What is it I am actually dreaming about when I dream of the end of the world? Sometimes these visions in my head are so real, I think they’re actually predictions. That what I’m enduring is the way it’s going to end for everybody. But then the apocalypse in my dreams unfolds in such different ways: sometimes whatever it is comes from above and sometimes it’s from below. Sometimes I imagine there are missiles raining down on me, other times I think it’s a huge asteroid. So am I actually seeing anything? Are these dreams just random nothings that I should really try to forget?
At therapy tonight, after we had talked seemingly endlessly about Alison, Louise asked if I was still having my dreams. I was forced to concede that yes I am, and that yes they are still bothering me. She told me that to her they sound like paranoia, some innate fear that I’m suppressing. In her softest voice she asked me what I thought that might be, and I told her I have no idea. My words spewed out so fast as I tried to remind her of the things I’ve seen in my dreams that I later saw in real life, but she clearly thinks that’s just my imagination going wild. My homework, she told me, is to work out what it is really frightens me.
Homework? I’m not still at fucking school.
Monday, 30 January 2012
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Sunday, 29th of January
On Friday I emailed Julie to let her know about my strange phone conversation with Alison. Of course the email was far too blunt a tool for us to discuss it properly (particularly with me needing to catch up with work as well). I was unable to answer all the questions she asked (although, really, like I have the answers to all the questions she asked). As such we went out for a coffee yesterday afternoon to talk about it properly, but when we met we decided to make it drinks instead and managed to keep it going most of the evening.
In detail I told her what happened. She asked me all the questions which have been bubbling around my brain: What? Why? How come?
I was unable to answer any of them.
After about two drinks we started to talk about Alison herself.
“She was always someone who had secrets,” Julie told me. “Did you notice that?”
Julie is short and thin, with an angular but pretty face and librarian glasses. When she holds a problem up to the light, it’s as if she’s really examining it, giving it all her mind’s attention.
“I didn’t know her as long as you did,” I told her.
“No, you didn’t,” she stared at me thoughtfully. “And that’s an odd thing too, as the last boyfriend she introduced to me – well, they seemed almost at the point of getting engaged. She’d got that far into the relationship before she bothered to introduce him to her friends. And yet you, well, she introduced you almost at the start. I thought she must really, really like you.”
“What happened to that boyfriend?”
She shrugged. “They broke up not long after. Maybe he just wasn’t ready for an engagement.”
Another couple of drinks:
“I thought she was such a good mate,” Julie was tipsier now. “I really thought Alison was someone I could rely on, that I could really trust. And now this. I feel so cut off, so let down. I just don’t understand it.”
She stared at me and then reached across the table to clutch my hand.
“You must be gutted?” her voice was rich with emotion.
“I’ve felt better,” I told her, holding her fingers tight. “I just wish we could have talked about whatever was going on. I wished she’d confided in me, so I knew where I fucking stood.”
“Yeah you don’t want to ask that Katie bitch,” she let go of my hand to pick up her glass. “She thinks that just because she shagged that rock star that she’s all that!”
Another couple and we were both quite pissed:
“You’re a nice guy,” she said, “you seem reliable.”
“Thank you. You’re nice too.”
I’m not sure if she even heard me. “I never go out with nice guys. I never go out with reliable guys. I only go out with total dicks. It’s my friends I rely on to be reliable, and now they don’t seem reliable either.”
For a moment I thought she was going to burst into tears, but instead she just picked up her pint and knocked back half a glass and smiled at me.
We kissed at the end of the night. I waited for her outside the pub as she’d gone to the loo and when she emerged we kind of fell into each other’s arms. I don’t know if it was really a sexual thing, or we just needed to share some intimacy. But it felt good standing there on the South Bank holding her tight and feeling her lips on mine.
At the end she told me to call her.
I think I will.
In detail I told her what happened. She asked me all the questions which have been bubbling around my brain: What? Why? How come?
I was unable to answer any of them.
After about two drinks we started to talk about Alison herself.
“She was always someone who had secrets,” Julie told me. “Did you notice that?”
Julie is short and thin, with an angular but pretty face and librarian glasses. When she holds a problem up to the light, it’s as if she’s really examining it, giving it all her mind’s attention.
“I didn’t know her as long as you did,” I told her.
“No, you didn’t,” she stared at me thoughtfully. “And that’s an odd thing too, as the last boyfriend she introduced to me – well, they seemed almost at the point of getting engaged. She’d got that far into the relationship before she bothered to introduce him to her friends. And yet you, well, she introduced you almost at the start. I thought she must really, really like you.”
“What happened to that boyfriend?”
She shrugged. “They broke up not long after. Maybe he just wasn’t ready for an engagement.”
Another couple of drinks:
“I thought she was such a good mate,” Julie was tipsier now. “I really thought Alison was someone I could rely on, that I could really trust. And now this. I feel so cut off, so let down. I just don’t understand it.”
She stared at me and then reached across the table to clutch my hand.
“You must be gutted?” her voice was rich with emotion.
“I’ve felt better,” I told her, holding her fingers tight. “I just wish we could have talked about whatever was going on. I wished she’d confided in me, so I knew where I fucking stood.”
“Yeah you don’t want to ask that Katie bitch,” she let go of my hand to pick up her glass. “She thinks that just because she shagged that rock star that she’s all that!”
Another couple and we were both quite pissed:
“You’re a nice guy,” she said, “you seem reliable.”
“Thank you. You’re nice too.”
I’m not sure if she even heard me. “I never go out with nice guys. I never go out with reliable guys. I only go out with total dicks. It’s my friends I rely on to be reliable, and now they don’t seem reliable either.”
For a moment I thought she was going to burst into tears, but instead she just picked up her pint and knocked back half a glass and smiled at me.
We kissed at the end of the night. I waited for her outside the pub as she’d gone to the loo and when she emerged we kind of fell into each other’s arms. I don’t know if it was really a sexual thing, or we just needed to share some intimacy. But it felt good standing there on the South Bank holding her tight and feeling her lips on mine.
At the end she told me to call her.
I think I will.
Friday, 27th January
How could she just be there on the phone?
Where was she speaking from?
Why wouldn’t she tell me where she was?
Basically, what the fuck is going on?
All these questions are whirring through my head and I really have no idea how I’m supposed to get answers to them. Until Alison appears, who can I ask? I don’t want to go back and see Katie, as why would she tell me? She put me in touch with Alison, what more can I expect her to do?
No, all I can tell myself is to take the reassurance that she’s still okay. And from there, if I want to accept that I’m a single man again, that’s apparently fine.
I just wish I understood better what was going on.
Where was she speaking from?
Why wouldn’t she tell me where she was?
Basically, what the fuck is going on?
All these questions are whirring through my head and I really have no idea how I’m supposed to get answers to them. Until Alison appears, who can I ask? I don’t want to go back and see Katie, as why would she tell me? She put me in touch with Alison, what more can I expect her to do?
No, all I can tell myself is to take the reassurance that she’s still okay. And from there, if I want to accept that I’m a single man again, that’s apparently fine.
I just wish I understood better what was going on.
Saturday, 28 January 2012
January the 26th, 2012
Here’s a strange tale. One I’m still working through my mind. Certainly I have some resolution now, and yet in my head it doesn’t feel like anything’s resolved. It all too weird, seems too odd, it still feels too strange and uncanny to be fathomable.
I was outside the Icarus Gym at dawn today. The sun was just peeking over the rooftops as I arrived. This time I wasn’t going to fail, today I’d succeed.
Obviously I didn’t march up to the door again, instead taking my place at the corner. It occurred to me that as hard as I’d stared yesterday, I hadn’t stared hard enough. After all this is a girl I met once while quite dunk, I couldn’t just dismiss the figures coming in or out because a bulky coat made this woman seem too wide or heels made that woman seem too tall. This time I’d scrutinise them as best as I could – even leaving my corner so I could walk past them and see them up close.
(Before anyone says anything, I know this is odd. I know it’s stalker-like behaviour. I make no apology for my actions though. I needed to get answers.)
How long was I there for? I don’t know, maybe about two hours. Two hours that were crammed full of long tedious seconds, and moments of elation when I thought that must be, has to be her. I was disappointed numerous times, and then I wasn’t.
Suddenly there she was. She was walking down from the other end of the road in a long red, elegant coat. I’d seen her yesterday, I could remember her now – seeing that coat come out of the door and then turn the other direction without me getting chance to look at her face. Somehow I’d remembered her with wider hips and altogether squatter, but today she seemed tall and elegant – with a model’s gait and cheekbones most women would kill close friends for (even if her frizzy hair mitigated her glamour somewhat).
I dashed from the corner, restraining myself from actually running across the road at her. The purpose of all this was to get information, not scare the hell out of my girlfriend’s friend. She was talking on her mobile, chatting away when suddenly I appeared in a rush in front of her.
Such was the adrenalin pumping through me I couldn’t help blurting out, even though she was still on the phone: “Hey! Have you heard from Alison?”
