha – I get the fork-thing out of the shed, although God knows where it or indeed the hoe came from.

I’ve ignored the borders for seven months and they’ve become an extension of the lawn. I shall have to dig them over.

The lawn itself is not too bad. A couple of shirtless fourteen-year-old radge-packets come around every couple of weeks armed with a strimmer and in return for enough cash to enable them to purchase either ten cigarettes or two bottles of White Lightning they sort the lawn out for me. I’m of the impression that if I ever declined their kind offer of help I would shortly find myself without windows but it’s a good deal nonetheless.

I stab the fork-thing into the ground, promptly hitting a rock and sending shock-waves up my right arm. I swear, drop the spade and then have to jump back so it doesn’t clatter onto my feet.

Picking the fork-thing up, I heroically try again. It sinks into the ground without any trouble and I press my foot down onto the bridge of the fork and sink it completely in. Using both arms I apply a bit of leverage to the fork-handle. Nothing.

Fuck this. I decide to push down on it with everything I have. I promptly rise up, the fork doesn’t move and my legs are thrashing about mid-air just like that paragliding Russian donkey.

I look around. No-one saw. Therefore it did not happen. Excellent.

After two hours of this nonsense I have managed to dig over my borders and have removed anything that might have even looked like a weed. An elderly neighbour wanders by.

Elderly Neighbour: Oh that looks better. I’ve just got back from the States you know. Bit jet-lagged so I can’t chat.

I’ve never spoken to her in my life. I also notice that, by way of luggage, she is carrying a Co-op carrier-bag and nothing else. I sort-of doubt her tale of jet-setting, but am too exhausted to get into it with her. Besides, she’s doing me no harm.

I get a glass of water that I cannot drink because my arms are fucked and keep trying to pour the liquid over my shoulder instead of in my mouth.

The garden looks very tidy. It also looks a bit barren now. I’ve properly gone to town on the borders and there’s not a living thing left.

It seems that my desire to exert some order over the garden has also robbed it of what made it interesting in the first place – it’s ‘garden-ness’.

Maybe this means something. Perhaps it’s ‘symbolic’.

I shrug to myself and go to the pub.

Telephone Conversation With My Much More Intelligent Daughter.

Five weeks ago

Her Mother: Here.

Favourite Daughter:[background]NO.

Her Mother: NOW. Here. TALK.

FD: [skipping the whole ‘seven years old’ thing and becoming ‘thirteen’]*sigh* ‘llo?

Me: Hello.

The above exchange is repeated five times.

Me: Are you just going to keep saying ‘hello’?

FD: What?

The above exchange is also repeated five times. Each time I hear her slight amusement heighten with my frustration.

I decide to raise my game. I have yet to receive a Father’s Day card – for reasons that have been sensibly explained to me by her mother – but I reckon if I bring this up I’ll crack her.

I know. 'Emotional manipulation'. I'm very proud of myself. To be honest I didn't have high hopes for its success anyway.

Me: So I’ve been very sad. Do you know why?

FD: [almost audible shrug]

Me: What day was it last Sunday?

Silence.

I’m in trouble here. I’ve foolishly done this, will tar her with irrational guilt and will also incur the wrath of not only her future self but her right-now mother and - God – it was just meant to be a joke.

Favourite Daughter: We were really…. and we didn’t make one at school and there wasn’t time …

She sounds very ‘little’. I feel totally dreadful. This has back-fired.

Pause.

Faourite Daughter: Daddy?

Something has changed in her voice. Almost imperceptible, something I like to think only her father would notice. I’ve a horrible feeling she’s about to be devastating without even trying.

Me: [Very suspicious] Yes?

FD: Well. You said ….[her voice takes the tone of ‘got you’ that she’ll employ with any slip-up that I or any man she’ll ever meet will make] you’d WRITE to ME first.

I think about the last goodbye I said to her and remember that I did promise this whilst trying not to let her see how sad I was feeling.

Me: Well, I…..

Fuck’s sake. I’ve been busy. Work. Writing stuff for sarcy websites. Christ. I’m shit aren’t I?

Silence. She does not chuckle.

