Saturday, November 11, 2006

Dream: as I hit the two year anniversary of my sacking/firing/doocing, the incident still seems to be very much playing on my mind as I have a dream where John Heddle is ruthlessly laying verbally into me (as he occasionally did at BS). It is a really uncomfortable, verging on distressing dream where I am repeatedly being asked “what have you done with your life?” and I have no answer in response. As another part of my dream the new girl at work tells me that she likes my hair which I note as my third compliment in 24 hours but find ironic/strange as I currently feel my hair is looking painfully plain, dull and very childishly geeky/nerdy.

As I perform my weekly Saturday morning walk to the paper shop to get The Sun and The Guardian I spot a woman walking two Westies along Layer Road and it only serves to remind me just how much I miss Snowy. They are beautiful animals and their character and personalities just ooze from their movements.

On a bright note, upon arriving back to the flat, I eventually find myself doing some study as the TV and most other distractions get turned off. I say most other distractions, my current OCD however sees me with the compulsion of feeling the necessity to register a Play Count on each and every track in my iTunes library. The number of tracks currently sits at 27,828 (89.6 days) and unplayed is currently 15,222 (43.2 days). And this little compulsion includes not only getting plays on my Last.FM page but also that of my parents’ computer’s Last FM. I must be insane.

In the early part of the afternoon Gyle comes online, aka my infamous “Mail Order Bride”. We exchange niceties via MSN Messenger as she tells me how she has just returned home from Singapore. Curiously our conversation eventually turns fruity sauce and ultimately she disappears offline to go some “business”. I am left feeling bemused and somewhat used – I really did not think I was so money.

After falling asleep during a particularly riveting episode of Monk, I awaken to check my Myspace and find a message from a girl in Ireland telling me that “you made me & my friend wet : )”. What is the deal with me and the female of the species today?

Early evening and as I continue to mull over just what social option I should be pursuing this even, those being heading up to Kentish Town for the Yo La Tengo gig (a very good blag) or head out in Colchester for Helen’s birthday, I make the HUGE mistake of watching both parts of Stephen Fry’s documentary The Secret Life Of The Manic Depressive. Despite all my various fun weirdness occurring today, my general condition of fatigue, financial woe (from the bank pulling my overdraft), exam/future worry and general low morale, the documentary only serves to finally fully convince me that I suffer from the bipolar condition that appears to be so glib and so now at the moment. I deflate like a blow up doll with a puncture.

My lull is briefly snapped when at 17.25, “Mike” the Asian from UK Mobile Networks representing that troublesome 3G Mobile Network hits me with yet ANOTHER sales call. I listen to his spiel and then request his details as per the instruction a couple of weeks ago from the 3G complaints lady. At this point old Paki “Mike” gets really tetchy with me, accusing me of wasting HIS time before proceeding to call me a “bastard” and telling me to “fuck off”. My jaw falls wide open; I didn’t even wind the guy up today. Ever since the little altercation at the beginning of the summer, these guys have regularly been phoning me up and hassling me, it now feels more than intention on their part. I wonder if right now the Pakistani equivalent of Scott Mills is recording these calls and I am being replayed on Radio One in Pakistan as a minor angry person. If I knew where he lived I would burn down his house.

The evening hits me hard as I lower in mood more than ever. The domino effect sees me questioning everything about my life and my persona. I figure I am in no state to socialise and no frame of mind to be around people and I chose to opt out of both choices to go out. I feel bad at blowing out Helen’s birthday celebrations (especially since she was great enough to turn up for my personal mental headfuck of an eventual fantastic event). The Yo La Tengo opt out burns me also, not least because I have no options other than to go and sit on my own at a gig. I have reached rock bottom in the social stakes and really feel disliked. It is really silly to feel and act this way but it is unexplainable.

I settle down into an evening in on my own and I watch the Search For The Wrong Eyed Jesus documentary with Jim White. This is a fantastic watch and helps forge and explain the link between country/Americana and blues music and the current raft of silly middle class white boys playing the “blues” and indulging in fairy folk music. I guess they get it. And no for watching this documentary, I feel I do too.

During the documentary, Sara Sahara pops on MSN and says “hello”. She catches me at a dark moment and I begin whinging at her and she hits me with hard advice, which is the opposite of what I require right now, right now I just need to be left alone, sort my current situation and roll and once the exam and a couple of financial hurdles are passed, I will be through this period/spell. This however is unexplainable to her, a person that has had every opportunity and fucked several up on the way. She is a person that was born to “it”, she has really thrived at life whilst I have always been stuck on “go”. Oh well, I can do no more.

After the documentary, I scour Soulseek for the soundtrack and Jim White records before looking through my files and opting to watch Withnail And I. It has been a few years since I last watched this movie but it will always remind me of summer holidays from school, living in Holland Road and when I watched the movie there. It also reminds me of the Saturday afternoon when I next watched the movie and noticed some of the filming locations were apartments that I did the property accounts for while working at my first accounts job in Frinton with Scrutton Bland. My latest link to the movie is that I now work just around the corner from the feature pub Old Mother Black Cap; a visit there is now long overdue. I watch most of the movie before falling asleep and more so than ever, I notice how fantastic much of the content is and how fast paced the movie still is. This is probably the first time since my binge drinking period that I have ever watched this movie and for the first time I can really understand (to some extent) the drinking heroics performed therein. So obviously I fall asleep before the Camberwell Carrot and my night and sleeping patterns fall back into disarray. I wake up a couple of times and not my TV is still on and most of the lights in my flat are all still on but I cannot move for fear of being able to fall back to sleep. It is a terrible waste of electricity though old bean.

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