There was a moment when she stared at me a little baffled, her wide brown eyes registering surprise but no shock (she’s far more attractive than I remember), before she gave a reply which astounded me:
“Yes, I’m speaking to her now.”
I think my mouth must have hung open for a minute or so, but it can’t have been that long as she calmly took the phone from her ear and handed it over to me.
“Would you like to speak to her?” she asked.
My fingers were shaking as I reached out for her mobile, and I was trembling all over by the time it got to my ear. She just watched me with knowing amusement, as if this was just an average day for her, like it was just a simple and harmless prank she was playing.
“Hello? Alison?”
The line was really crackly, and her voice when it came was so distant – like she was speaking ten foot from the phone – but I could tell she knew who it was. “Hey, you!”
“Hi, how are you?”
(The dialogue does get thin at this point, but I was too stunned to think of anything meaningful to say.)
“I know you’ve been worried about me,” her voice sounding so far away “but all is fine. Tell anyone who asks that all is fine. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Where are you, Alison?”
“I’ll be in touch soon,” she said. “We can talk about everything and talk about us. I’ll understand if you want to think we’re on a break for now.”
“Where are you?” I asked again.
But she had her own sentence to repeat. “I’ll be in touch soon.” there was a crackled pause. “Can you pass me back to Katie please?”
Numbly and with my hand still shaking I passed the phone over to Alison’s friend.
Katie smiled at me – a sympathetic smile perhaps, and then resumed her conversation, skipping past me on the pavement and heading up the steps to the gym.
And I was left stood there in the road with my head zooming around the ether, having no idea what was going on or what had just happened.
I went home and lay down for the rest of the day.
I was outside the Icarus Gym at dawn today. The sun was just peeking over the rooftops as I arrived. This time I wasn’t going to fail, today I’d succeed.
Obviously I didn’t march up to the door again, instead taking my place at the corner. It occurred to me that as hard as I’d stared yesterday, I hadn’t stared hard enough. After all this is a girl I met once while quite dunk, I couldn’t just dismiss the figures coming in or out because a bulky coat made this woman seem too wide or heels made that woman seem too tall. This time I’d scrutinise them as best as I could – even leaving my corner so I could walk past them and see them up close.
(Before anyone says anything, I know this is odd. I know it’s stalker-like behaviour. I make no apology for my actions though. I needed to get answers.)
How long was I there for? I don’t know, maybe about two hours. Two hours that were crammed full of long tedious seconds, and moments of elation when I thought that must be, has to be her. I was disappointed numerous times, and then I wasn’t.
Suddenly there she was. She was walking down from the other end of the road in a long red, elegant coat. I’d seen her yesterday, I could remember her now – seeing that coat come out of the door and then turn the other direction without me getting chance to look at her face. Somehow I’d remembered her with wider hips and altogether squatter, but today she seemed tall and elegant – with a model’s gait and cheekbones most women would kill close friends for (even if her frizzy hair mitigated her glamour somewhat).
I dashed from the corner, restraining myself from actually running across the road at her. The purpose of all this was to get information, not scare the hell out of my girlfriend’s friend. She was talking on her mobile, chatting away when suddenly I appeared in a rush in front of her.
Such was the adrenalin pumping through me I couldn’t help blurting out, even though she was still on the phone: “Hey! Have you heard from Alison?”
There was a moment when she stared at me a little baffled, her wide brown eyes registering surprise but no shock (she’s far more attractive than I remember), before she gave a reply which astounded me:
“Yes, I’m speaking to her now.”
I think my mouth must have hung open for a minute or so, but it can’t have been that long as she calmly took the phone from her ear and handed it over to me.
“Would you like to speak to her?” she asked.
My fingers were shaking as I reached out for her mobile, and I was trembling all over by the time it got to my ear. She just watched me with knowing amusement, as if this was just an average day for her, like it was just a simple and harmless prank she was playing.
“Hello? Alison?”
The line was really crackly, and her voice when it came was so distant – like she was speaking ten foot from the phone – but I could tell she knew who it was. “Hey, you!”
“Hi, how are you?”
(The dialogue does get thin at this point, but I was too stunned to think of anything meaningful to say.)
“I know you’ve been worried about me,” her voice sounding so far away “but all is fine. Tell anyone who asks that all is fine. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Where are you, Alison?”
“I’ll be in touch soon,” she said. “We can talk about everything and talk about us. I’ll understand if you want to think we’re on a break for now.”
“Where are you?” I asked again.
But she had her own sentence to repeat. “I’ll be in touch soon.” there was a crackled pause. “Can you pass me back to Katie please?”
Numbly and with my hand still shaking I passed the phone over to Alison’s friend.
Katie smiled at me – a sympathetic smile perhaps, and then resumed her conversation, skipping past me on the pavement and heading up the steps to the gym.
And I was left stood there in the road with my head zooming around the ether, having no idea what was going on or what had just happened.
I went home and lay down for the rest of the day.
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
January the 25th, 2012
Well I tried and failed today – but surprisingly I’m not down-hearted, I haven’t given up. I know where she works and I’m on the right track, I just need to be patient now. That’s been a problem for a large part of my life, I’m just too impatient. I don’t see things through properly. I’ll keep going now though.
The Icarus Gym is tucked away in a stately street, just off Piccadilly (very Bertie Wooster territory). I’d printed out the address, but even then I had to take a moment outside to convince myself I had the right place. This is such an exclusive gym that it doesn’t need to advertise itself to the world (thinking about it, I’m amazed they have any kind website). The marble facade and simple plaque on the door are discretion itself, it could be any high-scale private client law-firm, or upmarket doctor.
Nervously I climbed the steps and had my one moment of luck. The door opened and an overweight gentleman in a really good suit came out (he had a goatee and a fixed stare, so I put him down as some kind of wannnabe obligach). Rather than stand on the street, pressing the intercom, trying to explain to some disembodied voice what I wanted, I was able to just catch the door and go in.
The receptionist stared up at me a little nonplussed – people don’t just walk in there from the street – but she managed a smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see Katie Price.”
Her eyebrow raised. “And do you have an appointment?”
“Not as such,” I started to say.
She cut me off, her tone suddenly like ice.
“Are you a member, sir?” she demanded.
“Well the thing is...”
She repeated her question, harder and colder than before.
“No, not as such.” I was forced to concede.
Her face had changed so much that it looked inconceivable she could even wear a smile.
“I’m afraid this gym is only for members, sir, so I will have to ask you to leave. I can explain the membership requirements to you if you like, but I can only do it over the phone.”
“Look I only need to see her for five minutes.”
“No, sir. This gym is only for members.”
There was no point continuing the debate. Her entire demeanour was such that to prolong it for even a matter of seconds would clearly see a man with more muscles than I could possibly imagine come out and escort me from the premises.
My tail tucked away between my legs, I went.
I must admit that there was a brief moment of depression when I re-emerged onto the street, but it passed. Before yesterday I had nothing, but now I had the full name and work address of one of Alison’s friends. What did it matter if I couldn’t see her actually within the gym? She’d have to come out some time.
Except she didn’t. I stood hidden away at a corner – stamping my feet to keep warm this cold January day – but she never appeared. Somehow I missed her, I don’t understand how that happened.
I’ll be back tomorrow though.
The Icarus Gym is tucked away in a stately street, just off Piccadilly (very Bertie Wooster territory). I’d printed out the address, but even then I had to take a moment outside to convince myself I had the right place. This is such an exclusive gym that it doesn’t need to advertise itself to the world (thinking about it, I’m amazed they have any kind website). The marble facade and simple plaque on the door are discretion itself, it could be any high-scale private client law-firm, or upmarket doctor.
Nervously I climbed the steps and had my one moment of luck. The door opened and an overweight gentleman in a really good suit came out (he had a goatee and a fixed stare, so I put him down as some kind of wannnabe obligach). Rather than stand on the street, pressing the intercom, trying to explain to some disembodied voice what I wanted, I was able to just catch the door and go in.
The receptionist stared up at me a little nonplussed – people don’t just walk in there from the street – but she managed a smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see Katie Price.”
Her eyebrow raised. “And do you have an appointment?”
“Not as such,” I started to say.
She cut me off, her tone suddenly like ice.
“Are you a member, sir?” she demanded.
“Well the thing is...”
She repeated her question, harder and colder than before.
“No, not as such.” I was forced to concede.
Her face had changed so much that it looked inconceivable she could even wear a smile.
“I’m afraid this gym is only for members, sir, so I will have to ask you to leave. I can explain the membership requirements to you if you like, but I can only do it over the phone.”
“Look I only need to see her for five minutes.”
“No, sir. This gym is only for members.”
There was no point continuing the debate. Her entire demeanour was such that to prolong it for even a matter of seconds would clearly see a man with more muscles than I could possibly imagine come out and escort me from the premises.
My tail tucked away between my legs, I went.