Me: Well …. [It’s impossible to describe. We both know I’m dead in the water. And I can HEAR her satisfaction at the small victory even though SHE ALSO KNOWS SHE’S NOT ENTIRELY IN THE RIGHT. But that I’m just in the right side of wrong]

Me: Anyway. I love you.

FD: I know.

I Read The Guardian So You Don’t Have To #2

Caption to a reader-submitted photograph of a dreary, piss-stained underpass:

“Walking through an underpass, I was struck by the wonderful simplicity of the shadow and the composition that resulted.”

Do you know what I think when walking under a concrete monstrosity littered with watery-grey-filled condoms and crushed cans of Stella Artois?

I'll tell you what I DON'T THINK:

'Angles, that was the theme for the Guardian Weekend magazine's photo montage for next week! This is perfect! Look at those shadows! I'm just going to whip out my 12 mega-pixel camera right now and capture this rare moment of beauty in such an unlikely setting!'

Do you know why I don't?

Because I'm not a cunt.

Waste Of Space Dies - World Shrugs

My day was disturbed at six this Sunday morning by the news that absolute no-mark and Wetherspoons-botherer Alex 'The Hurricane' Higgins had finally made some space in the world for the other shit-heels in the queue at William Hills before the 'offy' opens.

The passing of the perennially homeless fuck-wit alcoholic father of a random amount of children – he didn’t admit to at least two – will trouble no-one at all although his amazing ability of hitting a ball with a stick will be mourned the world over; he was good at it for at least ten minutes and the globe feels the loss.

It’s about seven now – I’m going to try and get some real sleep before the world erupts with the news that the bloke who needed 45p for his bus home on Friday night was actually a chancer. Christ.

I Watch Television So You Don't Have To.

Sunday morning.

Idiot 1: An amazing motorcycle crash there. You wonder how they walk away sometimes.

Idiot 2: Well they are trained for it. And they have quite a lot of padding.

Idiot 3: Up next – can ‘art’ be ‘too popular’?

Christ.

It’s only eight in the morning.

And the above – completely genuine and verbatim by the way – has been the morning’s highlight.

I’ve got the mid-morning waking-hell of that dreadful thing with the footballer’s wife and that awful AWFUL man – the one that the strangely-likeable cocktail-maker so obviously wants to knock-out – to look forward to which will probably be followed by at least 36 hours of Formula One coverage.

I can switch channels and watch Paul-McCartney-Looky-Likey Angela Lansbury solve some surprisingly alarming suburban crime or look at a bronze-coloured man sell some tat to fools.

A completely un-ironic news item concerning the lack of ‘pond-life’ in Great Britain bothers me for a second. We ‘need more ponds’ says a very earnest-looking man in a green polo-neck.

I turn the television off. I look at my watch.

Two whole hours. I want to kill someone.

People look at me with amazement when I tell them I don’t often watch television.

Three and a Half Years Ago.

Uncannily Similar colleague and I find ourselves walking down the same corridor in the building we work in. We’ve never spoken before.

Uncannily Similar: So. How are you finding it then?

I’ve only been with the company a few days, the work we do is stressful and hugely competitive. He’s fucking ‘sizing me up’ isn’t he?

Me: Fine. Done it before so no problem really.

I’ve seen him in action ands he’s fucking good at what he does. But I’m not going to let him know it.

U.S: So. [Clocking I’m the same age as him] Married then?

Me: No. Just separated actually.

U.S: Shit. Sorry. No kids though?

Me: A son and a daughter as it happens.

U.S: Fuck. Really. Sorry. Still see them loads though?


Me: Bit up in the air at the minute to be honest.

U.S: Shit. Bollocks. Fuck.

He stops walking, as do I. His shoulders relax and he drops the ‘pissing contest’ thing.

U.S: How am I doing?

Me: Three out of three so far.

We grin at each other.

U.S: Few of us going for a drink tonight if you’re interested.

Me: Why not.

The next week our boss makes us work together.

Two and a half years later I cry at his wedding.

I pretend I have something in my eye.

Lost and Found.

They say that if you love something you should set it free. And if it returns it’ll be yours forever.

I’m starting to find that this may actually be true.

