I once wrote a blog and now I write nothing.

Okay so Shit Talker is dying a death as I, the sole contributor, haven't written a review since the end of May. I keep saying that I have the intention of catching up, of doing a massive review to get me back on track, but I'm sure that promise is empty like most of those I make with regards to breaking a cycle of laziness. In my head I have many ideas, I have thoughts about things and insights that I'm sure would be at least intriguing if not interesting to others, and I think about putting them down in a story of some form but never do. I'm starting to get very agitated by the rut that I seem happy to put off escaping. It doesn't end with just writing, I was going to go to the cinema today but because the trains are messed up in Borehamwood I ordered Pizza Hut and watched the football.

I have plans to move out of this town. It is exciting and petrifying in equal measure. I am worried about money and being independent and other things that nobody need know. I am worried that I will not be able to move and, if that ends up being the case, I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to get over the opportunity. I feel it is my big chance to finally start dragging my life forwards. Plus it would mean living with two incredible people. I will try to remain positive.

I went on a date the other night. Dates are funny as I find that I take the traditional male responsibility of organising something awesome a little too seriously and fret over it but then it never really pans out that way but still goes fine. We went to Hip Hop Karaoke at The Social, sat upstairs drinking for a while (well I drank and she drank soft drinks) and then it was full to capacity with a queue outside when we decided to go in so walked to Kings Cross instead. I bought a book from a tramp for my aunt's newborn baby for £3 and I enjoyed her company. Thinking now I'm not certain that it was even a date. Neither of us actually stated that it was a date and, due to her having a chest infection, I didn't make a move to kiss her at the end so the night never went beyond friendship. We'll see I guess.

I miss being a better friend to people. I miss my friends too. I hope that I can make it up to people.

I Will Never Know You - A Blog About A Night Out

Hertsmere

Hertsmere has little heart. It is a bleak place. The building was constructed in a dark age of architecture and is the centre piece of a town that is slowly dying of social cancer. I feel that the employees are the antibodies fighting the disease with all of their might, but the residents just keeping pressing the virus and killing off the hopes of the antibodies at all times. We are losing hope of winning this war, or at least I am. But it has hardened me. I now feel no remorse when telling people that their benefit has stopped or explaining to the homeless that they cannot be housed. Normally these bacteria deserve exactly what they get. But one thing that still makes me ache is notifications of death. Today I served a man, late in his life, who had recently seen his wife lose her license on breathing and perish to Crohns disease amongst other things. He sat there opposite me, rubbing his eyes to perform abortions on his tears and ignoring the constant tug of sleep on his eyelids. He turned to me at one point and said, "They asked me to write a letter to explain that she had passed but I thought that her death certificate could say it far better than I ever could." At that point I felt pain. Real pain. The left part of my chest started tightening. My intercostal muscles were wrenching themselves tight to my ribs to protect my heart from such sadness. The man left shortly after and I shook his hand. He is far stronger than I will ever be. I cried for days when my cat died. He was here, in front of a stranger, six days after her passing. He left but the pain remained. Short bursts every few hours. Constant.

Money Walks The Walk

Zara had informed me that the entrance to the place was an unmarked door next to the Nobu on Berkeley Street. I had felt this was adequate description until I arrived and found three doors all within a close enough proximity to Nobu to be classed as next to it and all three had people entering who were money. I couldn't decide which was which and, seeing as how I didn't know what the party was for, I decided to take sanctuary in Sainsbury's and work out my next course of action. I was early and so decided to walk the block, but half way round I realised that I really needed to pee and so hurried back. I looked at the three doors and decided on which one I thought it would be. I then called Zara and she came to find me. I chose the wrong door and we went inside the right one. Now I am not a rich man. I have never been skiing and I have only ever rode one horse and that was when I was eight and in Wales and the horse was blind in one eye. I cannot tell the difference between an Armani suit and one from Next. I often struggle with a strong inferiority complex around people who are far more powerful, wealthy and important than I am, and I knew that this could be a problem tonight. But instead of worrying I just took the opportunity to understand their culture and have fun. I sat with Zara and we watched the pretty people walk past. There were more attractive men than women, their perfectly groomed facial hair and perfectly chosen wardrobes made me quiver in my Primark shirt. Zara remarked that her crush on the boy was over and I almost believed her. She then got asked to mind door and I followed behind her.

You Have To Be A Homosexual To Think

Atty and Anna arrived shortly after Zara started minding the door and, in the time between her taking over and them arriving, Zara had managed to let more people pass her than she had marked names against those on the guest list. We left Zara at the door, they put their coats in the cloakroom and then we got drinks. Atty, who I'd never met before, figured that I worked with Zara and was there as her 'muscle'. I was the only one that took this as a compliment. We then sat and drank cocktails of vodka and detox drink. We wanted mojitos but they had run out. They tasted bad but they were free and so complaints were not forthcoming. We spoke about many things. I am not good with new people but Anna and Atty not only made me feel comfortable but also had me enjoying their company immensely. Atty asked if I was gay because I buy thoughtful gifts for people. DON'T BUY FLOWERS FELLAS, USE YOUR IMAGINATION (there, I've shared the secret Atty, your future boyfriends should be based on who has read this blog). Zara joined us after a while. We were discussing something and everything, nothing of note now but everything felt important in the moment, and then my chest hurt again. It hadn't hurt for hours but then pang! The girls asked me what had happened and I tried to change the conversation. It would have been excessively cheesy to have divulged and that was not my intention.