I must admit that there was a brief moment of depression when I re-emerged onto the street, but it passed. Before yesterday I had nothing, but now I had the full name and work address of one of Alison’s friends. What did it matter if I couldn’t see her actually within the gym? She’d have to come out some time.
Except she didn’t. I stood hidden away at a corner – stamping my feet to keep warm this cold January day – but she never appeared. Somehow I missed her, I don’t understand how that happened.
I’ll be back tomorrow though.
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
January the 24th, 2012
Finally, something!
I received an email from Julie just before close of business today. When the message dropped into my inbox I was stood up sorting out some papers, and nearly fell over into my seat when I saw it. She’s asked around and found that the name we’re looking for is Katie Price (yes, my eyebrow raised as well) and that she works in the private Icarus Gym in the West End. Even as I replied I was googling the number and dialling it. Yes, Katie Price does work there, but she wasn’t in today. I tried to find out what hours she’d be working tomorrow, but the receptionist became suddenly coy and suspicious.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll call in sick tomorrow and I’ll go there. I haven’t heard from Alison, nobody else seems to have heard from Alison – I need to know what’s going on. Quickly I emailed Julie to tell that I’d find this Katie tomorrow.
A final email arrived just as I was shutting up the computer, wishing me the best of luck, telling me to keep her posted.
I received an email from Julie just before close of business today. When the message dropped into my inbox I was stood up sorting out some papers, and nearly fell over into my seat when I saw it. She’s asked around and found that the name we’re looking for is Katie Price (yes, my eyebrow raised as well) and that she works in the private Icarus Gym in the West End. Even as I replied I was googling the number and dialling it. Yes, Katie Price does work there, but she wasn’t in today. I tried to find out what hours she’d be working tomorrow, but the receptionist became suddenly coy and suspicious.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll call in sick tomorrow and I’ll go there. I haven’t heard from Alison, nobody else seems to have heard from Alison – I need to know what’s going on. Quickly I emailed Julie to tell that I’d find this Katie tomorrow.
A final email arrived just as I was shutting up the computer, wishing me the best of luck, telling me to keep her posted.
Monday, 23 January 2012
January the 23rd, 2012
Now here’s some news. I got to my desk this morning to find an email from Alison’s friend Julie. She wanted to know if I’d heard from Alison yet, as Julie hasn’t and neither has any of their mutual friends. Ten days ago Julie told me not to worry, that all would be fine. Now my concern is not just a sign of an all too bonkers boyfriend.
I emailed back immediately and said that I still hadn’t heard from her and have been getting more and more worried. I asked her if she knew how to get in touch with Katie, or indeed with any other Australian friend who might know where Alison is.
Julie said she knew who Katie was, but didn’t really know that much more about her than I did. However she promised to ask around and see what someone else might know. She said she’d get back to me shortly.
At the end of the day I was still waiting.
I emailed back immediately and said that I still hadn’t heard from her and have been getting more and more worried. I asked her if she knew how to get in touch with Katie, or indeed with any other Australian friend who might know where Alison is.
Julie said she knew who Katie was, but didn’t really know that much more about her than I did. However she promised to ask around and see what someone else might know. She said she’d get back to me shortly.
At the end of the day I was still waiting.
Sunday, 22 January 2012
January the 22nd, 2012
I don’t want anyone reading this to think I’m an alcoholic, but I have to confess I went out drinking by myself again last night. Yes, I know that’s twice in one week and that would suggest a deep problem somewhere, but last night wasn’t about the booze and getting smashed out of my head – it was about a woman.
I went back to that bar in Clerkenwell again to watch Elvina. Most of the day I’d been moping around my flat feeling lonely, and I just thought – even though I wasn’t going to speak to her – that seeing that woman would be a comfort to me. Well, I’m not sure ‘comfort’ is the most appropriate word.
This time I sat right at the front and got to gaze up close at her perfect, white skin. It really is so smooth and blemish free. Her legs and arms when you get near them are magnificent, so incredibly supple and toned. She must work out a hell of a lot. The outfit was the same, the tight hot-pants and the low-cut top, and the act was much the same too – but it’s an act and an outfit which are not going to get tired quickly.
Right there at the front I truly appreciated her interaction with the crowd. She really plays with the first few rows, teasing them. In her rendition of ‘Loving You’ she leant slightly towards me on the stage and gave me a wink, during ‘The Wonder of You’ – a really slow and sultry version of that song – a smile came my way. I was enraptured, my heart beating faster whenever she strolled those legs anywhere near me. At the end her beautiful heart-shaped face blew me a kiss, but then no doubt every bloke up front thought that the kiss was for him.
As I said ‘comfort’ is not the right word, but I was exhilarated by it. I certainly left that place feeling happier than when I went in, but I still arrived home alone and the loneliness wasn’t slow in creeping up on me again.
I went back to that bar in Clerkenwell again to watch Elvina. Most of the day I’d been moping around my flat feeling lonely, and I just thought – even though I wasn’t going to speak to her – that seeing that woman would be a comfort to me. Well, I’m not sure ‘comfort’ is the most appropriate word.
This time I sat right at the front and got to gaze up close at her perfect, white skin. It really is so smooth and blemish free. Her legs and arms when you get near them are magnificent, so incredibly supple and toned. She must work out a hell of a lot. The outfit was the same, the tight hot-pants and the low-cut top, and the act was much the same too – but it’s an act and an outfit which are not going to get tired quickly.
Right there at the front I truly appreciated her interaction with the crowd. She really plays with the first few rows, teasing them. In her rendition of ‘Loving You’ she leant slightly towards me on the stage and gave me a wink, during ‘The Wonder of You’ – a really slow and sultry version of that song – a smile came my way. I was enraptured, my heart beating faster whenever she strolled those legs anywhere near me. At the end her beautiful heart-shaped face blew me a kiss, but then no doubt every bloke up front thought that the kiss was for him.
As I said ‘comfort’ is not the right word, but I was exhilarated by it. I certainly left that place feeling happier than when I went in, but I still arrived home alone and the loneliness wasn’t slow in creeping up on me again.
Saturday, 21 January 2012
January the 21st, addendum
I’ve remembered it! Alison’s friend Katie is a physical therapist. It came to me this afternoon.
Just one problem though – how the hell does one track down a physical therapist? Particularly if you don’t happen to know her surname.
Just one problem though – how the hell does one track down a physical therapist? Particularly if you don’t happen to know her surname.
January the 21st, 2012
Maybe it’s the act of actually writing them down, but I seem to have a clearer perception of my dreams now. I’m able to see them in a way I couldn’t quite before. Last night it was the Oxford Street one.
This time I’m fully dressed (not in my dressing gown), and before that roar even takes place, I’m conscious of where I am and what’s going to happen.
There’s a bloke I see in this dream every single time, just at the corner of my eye. He isn’t directly in front of me like that woman with the baby at Surrey Quays, but further down the road. In any other circumstance we’d be two people who pass each other without another thought. What makes him stand out in the dream is that he’s hobbling up Oxford Street on crutches. A bright orange plaster-cast surrounds his foot, and he proceeds awkwardly on the crutches in case some careless person in the crowd kicks one away from him. He’s not a bad looking bloke actually, short brown hair with a tint of red; tall, slim and broad shouldered. There’s a grimace on his face, but I’m sure when he smiles ladies would think he was a catch.
I watch him for a little while, wondering if he’ll stare back at me, curious if we’ll make eye contact and have some bizarre connection within this dream world. There isn’t the time though.
When the roar comes, that sudden noise which breaks the sky, the man nearly falls back to the ground. It seems as if his good foot and both his crutches leap off the pavement in shock, and it can only be a miracle that he manages to stay upright. He stares up, in the same direction as everyone else (apart from me now) and his face is twisted and elongated with sheer terror. His mouth opens to scream, but no real sound comes. Now we make eye contact, now we stare at each other, but there’s no connection in the gaze – his look is one of unadulterated fear, of a panicked cry for help which can’t be answered. And then the gust of wind comes and takes us both of our feet, and somehow he disappears from my vision – as if he’s vanished from existence altogether.
This time I’m fully dressed (not in my dressing gown), and before that roar even takes place, I’m conscious of where I am and what’s going to happen.
There’s a bloke I see in this dream every single time, just at the corner of my eye. He isn’t directly in front of me like that woman with the baby at Surrey Quays, but further down the road. In any other circumstance we’d be two people who pass each other without another thought. What makes him stand out in the dream is that he’s hobbling up Oxford Street on crutches. A bright orange plaster-cast surrounds his foot, and he proceeds awkwardly on the crutches in case some careless person in the crowd kicks one away from him. He’s not a bad looking bloke actually, short brown hair with a tint of red; tall, slim and broad shouldered. There’s a grimace on his face, but I’m sure when he smiles ladies would think he was a catch.
I watch him for a little while, wondering if he’ll stare back at me, curious if we’ll make eye contact and have some bizarre connection within this dream world. There isn’t the time though.