If by ‘love’ they mean ‘are quite used to having around’. And if by ‘quite used to having around’ they mean ‘is a District Council-mandated necessity’.

And if by ‘set it free’ they actually mean ‘wonder where the fuck it’s gone.’

The wheelie-bin for my recycling went missing didn’t it.

The first week or so I wasn’t that bothered. It’s a recycling bin that - to be frank - I rarely use. I chucked my tins and newspapers in the refuse bin as usual but without the normal minor twinge you get when you irrationally think that you are being ‘bad’ by doing so. The second week I did have a faux-nonchalant stroll around the neighbourhood to see if I could spot it. By week three I was beginning to get slightly concerned.

It just isn’t in a wheelie-bins’ nature to act like this. I began to imagine how it would have coped surviving in the wild for three solid weeks. The torments it must have suffered at the hands of the abandoned shopping-trolleys, the mocking from the single drunkedly-lost shoes and discarded gloves.

Don’t get me started on the indignity it must have suffered at the hands of the marauding ‘Household Refuse’ wheelie-bins. Because they think they are IT compared with their weakling ‘Recycling’ cousins - showing off with their cigarette-ends and bits of chicken wing when they all get together in the grave-yard at night for a bit of lid-flapping.

By week four it had returned, sheepish and repentant. Well, it won’t be trying that one again. I’m never putting it out. That’ll teach it. Locked in the backyard, next to the catflap in the back gate that I spend most evenings staking-out so I can throw clothes-pegs at next-doors’ cat every time it sticks it’s fucking head through it.

People tell me I’m spending too much time in the house.

Build A Bridge ...

I’m at a cash point, trying not to worry about things too much.

Withdrawing a sensibly small amount of money, I notice a familiar face as I walk away. I’m feeling unusually garrulous, so say hello.

Familiar Face: Oh hi. God. How are you?

Me: Good. You?

FF: Oh you know. Where you working now?

Familiar Face and I worked together four years ago and were pretty friendly until he got all huffy about the fact that his girlfriend 'Curvy Girl' –who worked in the same place- thought I was quite amusing and would hang out with me from time to time for just that reason. Like I say, it was four years ago and I haven’t seen he or she since.

I tell him where I’m working.

FF: Really? I’m bored shitless where I am. I’ve been trying to get in at your place for ages. Any chance of putting a good word in?

Me: I suppose-

FF: I’m living with Curvy now. WE LIVE TOGETHER.

Me: [pause] …Ok. I’ll have a word with my boss, I know she’s, erm …. Yeah she’s looking for people … ah, now as it happens.

We exchange numbers.

It was four fucking years ago and she just laughed at my stupid jokes for fucks sake.

I never hear from him again, presumably so as to minimise any possibility of his girlfriend having humour-fuelled sex with me.

What. A. Cock.

Time To Leave

I’m at work. It’s four-thirty in the afternoon. All is fairly peaceful in the office.

Blonde Colleague: Right. I’m off.

Me: What?

BC: [slinging bag over her shoulder] I’m away. That’s me.

Me: Bit early. What for?

BC: I’m a fat cunt.

I sigh inwardly. This is getting beyond a joke. It’s bad enough having to listen to her bang on about her latest diet all day every day and pointing-out that her ‘weight issues’ are entirely imaginary – the only ‘issue’ she’s had of late has been losing too much and not really looking like a proper woman anymore but you can’t say that because they never believe you – but having to leave work early? Christ.

Anyway, I reply in the only manner a sane man would when faced with a woman describing herself as above.

Me: Oh no you’re not.

BC: What?

Me: You’re not.

BC: I FUCKING AM AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.

Bit vehement.

Me: Look, you’re really not and you should just get over it.

BC: You can’t tell me what to do! This has been agreed and I’m going.

Me: Well there’s really no point. You should just accept things. You’re fine.

BC: WHAT?!

Me: You’re not a ‘fat cunt’.

BC: WHAT??!!

This is getting a bit weird actually. Normally when you tell a woman they’re not overweight they melt a little bit and make you some tea. This is not going according to the template. I resolve to give it one last go.

Me: I said you’re not a fat cunt.

BC: I know! And I’m off to Weight Watchers to make sure I stay that way. I’ll make up the time tomorrow.