The Final Supper

Just before eleven we left. We had already decided that we would go to Ping Pong for Anna's last dinner before she left for France. We flagged a taxi outside and went to the Carnaby Street Ping Pong. The layout of the restaurant was less satisfying, the music was a little off-putting and fast for eating and there was no Youth to be found, but we took our table and ordered our food like seasoned pros. Me less so than the others. I also got a cocktail free in honour of being born in the year of the rat and I chose badly. The food came and I didn't really need to eat but had ordered three dishes anyway. They were delicious but I ate a little too fast. We seemed to devour our food in no time and decided to leave. Zara and Atty needed to retrieve things from Anna's house before she left and Zara informed me that it would be easy to get to West Hampstead from her house and so we decided to head that way. The taxis of our unfair capital decided to allude us though. We would stand in one spot for five minutes and no cab would appear so we cross the road to try there and one would arrive just where we had been standing. Copious amounts of people manage to nab cabs just before we do. All the while a man described by Atty as 'Sideshow Bob' loiters desperate for a cab of his own and an opportunity to get one up on us. Eventually Anna notices a cab and we claim it.

Tea In The Kitchen And The Death Of A Friend

On our way back to Anna's Zara and I receive texts from Mike. He does not appear to be very happy. I worry about Mike sometimes. He is one of my best friends and I worry about my best friends often. I don't think that it would be too easy being Mike. We arrive at Anna's and everyone heads into the house ignoring the idea of me leaving to catch my last train. I take the iniative and follow them inside. We go downstairs and the house seems wonderful. All the kind of adjectives that you would like to hear used to describe your house and better still. I live in a three bedroom, terraced council house. I sometimes wonder why I am where I am. My friends all tend to either be wealthier or come from wealthier backgrounds. Maybe I, like the peroxide blondes and low-cut toppers earlier tonight, long to climb the social ladder. Maybe I am the biggest fake in a world that I seem to be finding increasingly artificial. Perhaps everything is real but I. We drink tea and worry about Anna's packing and I worry about Mike's well-being. I say to myself, internally, that I do not have such problems but I do. We all do. Fifty years ago the news could be trusted and people believed the films. Our generation have been raised to put trust in nothing at all to maintain survival but what is survival without faith in humanity. The tea is slowly drunk amongst stories that brought such laughter that Anna's mother had to ask us to quieten down. Anna goes to fetch the items that first brought us to her house and we discuss nothing much. Cabs arrive and we say our goodbyes, Zara and Atty obviously bigger than mine. I leave thinking of Paris in three and a bit weeks and smile.

Torn On The Platform

I left Anna's house knowing that I had already missed my last train. It was 1:35 when I arrived on the platform and the next train wasn't due until 3:30. I was torn. I didn't want to wait on the platform, it was cold and I didn't have my gloves and I knew that I'd not be home before 4:00. But then I didn't want to catch a cab as I didn't want to blow £30 through impatience that would otherwise go towards travelling to Paris. I decided to stick it out. I played Scrabble and set myself little things that I had to do if I won. I lost the one that said that if I won I would go to Paris, and won the one that said that I had to kiss someone that will remain nameless. She will also remain kissless from me after thinking things through. I went to stand in the waiting room but there was a homeless man in there and so decided against it. Two guys walked onto the platform and one went inside the room for a minute before exiting and both of them walked onto platform four. I was listening to Lenny Kravitz crooning his way through his slower numbers when I became aware of a distant wailing. It sounded like a woman who was in more pain than a human should ever have to endure. I had no idea where it might be coming from though and so ignored it. I got bored of Kravitz, and music in general, and so removed my headphones. Suddenly the noise was so much louder. I looked around and realised that it was the tramp. He was bellowing so loudly he made the air scared. I considered, what with my ninety minutes still to wait, going into the room and talking to the man. I wanted to understand him and his 'calls for help'. I decided though that he was going though a private moment and it was better for me to leave it at that. That room though, normally reserved for people to wait for trains, suddenly became a tomb for a man who had only death to wait for. I felt a pain in my chest. I asked the guys on the opposite side where they lived and they confirmed that they were from Borehamwood too. It was decided then that a cab was the only option. I arrived home at 3:30am but did not have a single regret. I had been missing a prominent pulse, it had felt that my heart had just been keeping ticking things over for months now. I had been tredding water. Not now. Now I sleep.

Introduction

I have decided to start using a blog again as a type of diary. Sometimes I forget just how great my life can be and not in an arrogant way. What I really mean is that I can let great times pass and disappear into the abyss, never to be remembered unless someone or something jogs my memory, and even then it is likely to be jumbled in with others and maybe become a mongrel memory.

So I have started this diary to remind myself how my life can affect me. I don't expect it to affect you as you read it, but still.