When the roar comes, that sudden noise which breaks the sky, the man nearly falls back to the ground. It seems as if his good foot and both his crutches leap off the pavement in shock, and it can only be a miracle that he manages to stay upright. He stares up, in the same direction as everyone else (apart from me now) and his face is twisted and elongated with sheer terror. His mouth opens to scream, but no real sound comes. Now we make eye contact, now we stare at each other, but there’s no connection in the gaze – his look is one of unadulterated fear, of a panicked cry for help which can’t be answered. And then the gust of wind comes and takes us both of our feet, and somehow he disappears from my vision – as if he’s vanished from existence altogether.
January the 20th, 2012
I feel I should actually tell you something about my novel.
It’s about a bloke who’s contacted by an old university acquaintance with an amazing offer, and when he accepts it – as is traditional in Faustian pact tales - his life all goes horribly wrong. At its core it’s about a man who really isn’t very happy with his life, who is looking around desperately for some way to change it and when it comes leaps at the chance with both hands, then has to deal with the horrible consequences. When I wrote it I wasn’t particularly thinking of myself. I was more looking around at some of my friends who’d reached their thirties and just seemed so unhappy with their lot. They didn’t have that dream job they’d promised themselves, their ideal lover was not between the sheets with them each night, and the beautiful children they’d envisaged were as far away as ever, All they had – as far as they were concerned – was shit, and it clearly depressed them. At the time I thought I was happy; that my life – although nowhere near perfect – was often quite fun.
How things change.
Now I feel so fed-up, am just disappointed with it all. And now I look at this book I wrote a little while back, about a dissatisfied man who recklessly grabs a chance to change things, and know I would seize any ludicrous proposal offered to me with both my hands.
Somehow I’ve written my autobiography before I had even lived it.
It’s about a bloke who’s contacted by an old university acquaintance with an amazing offer, and when he accepts it – as is traditional in Faustian pact tales - his life all goes horribly wrong. At its core it’s about a man who really isn’t very happy with his life, who is looking around desperately for some way to change it and when it comes leaps at the chance with both hands, then has to deal with the horrible consequences. When I wrote it I wasn’t particularly thinking of myself. I was more looking around at some of my friends who’d reached their thirties and just seemed so unhappy with their lot. They didn’t have that dream job they’d promised themselves, their ideal lover was not between the sheets with them each night, and the beautiful children they’d envisaged were as far away as ever, All they had – as far as they were concerned – was shit, and it clearly depressed them. At the time I thought I was happy; that my life – although nowhere near perfect – was often quite fun.
How things change.
Now I feel so fed-up, am just disappointed with it all. And now I look at this book I wrote a little while back, about a dissatisfied man who recklessly grabs a chance to change things, and know I would seize any ludicrous proposal offered to me with both my hands.
Somehow I’ve written my autobiography before I had even lived it.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
19th January, 2012
I got blind drunk last night, it’s just what I needed.
My head had been hurting all day, with stress twisting through every part of me – I still don’t know where Alison is, my dreams seem even more intense this week – and I just thought that I had to get out of my skull. That’s what I needed. Too much time sat in the office not speaking to anyone, too much time in my flat by myself, are not good for my mental well-being. So I decided to get some friends together and go out for drinks. It was the best course of action.
Of course this is London and myself – and my friends – are all in our thirties now, and so getting a group of people together is not as easy as it once was. Still I got Roberto and my old friend Toby (I used to work with him) out and we hit the town for a few beers. It was fun. We went to a bar I’d never visited before in Soho, and had a few laughs and told a few wild stories and all was grand. However it was a Wednesday night, a tad too early in the week to go bonkers, and after a couple the two of them decided to go home. I offered to buy them another drink, but they kindly refused, and I was left by myself.
There was no way I wanted to go home.
I spent the night wandering around Soho on a solitary pub crawl. Some of the pubs I went to were good, old fashioned boozers; some were more trendy and expensive bars; some were absolute dives. In most of these places I just kept my head down and concentrated on my pint. In others I did raise my gaze slightly to engage briefly in wider on-going discussions into sport or whatever was catching the punters’ fancy at the time. Only in one bar did I try to create any more meaningful human contact, when I tried to chat up this fairly attractive brunette girl with the brightest red lipstick I’ve ever seen. She took one look at what must have been my drunken, stumbling gait and gave me no more than five seconds of her attention.
Towards the end of the evening I remember finding myself in some seedy lap-dancing club off Rupert Street, being performed to by a dead eyed blonde girl with a slight tummy. I’m not even sure she could speak English. She was a visual representation that all the good feeling I’d managed to grab for myself earlier that evening had vanished, and there was only gloom around me.
I charged out of there (maybe before she even finished her dance, I can vaguely remember her staring at me bitterly) and plodded my way back to Piccadilly Circus. On the way I called Alison. I knew I’d get her voicemail, but just left her a long and rambling message. What did I tell her? I think I must have said I missed her, but did I tell her I loved her? Surely not, as she’d know that wasn’t true. What else did I say? I think I may have finished off by wishing her the best for the rest of her life.
Fortunately I got the last tube. And as I walked back to my flat checked the emails on my phone, And incredibly I saw that my book has now been published. This is it! It’s out there on Kindle and soon to be in hard-copy. Fantastic news! It should have been one of the happiest moments of my life, but all I wanted to do is cry.
Work was very tough today.
My head had been hurting all day, with stress twisting through every part of me – I still don’t know where Alison is, my dreams seem even more intense this week – and I just thought that I had to get out of my skull. That’s what I needed. Too much time sat in the office not speaking to anyone, too much time in my flat by myself, are not good for my mental well-being. So I decided to get some friends together and go out for drinks. It was the best course of action.
Of course this is London and myself – and my friends – are all in our thirties now, and so getting a group of people together is not as easy as it once was. Still I got Roberto and my old friend Toby (I used to work with him) out and we hit the town for a few beers. It was fun. We went to a bar I’d never visited before in Soho, and had a few laughs and told a few wild stories and all was grand. However it was a Wednesday night, a tad too early in the week to go bonkers, and after a couple the two of them decided to go home. I offered to buy them another drink, but they kindly refused, and I was left by myself.
There was no way I wanted to go home.
I spent the night wandering around Soho on a solitary pub crawl. Some of the pubs I went to were good, old fashioned boozers; some were more trendy and expensive bars; some were absolute dives. In most of these places I just kept my head down and concentrated on my pint. In others I did raise my gaze slightly to engage briefly in wider on-going discussions into sport or whatever was catching the punters’ fancy at the time. Only in one bar did I try to create any more meaningful human contact, when I tried to chat up this fairly attractive brunette girl with the brightest red lipstick I’ve ever seen. She took one look at what must have been my drunken, stumbling gait and gave me no more than five seconds of her attention.
Towards the end of the evening I remember finding myself in some seedy lap-dancing club off Rupert Street, being performed to by a dead eyed blonde girl with a slight tummy. I’m not even sure she could speak English. She was a visual representation that all the good feeling I’d managed to grab for myself earlier that evening had vanished, and there was only gloom around me.
I charged out of there (maybe before she even finished her dance, I can vaguely remember her staring at me bitterly) and plodded my way back to Piccadilly Circus. On the way I called Alison. I knew I’d get her voicemail, but just left her a long and rambling message. What did I tell her? I think I must have said I missed her, but did I tell her I loved her? Surely not, as she’d know that wasn’t true. What else did I say? I think I may have finished off by wishing her the best for the rest of her life.
Fortunately I got the last tube. And as I walked back to my flat checked the emails on my phone, And incredibly I saw that my book has now been published. This is it! It’s out there on Kindle and soon to be in hard-copy. Fantastic news! It should have been one of the happiest moments of my life, but all I wanted to do is cry.
Work was very tough today.
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
January the 17th, 2012
Well I called her at her office today, and now I’m really worried.
I slipped out at lunch and dialled her from my mobile with sweaty fingers. Of course if she’d answered, she could easily have got rid of me and said that she was busy and couldn’t talk now – first day or two back and all of that. Perhaps I’d have taken from that conversation that she didn’t want to speak to me again, but at least I’d have heard her voice. However she didn’t answer her phone, her secretary did.
June, her name is, and although I’ve never met her I’ve heard Alison chat about her a number of times, and spoken to her once or twice myself. She’s always struck me as bubbly and open. Today she answered the phone with anxiety creased through her tones.
“No,” she told me, after I asked. “She hasn’t arrived in yet, although she was supposed to come in yesterday. It is all very peculiar.”
So she hasn’t shown up at work either. Has she even arrived in the country?
Most of her friends I met were British, there was only one Australian – Katie her name was. I’m now racking my brains to remember where this Katie told me she worked, so I can contact her. I’ve never met Alison’s parents or her siblings (we weren’t together that long), so I can’t get in touch to ask them. But I have to find out whether anyone in Australia knows where she is. I have to find out what’s going on.