Ah. Weight Watchers. That she often refers to as ‘Fat Club’.

Me: Oh. OH. Sorry. I thought you said “I’m a fat cunt”, not “I’m at Fat Club”.

BC: WHAT? YOU THINK I’M A FAT CUNT?!

Me: Well, no, of course-

BC: Wanker!

She storms out of the office. Every woman present glares at me.

I Read The Guardian So You Don't Have To #1

From the readers' problems page of the Weekend magazine:

"We've just returned from Marrakech with a lovely red leather pouffe. Unfortunately, a strong camel smell emanates from it. How can we get rid of it?"

No comment need be made on my part.

I Have A Piss In My Bathroom Sink.

I reflect upon my awesome Friday.

It’s been yet another long day. I give ‘myself’ a shake and run the tap. Balefully I gaze at the toilet that is still brim-full of not-entirely-clean water.

Thirteen hours previously I had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and had performed my bathroom habits before leaving for work. I had noticed that the toilet did not drain. And in fact had just filled.

“That’s fine”, I thought, “by the time I get home tonight it will have actually fixed itself. All on its own. Like that dead cat in the front garden all those years ago.”

I endure a working day dealing with small businesses who pretend not to exist after what is for them a terrifying Budget and large private businesses who are now spending money like it was some sort of competition.

And then attend after-work drinks with Newly-Gay Friend and yet another of his ‘gentleman callers’ without accidently getting pissed and offending people yet again and am now home safe and sound and need a wee.

Astoundingly nothing has resolved itself in my absence. For the eight-millionth time I reflect upon the doubly-rubbish nature of not only living alone but also being grown-up.

I arm myself with all the household disinfectant I can find and begin bending a wire clothes-hanger into the required shape.

I don’t much fancy anything for dinner anymore.

Fail.

Interior. Day.

A shabby office, one phone, one desk. The year is 1986.

Barry is a failed popstar but slightly talented song-writer who carves a living writing tunes for other people. He tries not to be bitter.

[Off screen] Phone rings.

Barry: *sigh* Hi.

Listens.

Barry: Yeah whatever. What’s the pay? {pause] Yeah that’ll do. Let’s recap. Slightly saucy pop hit, not so suggestive it won’t get airplay – don’t want a repeat of that Frankie Goes To Hollywood thing – but enough to sell. Ok. Who’s it for? Cher again?

Some time passes.

Barry: Sam fucking Fox? Are you shitting me? Do you know who I am?

More silence.

Barry: Well yeah that’s who I am NOW, but I could have been…..right. Whatever. Yeah. I’ll do it.

Barry hangs up, and reaches for a folder marked ‘Absolutely Terrible Analogies For Awful Pay’

Fade to black.

.......................................................................................................

24 years later (this is me now).

I’m in the check-out queue at Poundland during my lunch hour, faintly excited by the thought of my evening shower that I’m promised will be an ‘energising deep cleansing experience’ according to the label on my one quid bottle of shower gel.

Trying not to think of how hideously ugly the poor actually are (this isn’t John Lewis), not to mention how smelly - it’s Poundland for God’s sake and it’s 2 for 1 on deodorant – I listen to the plaintive strains of Sam Fox wailing from the speakers.

……. ‘like a tramp in the night I’m begging you’……………..

Honestly. ‘Like a tramp in the night?’ The writer was so disillusioned he went for the hobo analogy?

She got the last laugh I think to myself as I queue to pay for my purchase. All those photos making over-exciteable adolescent boys imagine she were available, the hit single entitled ‘Touch Me’ that would of CONVINCED them of it, and all the while she was a carpet-muncher.

The chap ahead of me is a disorientated Middle-Eastern who obviously hasn’t much English.

‘How much?’ he asks, gesturing at his hoped-for purchase.

The man behind the counter glances at him.

‘You’re in a pound shop sir and I’ve no time for comedians.’ Is his helpful reply.

Unlike Sam Fox, it seems some people have no sense of humour.

Stories.

I love a good story, me. They serve so many purposes.

A female colleague – let’s call her Susan - has just left the company I work for to start a better-paid job at an ‘escort agency’.