I slipped out at lunch and dialled her from my mobile with sweaty fingers. Of course if she’d answered, she could easily have got rid of me and said that she was busy and couldn’t talk now – first day or two back and all of that. Perhaps I’d have taken from that conversation that she didn’t want to speak to me again, but at least I’d have heard her voice. However she didn’t answer her phone, her secretary did.
June, her name is, and although I’ve never met her I’ve heard Alison chat about her a number of times, and spoken to her once or twice myself. She’s always struck me as bubbly and open. Today she answered the phone with anxiety creased through her tones.
“No,” she told me, after I asked. “She hasn’t arrived in yet, although she was supposed to come in yesterday. It is all very peculiar.”
So she hasn’t shown up at work either. Has she even arrived in the country?
Most of her friends I met were British, there was only one Australian – Katie her name was. I’m now racking my brains to remember where this Katie told me she worked, so I can contact her. I’ve never met Alison’s parents or her siblings (we weren’t together that long), so I can’t get in touch to ask them. But I have to find out whether anyone in Australia knows where she is. I have to find out what’s going on.
Monday, 16 January 2012
January the 16th, 2012
Well something is definitely up.
Alison should be back in the country now and yet I’ve still heard nothing from her. My email messages remain unanswered, my texts ignored. What on earth is going on? I can only believe that something has happened somewhere, but what that could possibly be I have absolutely no idea. The only alternative theory is that she’s breaking up with me in the most passively aggressive way imaginable, but to behave like that she’d have to be a lunatic and until now she’s given no indication of madness – in fact, every indication of being sane. I just don’t understand it, I really don’t. In my anxiety I find myself checking my mobile eight times an hour for a communication from her, but so far nothing, nowt. She seems to have just vanished.
Alison should be back in the country now and yet I’ve still heard nothing from her. My email messages remain unanswered, my texts ignored. What on earth is going on? I can only believe that something has happened somewhere, but what that could possibly be I have absolutely no idea. The only alternative theory is that she’s breaking up with me in the most passively aggressive way imaginable, but to behave like that she’d have to be a lunatic and until now she’s given no indication of madness – in fact, every indication of being sane. I just don’t understand it, I really don’t. In my anxiety I find myself checking my mobile eight times an hour for a communication from her, but so far nothing, nowt. She seems to have just vanished.
January the 15th, 2012
I went to my friend Roberto’s birthday party last night. He gathered together various chums, acquaintances and other assorted well-wishers for drinks in Clerkenwell. If I’m honest I’m not sure I was really looking forward to it, but it turned out to be just the kind of night I needed – drunken, lots of laughs and the chance to get out of my head.
The bar we went to had the most incredible entertainment. When Roberto told me they had an Elvis impersonator, I must confess I rolled my eyes. Now I don’t mind Elvis, but find the rare impersonators I’ve seen to be shabby and unconvincing – more comic turns than tributes. However I’d never witnessed an Elvis impersonator like this.
For a start it was a woman – Elvina, she called herself – and the most incredible woman. Once the spotlight shone, she appeared on stage in the Jessica Rabbit version of the 70s white jumpsuit. It was white and rhinestoned, but she didn’t wear flares, she wore hot-pants. On display was a gorgeous pair of supple and toned legs in sheer tights, leading up to a perfect peachy bum. Around her midriff was a belt buckle with ‘TCB’ written on it, and above that was the requisite large collar. But like Elvis’s version, this garment was low cut and what was truly eye-catching was the magnificent, milky cleavage. It was an incredible outfit, and when she appeared on stage there was a moment of stunned silence followed by wolfish applause.
She was sexy, but also quite beautiful. Her sharp cheekbones, pouting lips and wide brown eyes gave her the air of a feminine, prettier Elvis. Her dark hair was styled in a shorter approximation of a quiff, which ensured her a certain sense of androgyny. All of this was jaw-dropping enough, but then she performed.
Each of the numbers was slower than the original Elvis, and much more flirtatious. She slinked across the stage knowing when to move her hip suggestively or stretch herself back (to full-on applause each time). Every number used the combination of her smoky, come-to-bed voice, and the sheer magnificence of her physicality to create a pulse-racing crescendo, even if the tempo stayed slow.
She took three encores, but it still wasn’t enough. I must go back there again.
Alison should be returning to London today, though I went to bed last night thinking of a much different woman.
The bar we went to had the most incredible entertainment. When Roberto told me they had an Elvis impersonator, I must confess I rolled my eyes. Now I don’t mind Elvis, but find the rare impersonators I’ve seen to be shabby and unconvincing – more comic turns than tributes. However I’d never witnessed an Elvis impersonator like this.
For a start it was a woman – Elvina, she called herself – and the most incredible woman. Once the spotlight shone, she appeared on stage in the Jessica Rabbit version of the 70s white jumpsuit. It was white and rhinestoned, but she didn’t wear flares, she wore hot-pants. On display was a gorgeous pair of supple and toned legs in sheer tights, leading up to a perfect peachy bum. Around her midriff was a belt buckle with ‘TCB’ written on it, and above that was the requisite large collar. But like Elvis’s version, this garment was low cut and what was truly eye-catching was the magnificent, milky cleavage. It was an incredible outfit, and when she appeared on stage there was a moment of stunned silence followed by wolfish applause.
She was sexy, but also quite beautiful. Her sharp cheekbones, pouting lips and wide brown eyes gave her the air of a feminine, prettier Elvis. Her dark hair was styled in a shorter approximation of a quiff, which ensured her a certain sense of androgyny. All of this was jaw-dropping enough, but then she performed.
Each of the numbers was slower than the original Elvis, and much more flirtatious. She slinked across the stage knowing when to move her hip suggestively or stretch herself back (to full-on applause each time). Every number used the combination of her smoky, come-to-bed voice, and the sheer magnificence of her physicality to create a pulse-racing crescendo, even if the tempo stayed slow.
She took three encores, but it still wasn’t enough. I must go back there again.
Alison should be returning to London today, though I went to bed last night thinking of a much different woman.
Saturday, 14 January 2012
14th January, 2012
The Surrey Quays dream again last night.
Once more I’m stood outside the shopping centre, and again there’s the woman with the baby. It’s a curious thing that even though I seem destined to endure these dreams endlessly, I always seem badly prepared for what’s about to happen. Every time the shock of the moment is so acute. Last night though, I seemed to know – I was aware that the earth was going to be ripped up from below my feet. But, rather than panic, I took the time to really see what was in front of me.
The woman with the baby is truly lovely. She has auburn hair, pale slightly freckled skin and delicately carved cheekbones. Hers is a gorgeous face, a wonderful face. She has green eyes which sparkle at me even though there has to be fifteen or twenty feet between us.
When her face is calm, it’s so lovely, like an angel from some renaissance painting. But suddenly her placidness is lost, her features are contorted with a level of fear she’s obviously never known before. The baby gets clutched even closer to her, possibly too close, and they both scream.
For some reason I feel slightly distant from it, even though the ground is moving underneath my feet as well. It feels – for want of a better description –just like a dream. Except, there’s something quite un-dreamlike about it – the most incredible smell.(Can one smell in dreams? Does that happen?) There’s a dreadful stench – putrid and rotting, overwhelming everything else. I realise it’s coming from beneath the ground, that it’s rising up from the cracks which now exist in the asphalt. What is it? What the fuck is it? For a moment it seems as if it’s the literal smell of death. As if everything which has ever died is now rising its way up and coming back to us.
The lady with the baby, the beautiful lady with the baby, looks so terrified. I want to dash over there and be with her. But the ground between us is suddenly forced apart.
Once more I’m stood outside the shopping centre, and again there’s the woman with the baby. It’s a curious thing that even though I seem destined to endure these dreams endlessly, I always seem badly prepared for what’s about to happen. Every time the shock of the moment is so acute. Last night though, I seemed to know – I was aware that the earth was going to be ripped up from below my feet. But, rather than panic, I took the time to really see what was in front of me.
The woman with the baby is truly lovely. She has auburn hair, pale slightly freckled skin and delicately carved cheekbones. Hers is a gorgeous face, a wonderful face. She has green eyes which sparkle at me even though there has to be fifteen or twenty feet between us.
When her face is calm, it’s so lovely, like an angel from some renaissance painting. But suddenly her placidness is lost, her features are contorted with a level of fear she’s obviously never known before. The baby gets clutched even closer to her, possibly too close, and they both scream.
For some reason I feel slightly distant from it, even though the ground is moving underneath my feet as well. It feels – for want of a better description –just like a dream. Except, there’s something quite un-dreamlike about it – the most incredible smell.(Can one smell in dreams? Does that happen?) There’s a dreadful stench – putrid and rotting, overwhelming everything else. I realise it’s coming from beneath the ground, that it’s rising up from the cracks which now exist in the asphalt. What is it? What the fuck is it? For a moment it seems as if it’s the literal smell of death. As if everything which has ever died is now rising its way up and coming back to us.
The lady with the baby, the beautiful lady with the baby, looks so terrified. I want to dash over there and be with her. But the ground between us is suddenly forced apart.