Not as an actual escort – she’s nearly sixty, was never a ‘looker’ in her youth and would be a cock-wilting disappointment if she turned up at your front door for some coke-fueled anonymous ‘affection’ - more an office-manager sort of thing for the agency.

I ask her if she is not slightly concerned about long-term job security in an industry notorious for falling foul of the law. And about stuff like hygienic working environments and constant contact with people who are at best morally ‘flexible’. Including her new employer.

She is certain that her new employer is at heart a good man. She tells me his story.

He was a man of the cloth – a vicar. His wife died in a car accident, he lost his faith in God and left the clergy. And turned to drink. And gambling. Poker. Which to his astonishment he turned out to be very good at. He cleaned-up and made a fortune from cards. There is a website of a casino in Las Vegas that still lists him as their biggest winner. She’s seen it.

He bought a large, expensive quayside apartment in our city upon his return and tried to lead a blameless life.

One night he heard a terrible commotion in the hallway outside his apartment. A couple of hysterical young girls were banging on his door – they couldn’t get help elsewhere. There was a very drunk, abusive gentleman in their apartment, they couldn’t get rid of him.

The hero of our story dispatches this gentleman, advising him never to return. The girls are grateful. They tell him their own story, what they do for a living, working from their apartment. Our hero is filled with nothing but concern for the well-being of these girls – do they not have any protection, anyone to look after them, he asks.

No, they reply, we are alone and vulnerable. Will you look after us?

Our hero cannot turn his back on these poor waifs, and begins conducting their affairs for them – providing them with much-needed safety. And a steady supply of well-vetted clients. Soon other lost souls hear of this wonderful man, and before long he is taking care of many young women, and starts an agency.

It’s like he has his flock back.

In my opinion, this is an utterly brilliant story of lost faith and redemption in the unlikeliest setting.

And I wonder if even Susan believes a fucking word of it.

Hecklerspray

I would like to point out that:

www.hecklerspray.com

is quite good, and if you tire of the world of modern shallow entertainment but are still sort-of fascinated by it, I would say it is a good place to go.

I, of course, have no vested interest in this statement, or indeed the website in question.

Growing Pains.

Last weekend:

It’s been a long day, involving a four-hundred mile journey and much turmoil. I am tired. I stand outside a public house and think back over the afternoon. It is eight in the evening.

Five hours previously.

I meet Favourite Son from school.

His Teacher: You should of seen his face! When he saw you!

I ignore her. Not on purpose. But I suppose I’ve more important things to give my attention to.

Favourite Son: Daddy? How come you’re here to pick me up when you live so far away?

Me: I got up really early.

This satisfies him. It’s the end of term and he presents me with a small plant-pot from which is growing a bean-shoot he has nurtured for the preceding weeks. He is chuffed.

We collect his sister, who proudly shows me her jigsaw mouth of milk- and small-adult teeth. The baby teeth are her mothers, the new jagged ones are mine.

Retiring to a public house down the road from their school that possesses an outdoor children’s area, we drink lemonade, laugh and play. We spend the afternoon together, have dinner elsewhere and at about seven meet their mother.

Favourite Son looks at me with horror.

FD: Daddy! Where’s my bean?

I’ve only left it behind at the pub down the road from his school haven’t I? He was no doubt bursting to show it to his mother. I look at his face.

He’s five now, his small body coursing with unaccustomed bursts of testosterone and every slight injustice is felt with a hammer-blow of outrage and inconsolable grief.

I look at his mother’s face. We’ve already established that I also forgot to pick up his lunch-box and PE kit so this latest testament to my incompetence is obviously no surprise to her.

Me: It’s ok. Don’t worry. I’ll go and get it.

The pub is bloody miles away and I’m exhausted and on foot.

Tired Mam: I can call them if you like. Get them to put it to one side.

Me: No. No. [To Favourite Son] I’ll get it. It’ll be ok.

He seems alright with this. They go home. I find the bean-shoot and all is well.

My lodgings for the night are at the maternal grandfather of my children, with whom I have an unlikely friendship. I look at my watch. He’ll be asleep by now. I’m alone in a town that I have not lived in for about seven years and is now alien to me. The brief sight of Tired Mam seven months pregnant has not been a soothing one. Nothing to do with me I might add. My nerves are shot. The public house is filled with people, sound and light.

Me: A pint of strong drink please.

Barman: No problem. And for your friend?

Me: Mmmm?

He gestures to the small plant-pot next to my elbow on the bar. Funny fucker.

Me: *sigh* He’ll just have some water.

Massively Unproductive Telephone Conversations.

Me: Hello. Could I speak to Caroline please?

Receptionist: Oh I’m sorry she’s off until tomorrow. Who’s calling?

Me: It’s Tired at the Department.

Receptionist: Oh right, well Rachel will be able to help you. I’ll but you through? [You’re not Australian, I think. Don’t make a statement sound like a question]

Beep. Beep.

Rachel: Hello, Rachel speaking.

Me: Hello, this is Tired at the Department.

Rachel: Oh Hi. Erm. Oh. Right. It’s Caroline you really need to speak to…

Me: Is it.

Rachel: Yeah… um. She’s in tomorrow? [Christ, you as well]

Me: Is she.

Rachel: Yeeaah.

Me: Tomorrow it is.

I know I should appreciate the willingness to help, and welcome the delight of speaking to new people I would never normally encounter but really. Fuck. Off.

Two hours later.

Me: …and do you know why, ‘cos I’ll tell you. I have no interest in becoming one of those witless wonders who gaze into the neon oblong glare of their unbearable twat-machines, surrounded by friends in their favourite bar while someone normal like me sits thinking ‘Christ this is excellent, I’m so glad I came out to watch these fucknuts play Texas Hold ‘Em with a twelve-year old transvestite in Wisconsin’ and no, actually no I very much doubt that it ‘impresses the chicks’ as you suggest – I know you’re being ‘ironic’ but even so –

Female Client: You think smoking ‘impresses the chicks’.

Me: It does. It makes you look ‘cool’, ‘hard’ and ‘grown-up’. All fiddling with a fucking iPhone gets you is the utter contempt of anyone who sees you sitting on the tube swirling your fingers over the fucking thing like it was your girlfiend’s vagina which, incidently, if you gave the proper attention to you would find the desire for a smart-fucking-phone would never of crossed your mind in the first place-

FC: Tired? What did you call for?

Me: I honestly can’t remember now. You’ve made me all cross and I’ve lost my train of thought.

FC: We really should meet for a drink sometime.

Me: Sure.

Unproductive on a business front, but also an opportunity to have an ill-advised affair with a married client. So. Unproductive then.

Four hours later.

I’ve missed my normal bus home due to lengthy unproductive telephone calls, and retire to a bar across the street from the bus ‘rank’ or whatever you call them.

It’s an alright place. It’s not part of a chain, has the impression of being a bit of a labour of love and is filled with ageing indie-kids, various other ‘alternative’ types, people who refer to themselves as ‘creatives’ who are actually ‘Mac operators’ and men in suits who like to pretend they are still ‘with it’ and that the Chartered Accountancy thing is just a day job.

I sit with my drink. A song by a band I quite like comes over the speakers from what I am sure is a 'mix-tape' or whatever the current equivalent is that has been put together by a member of the bar staff. An ageing indie-kid takes the stool next to me and starts fiddling with his mobile phone. I instantly dislike him but can’t really justify it as I’m one of the suit-guys who are kidding themselves, and in my time off I’m also an ageing indie-kid. Dreadful. I need a proper reason to hate him that doesn’t reflect on myself.

He phones someone.

Ageing Indie-Kid: Steve? Steve-O! It’s Nathan! How you doin’ fella? Long time no speak, thought I’d catch up with the Stevester! Fella, you sound out of breath, you ok? Oh right. In bed? Christ. Didn’t wake you did I? No? Sweet. So listen, thing is I need somewhere to crash and…. Yeah? Really? Jesus. So how’d that work? You just say to him I need to know where this is going, will you move in with me? Oh you did? Wow. Anyway, just for a few days and……right. Yeah. Sure. Understood. I’ll let you get back to sleep.