January the 13th, 2012
Well today I cracked. I was sat at my desk, enduring the normal stilted quiet of the office and brooding on Alison, when I just snapped. She has a friend called Julie, who I’ve met a number of times. This Julie works for an investment bank so it was pretty easy for me to figure out her email address. And at 10.58 this morning, when the temptation got too much for me, I dropped her a line.
‘Hi Julie.
How are you?
Sorry to bother you, but I haven’t heard from Alison in over a week now, and that just seems really odd. So, I wondered whether you knew if anything had happened? If you could please let me know whether you’ve heard from her, I’d be most grateful.
Cheers.’
And then after I sent it, the sensation was purgatory and hell rolled into one.
‘Hi Julie.
How are you?
Sorry to bother you, but I haven’t heard from Alison in over a week now, and that just seems really odd. So, I wondered whether you knew if anything had happened? If you could please let me know whether you’ve heard from her, I’d be most grateful.
Cheers.’
And then after I sent it, the sensation was purgatory and hell rolled into one.
I spent most of the day waiting for a reply. It was gone five by the time one dropped into my inbox, but until then I was sat so nervous at my desk, barely able to concentrate on what was in front of me. Regret bubbled up in my soul almost as soon as I pressed send, then through all those hours of waiting it turned into a dagger jammed hard into my side. What on earth was I thinking? Whatever was happening, it was an issue for me and my girlfriend and not for the wider world. How could I be so stupid? All day long I thought that Julie must be laughing at me. Or worse, that she’d forwarded the message onto Alison and they were both laughing at me. For most of the day I thought – even though I know Julie has a busy job with lots of meetings and so on – that not only was Alison not speaking to me, but she’d instructed her friends not to speak to me either. All I was going to get now, no matter where I tried, was a terrible and impenetrable wall of silence. It was an awful day, an unendurable day – six hours of my life that I wish I’d never gone through.
Finally, at 5.16, a reply arrived:
“Hey!
I’ve not heard anything, I’m afraid. I’m sure she’s fine though. You should chill.
Have a great weekend!
Julie.’
It was the worst possible reply. It told me absolutely nothing at all.
Finally, at 5.16, a reply arrived:
“Hey!
I’ve not heard anything, I’m afraid. I’m sure she’s fine though. You should chill.
Have a great weekend!
Julie.’
It was the worst possible reply. It told me absolutely nothing at all.
Thursday, 12 January 2012
January the 12th, 2012
Good news!
I’ve heard from my publisher and all systems are go! My novel is now ready, copies are winging their way to me in the post and it should show up on Amazon – and no doubt other booksellers – this evening. Hoorah! It’s superb news, and after the shitty year I’ve had so far it is more than welcome. I’m glad, but feel I should actually be more excited than I am.
My happiness is nowhere near cartwheel proportions, I haven’t sung or whistled with glee. In fact I haven’t even told anyone yet.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’ve become a colder person over time, perhaps the various worries I have in my life have robbed me of the ability to really derive joy from anything. I feel like I should be bouncing up and down – isn’t that what normal people do when they have a book published? – but although I feel somewhat uplifted, that sense of joy seems to be lacking to me. I’m happy, but want to feel happier and yet somehow that feeling eludes me.
No dreams last night, thank god! Although I can’t believe the universe has started to take pity on me.
I’ve heard from my publisher and all systems are go! My novel is now ready, copies are winging their way to me in the post and it should show up on Amazon – and no doubt other booksellers – this evening. Hoorah! It’s superb news, and after the shitty year I’ve had so far it is more than welcome. I’m glad, but feel I should actually be more excited than I am.
My happiness is nowhere near cartwheel proportions, I haven’t sung or whistled with glee. In fact I haven’t even told anyone yet.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’ve become a colder person over time, perhaps the various worries I have in my life have robbed me of the ability to really derive joy from anything. I feel like I should be bouncing up and down – isn’t that what normal people do when they have a book published? – but although I feel somewhat uplifted, that sense of joy seems to be lacking to me. I’m happy, but want to feel happier and yet somehow that feeling eludes me.
No dreams last night, thank god! Although I can’t believe the universe has started to take pity on me.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
January the 11th, 2012
My job type job nowadays (what I actually do nine to five, when I try to hold my mind from going elsewhere) sees me head into The City to work in a support service for lawyers. I’m not really going to say more than that, not because I’m coy or desperate to preserve the anonymity of my ‘career’, but simply because what I do is really, really dull. It’s something I guess has to happen to allow corporate lawyers to do their jobs properly (although there will be some who argue that we really shouldn’t be trying to help them doing their jobs properly) but it’s not something that interests or intrigues me in anyway. My work place these days is just a bunch of dull, earnest people in suits who sit at their computers working ceaselessly for their less than epic pay-cheque. There is little chat, virtually no banter and when the notion of fun does rear its nervous head it is beaten down by the strict supervisors who tell us – well, in the words of the strictest (and most particularly Mancunian) one – “That’s one for the pub, fellers. That’s one for the pub.” (Yeah right, like we go to the pub together). If I’m honest, I never really engage in any of the rare chat or banter anyway, as after three hours of silence with my eyes down I seem to lose the ability to speak to my fellow man. None of them are my friends, and when they do speak to me – well, there’s only so many ways one can acknowledge the fact that one looks tired. Perhaps they all think I’m partying every night.
Still no word from Alison, perhaps we’ve broken up.
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
January the 10th, 2012
There’s still no word from Alison. This is most perturbing. I’ve emailed her and texted her, but don’t want to go much further in case she’s gone away for a long weekend and it looks like I’ve started stalking her in her brief absence. (But then why would she go away for a long weekend without telling me? I only spoke to her last week). Due to the way we met – in a bar where we were attending two different birthday parties which collided – it’s not like we share common mates who I can ask about her. I’ve met some of her friends, but don’t have mobile numbers for them myself. I can maybe dig out an email address for one or two, but wouldn’t dropping a line at this point seem panicky and almost obsessive? But maybe something has happened. I’ll see how the week goes.
I had another dream last night – this time the Oxford Street one. I’m stood about a hundred yards down from Oxford Circus itself – I think last night I was stood there just in my dressing gown – when suddenly there’s this ferocious roar. I wouldn’t say that the sound is like one made by an animal, but ‘roar’ is the only word I can think of that really covers it. It’s a combination of a boom and a growl, as if some close by explosion is ploughing its way into the earth. Then there’s a huge gust of wind, like the air being sucked up by that dreadful sound. For a second I’m literally torn from the pavement, hanging there in mid-air as the remnants of that noise buzzes past me. Then, as quieter normality tentatively reasserts itself, I’m dropped to the concrete but now all around is screaming. There are terrified cries from hundreds, if not thousands, of people.
I sleep at night, but wake up exhausted.
I had another dream last night – this time the Oxford Street one. I’m stood about a hundred yards down from Oxford Circus itself – I think last night I was stood there just in my dressing gown – when suddenly there’s this ferocious roar. I wouldn’t say that the sound is like one made by an animal, but ‘roar’ is the only word I can think of that really covers it. It’s a combination of a boom and a growl, as if some close by explosion is ploughing its way into the earth. Then there’s a huge gust of wind, like the air being sucked up by that dreadful sound. For a second I’m literally torn from the pavement, hanging there in mid-air as the remnants of that noise buzzes past me. Then, as quieter normality tentatively reasserts itself, I’m dropped to the concrete but now all around is screaming. There are terrified cries from hundreds, if not thousands, of people.
I sleep at night, but wake up exhausted.
Monday, 9 January 2012
January the 9th, 2012
At last, what I’ve been waiting every long day so far of this young year, the chance to speak to Louise.
Louise is my therapist, a short and precise blonde lady who lives over in Hither Green. I’ve been seeing her for a year now – since long before the dreams started – just because I thought my life could do with some sorting out. I came to the point one day where I thought it needed a kick-start. The boys don’t cry thing means that therapy is frowned upon by men, as if seeiking help means you’re not capable of looking after yourself. But it’s far more useful than bottling your problems in, it’s far better – if you think you need it – to try and face the problems with someone than try to battle along just on your own-some.
She knows about my dreams. I think she worries about my dreams while at the same time telling me that they’re just delusions, symptomatic of other problems. Over the last few weeks we’ve talked a lot about my dreams, but tonight we scarcely mentioned them.
Tonight, we talked about
- The Mugging
- Alison
“Why did you do what you did?” she asks about the encounter just off The Thames Path.
I stutter my way to a response as it’s a mystery to me too. Eventually after what seems like half an hour of just inarticulate sounds, I say that I did it as a challenge to the world. That this life can throw anything at me – just as it throws those dreams at me – and I can raise myself up and face them.
Her eyebrow raises, clearly she thinks having a knife pressed to my throat is a more dangerous scenario than some dreams I might or might not have.
She asks how it made me feel.
I tell her honestly that it scared me, but also made me feel so good. Standing up for one’s self will always make one feel good.
Louise points out that there are some moments when it’s better to lie down than to stand up.
Towards the end of the session we finally tackle Alison. I still haven’t heard from her. Something has gone awry somewhere. Louise doesn’t tell me that I’m being silly, that there has to be some rational explanation. But she does try and get me to a mindset where I accept that there might possibly be a rational explanation. She doesn’t want me to do anything rash.
How can I do anything rash though? I can’t even get hold of Alison.
I leave the session feeling better than when I went in though – I always do. Even though there are no answers, even though there are no real conclusions, talking through one’s darkest problems with a sympathetic ear (albeit an ear that’s paid to listen and be sympathetic) does make me a feel a hell of a lot better.
And now the long, dark week ahead before the next session.
Sunday, 8 January 2012
January the 8th, 2012
My birthday! My fucking birthday!
I should be happy, and yet something feels wrong.
I actually share my birthday with Elvis Presley, David Bowie, Dame Shirley Bassey and Stephen Hawking. So even though I have a new novel coming out – my second – I don’t feel like I truly fit in. Who am I after all? Just a bloke who wrote one horror novel which did the bottom end of okay, and is now putting out another one which he can only hope does better. (Will this blog help? It seems to have taken an odd detour from book promotion, doesn’t it?) I don’t yet deserve to be part of such an elite club and maybe I never will, but that’s not why I’m somewhat downbeat.
I’ve not heard from Alison so far today. There’s been no birthday card, no birthday text, no smiley Aussie face on Skype. I even texted her to see what time she would be free for a chat, but have had no response. What is going on? Things seemed to be going well. When I spoke to her in the week it was all flirty and happy, looking forward to her coming back to the UK. And now, well, she’s not even sent me a birthday message. Maybe something has happened, maybe she has been caught up somewhere. But where? What could have taken place? It is most bizarre and I’m somewhat worried.
My parents and my sister rang up with best wishes (I really must go and see them soon) and I’ve had cards and messages from friends. This year I’ve done little more to celebrate than just stay in my flat and receive phone-calls. For whatever reason – even though my birthday is on a weekend – I couldn’t be bothered with the big celebration. Right now I’d rather just be by myself.
No dreams last night, thank god, but that mugging keeps replaying in my mind. How stupid was I to behave like that over a wallet which had at most twenty quid in it. All in all I’m glad I’ve made it to 37, but what does the next year hold?
I should be happy, and yet something feels wrong.
I actually share my birthday with Elvis Presley, David Bowie, Dame Shirley Bassey and Stephen Hawking. So even though I have a new novel coming out – my second – I don’t feel like I truly fit in. Who am I after all? Just a bloke who wrote one horror novel which did the bottom end of okay, and is now putting out another one which he can only hope does better. (Will this blog help? It seems to have taken an odd detour from book promotion, doesn’t it?) I don’t yet deserve to be part of such an elite club and maybe I never will, but that’s not why I’m somewhat downbeat.
I’ve not heard from Alison so far today. There’s been no birthday card, no birthday text, no smiley Aussie face on Skype. I even texted her to see what time she would be free for a chat, but have had no response. What is going on? Things seemed to be going well. When I spoke to her in the week it was all flirty and happy, looking forward to her coming back to the UK. And now, well, she’s not even sent me a birthday message. Maybe something has happened, maybe she has been caught up somewhere. But where? What could have taken place? It is most bizarre and I’m somewhat worried.
My parents and my sister rang up with best wishes (I really must go and see them soon) and I’ve had cards and messages from friends. This year I’ve done little more to celebrate than just stay in my flat and receive phone-calls. For whatever reason – even though my birthday is on a weekend – I couldn’t be bothered with the big celebration. Right now I’d rather just be by myself.
No dreams last night, thank god, but that mugging keeps replaying in my mind. How stupid was I to behave like that over a wallet which had at most twenty quid in it. All in all I’m glad I’ve made it to 37, but what does the next year hold?
Saturday, 7 January 2012
January the 7th, 2012
You learn something about yourself at the point of a knife.
I was mugged last night. Well, kind of mugged as although he held a knife to my throat he never actually got anything. I’d had drinks with a few work mates from an old job and had just come off London Bridge on the way to meet another friend for the final pint of the night, when suddenly this bloke was in my face. It was so close to the South Bank and the Thames Path and safety and people as to be ridiculous, but suddenly there was this red-headed teenager pushing a knife into my throat. That’s all he was, this thin nothing of a boy, made man by the blade in his hand and the sneer on his face.
“Give me your fucking money!” he whispered in such a way as to be a yell.
I just stood there, discombobulated for a moment as it had all come so fast. It was as if he had burst out of the blackness, I hadn’t even seen him approach, and now he had a knife to my throat. A mix of dread and panic swept over me, but then – the strangest thing – a wave of calmness. It was as if this was the most natural thing in the world; like I had been expecting it to happen and now it was here I knew what it was and it wouldn’t bother me.
“No.” my voice was a whisper as well, but it carried an equal amount of force to his.
The knife touched in a few millimetres further to my throat. “I’ll cut you! I will so fucking cut you!”
I think I then closed my eyes, which must have surprised him – that my response to this life threatening scenario was to have a bit of a snooze.
“I don’t care,” I told him. “I don’t care if you slit my fucking throat or not. At this moment in time, I really don’t care if you cut my fucking head off. If it ends now, then it ends now – that’s just the way it’s going to be.”
When I opened my eyes, he was just staring at me – furious and uncomprehending. This wasn’t in the muggers’ script, he didn’t know how to respond to this. Clearly all he’d wanted to do was threaten, and now I was making that so hard for him by responding in a way that no threatened person actually should.
The two of us stared at each other, neither of us sure what would happen next. The fury didn’t abate in his expression nor did that knife retreat from my jugular, but neither did I bend. I showed him no fear, not a tremor of emotion. To him I was a man quite happy to die for my possessions, but he wasn’t yet a man ready to kill for him.
For a second I thought the two of us might stand like that until daylight – or at least until the first witness came past – but then suddenly he kicked me in the shin and dropped me to the ground.
“Fuck you, weirdo!” he cried. But he made no effort to rob my prone form of either my wallet or my mobile.
When I got to the pub I didn’t make any reference of it to my mate, just laughed and joked as if nothing untoward had happened. But at home I pulled the sheets over my head and cried. Despite my insane bravado, I don’t want to die yet.
I was mugged last night. Well, kind of mugged as although he held a knife to my throat he never actually got anything. I’d had drinks with a few work mates from an old job and had just come off London Bridge on the way to meet another friend for the final pint of the night, when suddenly this bloke was in my face. It was so close to the South Bank and the Thames Path and safety and people as to be ridiculous, but suddenly there was this red-headed teenager pushing a knife into my throat. That’s all he was, this thin nothing of a boy, made man by the blade in his hand and the sneer on his face.
“Give me your fucking money!” he whispered in such a way as to be a yell.
I just stood there, discombobulated for a moment as it had all come so fast. It was as if he had burst out of the blackness, I hadn’t even seen him approach, and now he had a knife to my throat. A mix of dread and panic swept over me, but then – the strangest thing – a wave of calmness. It was as if this was the most natural thing in the world; like I had been expecting it to happen and now it was here I knew what it was and it wouldn’t bother me.
“No.” my voice was a whisper as well, but it carried an equal amount of force to his.
The knife touched in a few millimetres further to my throat. “I’ll cut you! I will so fucking cut you!”
I think I then closed my eyes, which must have surprised him – that my response to this life threatening scenario was to have a bit of a snooze.
“I don’t care,” I told him. “I don’t care if you slit my fucking throat or not. At this moment in time, I really don’t care if you cut my fucking head off. If it ends now, then it ends now – that’s just the way it’s going to be.”
When I opened my eyes, he was just staring at me – furious and uncomprehending. This wasn’t in the muggers’ script, he didn’t know how to respond to this. Clearly all he’d wanted to do was threaten, and now I was making that so hard for him by responding in a way that no threatened person actually should.
The two of us stared at each other, neither of us sure what would happen next. The fury didn’t abate in his expression nor did that knife retreat from my jugular, but neither did I bend. I showed him no fear, not a tremor of emotion. To him I was a man quite happy to die for my possessions, but he wasn’t yet a man ready to kill for him.
For a second I thought the two of us might stand like that until daylight – or at least until the first witness came past – but then suddenly he kicked me in the shin and dropped me to the ground.
“Fuck you, weirdo!” he cried. But he made no effort to rob my prone form of either my wallet or my mobile.
When I got to the pub I didn’t make any reference of it to my mate, just laughed and joked as if nothing untoward had happened. But at home I pulled the sheets over my head and cried. Despite my insane bravado, I don’t want to die yet.