It’s five-thirty in the afternoon. I imagine Stephen – who surely does not relish being referred to as ‘Steve-O’ or ‘the Stevester’ throwing his phone across the room and getting back to the slightly more pressing business of enthusiastically fucking his new live-in boyfriend.

Nathan: Toby? Nathan! How you doin’ fella? Yeah? Sweet. Listen. There’s this thing, and I need somewhere to crash – you know, just for a couple of days and…… Really? Christ. That was quick. Where to? Hello? No you went a bit quiet. Where to fella? Plymouth? Wow, that literally couldn’t be further away. Jesus, what a job eh? Anyway. Much love yeah?

I go from briefly despising him to noticing the array of bags around his feet and wondering where he’ll sleep that night. And then deciding that he should have got a proper job as opposed to being the musician/writer/artist/whatever he has obviously decided upon and stop being a dreadful burden to everyone he encounters and let them get on with some sex and not having to make up stories about moving to Cornwall.

My bus is due. I finish my drink and leave.

21. Again.

Who'd have thought such a small question would turn out to be so interesting?

The average person - based on my hyper-scientific survey that will never trouble Ben Goldacre because it is fucking bullet-proof - has moved house on one occasion for every 2.41 years of their life.

I on the other hand have moved once for every - roughly - 1.5 years of my life. Making me intrinsically more interesting than the bulk of the population. Result.

Not quite sure what to do with this information. It will involve a new blog. And some of the comments in the last post demand a fuller story.

And there's something I'm trying to figure out for myself.

There seem to be lot of stories to be told least of all my own. Don't really know how it'll work. So I shall think for a bit.

In the meantime look below for a story about me being out-witted by a six-year old girl.

A Year And a Half Ago.

I am walking down a street in the city that I have a peculiar love-hate relationship with.

To be fair, since I moved out and now just visit it's been more love than anything.

I am having a disagreement with my six-year-old daughter. I forget what it was now, but it has incurred her displeasure.

Favourite Daughter: I’m going to tell Mummy on you.

Me: Go on then. I don’t mind.

FD: [Upping her game] I’ll tell Mrs. Teacher on you.

Me: Do it. She’s not MY teacher. I don’t care.

I’m faintly surprised that she feels that her teacher is a larger threat to me than her mother but whatever.

FD: Right. I’m going to tell Mr. Headmaster on you.

Me: Fill your boots. I couldn’t care less.

I can sense her frustration and anger building.

FD: I’m going to tell the Person In Charge Of The Whole World on you!

Theoretically she would have me with this one. Who am I against the Person In Charge Of The Whole World? No-one.

Fortunately for me, she has no idea what she’s banging on about. I’ve won this one.

Me: Oh yes? And who is that?

FD: [Steely eyed. She’s not backing-down any more than I am. She’s on the ropes and she knows it] GEORGE STEPHENSON!

Me: ……

She’s FUCKING GOT ME.

I genuinely don’t know what to say.

Alright, he invented the first miner’s lamps and the fucking steam engine and all sorts of other things and he lived round here, but really. HE’S NOT IN CHARGE OF………

Favourite Daughter sees me struggle for a moment and smiles to herself.

Whatever the disagreement was she knows she’s won.

21

I don't ask this normally.

But I'm conducting a survey of my readers. Please leave your answers in the comment-thing below.

I have had 21 homes. (Actually 23 but two don't count. I shan't explain. These are my rules.)

I am 36 years old.

Mathematics isn't my strong suit but I'm guessing a new home for every year and a half of my life.

Is this unusual? Or quite normal?

Office Space.

Work. Late afternoon. It’s already been a long day.

I receive an email from a client.

“I’m really sorry, but my email isn’t working,” explains the email, “ so I won’t be able to send you the image files you need by the end of the day as you requested.”

I gaze out the window for a while before I read the rest of it. The files in question need to be of publication standard; at least 300 dpi. I steady myself and read the rest of the email.

“Is it ok if I just fax them to you instead?”

Deadlines are circling me like vultures.

I compose an email in reply.

“So sorry to hear of your inability to communicate by email – hope this is fixed soon. Unfortunately a faxed document tends not to reproduce terribly well. As a ‘last minute’ solution – time really is short now - I wonder if it would be alright if I take some generic images from your website – assuming they are of sufficient quality?”

Send.

I scratch at my fingernails for a minute or two. They are covered in superglue which has recently oft been mistaken – to much hilarity – for nail polish.

An emailed reply.

“Ok, but I don’t see why the fax would be a problem. And I know it’s late, but I can’t help that my emails aren’t working. Could you take them from the following website – www.mybiggestcompetitor.com? I want it to look just like theirs.”

I stare out the window some more. I think of phrases such as ‘copyright issues’ and know there is no point in employing them.

Blonde Colleague: Tired? Tired! I’ve got Client Name on the phone about those files. She doesn’t understand your emails.

Me: I’m going for a smoke. Tell her all our phone lines are down and no-one can speak to her.

BC: Won’t she suss that, as she got through in the first place, there’s nothing wrong with the phones?

Me: [Over my shoulder] I sincerely fucking doubt it.

Quiet Sunday Drink.

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Asks the policeman.

I look him up and down. He’s easily six foot five, can handle himself, and if he’s any good at what he does for a living is better equipped than I to assess this sort of thing.

The four squad cars, riot van and what I know to be our districts’ Armed Response Unit will no doubt help him out if things ‘go south’, as will the half-dozen representatives of Her Majesty’s also milling about looking ready to kick seven shades of shit out of anyone who ‘looks at them funny’. So I’m not really sure why he’s asking me.

Twenty minutes previously, and three years ago:

My sister and I are about to enjoy an impromptu Sunday afternoon drink at a public house near the river.

“ Two pints of strong drink please.” Say I, whilst another barmaid serves a random Asian man with his requested pint of cold tap water.

I glance at him as our drinks are being poured. He’s disheveled, is carrying a back-pack and is in a small town – small enough even for me to know that he is a stranger here.

Our strong drink arrives.

“Shall we sit down somewhere?” I say to my sister, noticing that the disheveled man is proceeding to WASH HIS HANDS in his pint of free-of-charge tap-water as opposed to actually drinking it.

We sit. But I know it’s only a matter of time.

“Do you think John Travolta felt a bit …. You know. Weird. About being sperm?” Asks my sister.

“What?” Says me.

“In ‘Look Who’s Talking’. He’s sperm and then gets to voice the baby. When it’s born. And says things about tits and that.”

“No. That was Bruce Willis. John Travolta was the guy. He drove a taxi or something.” I explain.

“Oh. Yes. You’re right. Bruce Willis was the spunk.”

I notice that we are soon to have company.

“Mind if I sit? It’s been a long day. I’ve parked by the river [you can’t park by the river-this is me thinking] and can’t find my car again. It’s down there somewhere [It’s not because you can’t park there- that's me thinking again]” Says the mental man.

It’s inevitable really. They gravitate toward me. Sister and I leave him and go for a cigarette.

I’m briefly troubled by another twat – “What have I done now?” he whines – and return to our table.

Our new-found friend has produced an enormous pair of scissors and is making what appears to be an eye-patch from some random materials he has about his person whilst informing me that he fancied a change of scenery and has randomly driven here from Birmingham. I am in the North-East of England and know that to be quite a drive for a spur-of-the-moment thing.

“I’m just going to the loo.” Says my sister. Whilst she has gone I wander to the bar.

“Errmm,” I say, “ I think it might be an idea…”

“We’ve already called them.” Says the barmaid.

I sit down again. Within two minutes a large policeman sidles up to us.

“Alright mate? Scissors is it? Can I have a look? Great. I’m just going to keep hold of these. Shall we have a chat outside? Great.”

They leave and after a while I imagine the fuss to have died down and go for a cigarette, and am surprised to witness the show of force. Thinking about it, the July bombings weren’t that long ago and people are still twitchy.

“You spoke to him yeah?” Says the policeman. I confirm this. He asks me if I thought he was dangerous.

“If anything only to himself. I got the impression he’d stopped taking his meds and didn’t really know where he was.”

The policeman nods as if I had confirmed his own thoughts and takes my details.

I wander back inside and order some more strong drink, aware of the fact that if I lived in 'that London' someone would have been shot by now.