I don’t want all this to end yet.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
January the 5th, 2012
Since then I have rarely enjoyed a peaceful night when the world doesn’t end. Sometimes it isn’t the sky that breaks apart, but the ground. I find myself stood outside the Surrey Quays Centre (in these dreams I’m never indoors, I have no idea why) and suddenly the ground is pushed apart from below. My range of experience does not include actual earthquakes (most of my life has been spent living in Britain, they are far from a regular occurrence) but it doesn’t feel to me like an earthquake. I imagine that phenomenon is like the ground shaking, everything getting whiplash as two tectonic plates come together. This feeling is something else – like there’s something powerful below, reaching up and pushing apart the soil to destroy all that’s above it.
Imagine if you had ants on a shelf that was just too high for you to see. The way you’d deal with it is to stretch out an imprecise hand – a paw almost – and try to clear them away as efficiently as your sightless state would let you. That’s the sensation I feel in my dream. Something is coming out of the ground that knows we’re here but only has an imprecise idea of where we actually are. It is reaching up to get rid of us in the most dreadfully haphazard way. What is down there? What could possibly wield so much force?
Imagine if you had ants on a shelf that was just too high for you to see. The way you’d deal with it is to stretch out an imprecise hand – a paw almost – and try to clear them away as efficiently as your sightless state would let you. That’s the sensation I feel in my dream. Something is coming out of the ground that knows we’re here but only has an imprecise idea of where we actually are. It is reaching up to get rid of us in the most dreadfully haphazard way. What is down there? What could possibly wield so much force?
I see the same people again and again in these dreams. In the one at Surrey Quays I see the woman with the baby dressed in blue. One of my dreams takes place on Oxford Street, where I see a man hobbling on crutches with what seems to be a broken ankle. In the dream I have in the countryside (a so far unidentifiable place of greenery, not Dorset at any rate) I see a slightly overweight family of four in a Vauxhall Corsa. It’s always the same faces, always in the same location. Who are they? Do they suffer these dreams as well?
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
January the 4th, 2012
The first of these dreams was back in November.
In it I was stood on my street in South East London – not walking or jogging or anything else, just standing there on the road – when suddenly it was as if the sky ripped apart. The oxygen around me was pulled away and I could feel a sudden rush as I was lifted off my feet. Then, when I looked up, it was as if a jagged line had been wrought through the sky. In that dream the sky was blue (in the dreams I’ve had since, the weather is changeable – sometimes overcast, sometimes glorious – I have no idea why that is), and suddenly a black jagged scar had been torn across it. I say black, but it’s a darker colour than black (if that’s possible) and it seems to bleed fire. It’s like a fissure, an opening to somewhere else and through that opening is only flame and destruction.
All around me then is chaos – trees are falling, brickwork is crumbling and there are screams from every street in the vicinity. It all seems to get a lot faster as well, as if I know that these are the last seconds I will ever live and my senses heighten as if to appreciate every sensation which takes place in those very final moments.
I had that dream again last night (although this time the weather seemed autumnal) and once again the sky broke apart and trees and buildings collapsed around me.
This morning I went downstairs to go to work and found that the gales of last night had knocked over a tree on my road. The trunk is now blocking in the cars. But what makes it truly uncanny is that the tree has fallen in exactly the same position as it does in my dream.
As I said, I’ve seen a number of things in reality that were once solely in my dreams. The rational part of my brain says I should ignore them – but how can I?
In it I was stood on my street in South East London – not walking or jogging or anything else, just standing there on the road – when suddenly it was as if the sky ripped apart. The oxygen around me was pulled away and I could feel a sudden rush as I was lifted off my feet. Then, when I looked up, it was as if a jagged line had been wrought through the sky. In that dream the sky was blue (in the dreams I’ve had since, the weather is changeable – sometimes overcast, sometimes glorious – I have no idea why that is), and suddenly a black jagged scar had been torn across it. I say black, but it’s a darker colour than black (if that’s possible) and it seems to bleed fire. It’s like a fissure, an opening to somewhere else and through that opening is only flame and destruction.
All around me then is chaos – trees are falling, brickwork is crumbling and there are screams from every street in the vicinity. It all seems to get a lot faster as well, as if I know that these are the last seconds I will ever live and my senses heighten as if to appreciate every sensation which takes place in those very final moments.
I had that dream again last night (although this time the weather seemed autumnal) and once again the sky broke apart and trees and buildings collapsed around me.
This morning I went downstairs to go to work and found that the gales of last night had knocked over a tree on my road. The trunk is now blocking in the cars. But what makes it truly uncanny is that the tree has fallen in exactly the same position as it does in my dream.
As I said, I’ve seen a number of things in reality that were once solely in my dreams. The rational part of my brain says I should ignore them – but how can I?
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
January the 3rd, 2012 – addendum
A more human note (finally, you may say).
Alison called me tonight. I met her at the end of August last year and we’ve dated ever since. She’s a great girl, fun and bubbly, very blonde (in all senses of the word) but with a keen lawyer’s brain. I’m not sure if it’s the kind of thing a gentleman writes in a blog, but she’s great looking as well.
She went back home to Australia for Christmas, and she skyped me tonight. We had a long chat, funny and flirtatious, and arranged to speak at the weekend. If there’s a spot of annoyance, it’s that she’s no longer coming back to Blighty next week. Instead she has to stay out there a bit longer for work reasons. How long this ‘bit longer’ will last was annoyingly unclear to both of us, but at least we can talk to each other.
I just wish she’d hurry up so I can see her in person, as I do feel better when she’s around.
(It will also be good when I finally get to see Louise).
Alison called me tonight. I met her at the end of August last year and we’ve dated ever since. She’s a great girl, fun and bubbly, very blonde (in all senses of the word) but with a keen lawyer’s brain. I’m not sure if it’s the kind of thing a gentleman writes in a blog, but she’s great looking as well.
She went back home to Australia for Christmas, and she skyped me tonight. We had a long chat, funny and flirtatious, and arranged to speak at the weekend. If there’s a spot of annoyance, it’s that she’s no longer coming back to Blighty next week. Instead she has to stay out there a bit longer for work reasons. How long this ‘bit longer’ will last was annoyingly unclear to both of us, but at least we can talk to each other.
I just wish she’d hurry up so I can see her in person, as I do feel better when she’s around.
(It will also be good when I finally get to see Louise).
January the 3rd, 2012
I’ve actually set this blog up on the advice of my publisher, as a tool to promote my forthcoming novel. (The publishers now have the proof version, and I’m assured it’s only a few weeks away. But then this is publishing, and everything takes much longer than anyone can possibly imagine.) This is my second book, my first now out of print thanks to the swift bankruptcy of that particular publishing house. (Let’s hope we’re all luckier this time around.) Therefore these words are supposed to exist to tell people about this new novel, to let them know of any promotional activities I’m doing and so on. To be honest, the one thing I really didn’t want it do when I started thinking of it back in November was frighten.
But then I started to have these dreams. Night-terrors so frightening that they didn’t just exist within the safe confines of my skull, but seemed to reach into my soul and tear into it with sharpened talons. Then the dreams seemed to spill out into real life. Suddenly I’d see something that I’d dreamt of the night before. It wasn’t a perfect representation (trust me, if and when these things start coming true we will all know and fear it) but the image in front of me would be close enough to what I’d dreamt – a benign version as it were – to show me that I shouldn’t just dismiss the pictures now conjured in my head.
This forum probably isn’t the right one for what I’m discussing here. And yet I feel I have to get some of this shit inside my head out, and so announcing it into the void to cyberspace just seems like the best way to keep myself sane.
January the 2nd, 2012
I spent this New Year in a cottage in Dorset with some friends, which was all vastly drunken, gluttonous fun. Just what one would want for New Year then. We walked across the beautifully harsh landscape around Winfrith Newburgh, saw the full magnificence of the Thomas Hardy world. Even as I walked along laughing with friends, I couldn’t help but ponder whether any of it – so beautiful and untouched by man – would actually survive. Another day we went to the coast and I found an ammonite. It was a beautiful example, formed in a rock shaped like an old fashioned law firm stamp. I could use it as my insignia if I liked. That fossil was particularly interesting to hold in my hand and take away with me, as it’s something that’s already seen one cataclysm.
On New Year’s Day I called up my parents and my sister and other good friends and wished them all the best and told them that I loved them. It should have been blissful, it should have been the perfect weekend. And yet the feeling of dread won’t let me be. When I closed my eyes I could see flashes back to my last dream of 2011 – flames not only shooting down from the sky but out of the ground. I could see the faces of those people around me screaming, uncomprehending at this dreadful thing happening to them. In the dream there is a mother – a young and petite blonde lady, in a long grey coat – shielding the baby in blue to her breast while she yells out at the top of her lungs.
There were a couple of occasions I let my New Years companions walk on ahead over some awe-inspiring cliff-top, while I tried to control the mounting panic at my core.
As I write this it’s Monday but no Louise because of the bank holiday, that’s a shame as it would have been good to speak to her.
On New Year’s Day I called up my parents and my sister and other good friends and wished them all the best and told them that I loved them. It should have been blissful, it should have been the perfect weekend. And yet the feeling of dread won’t let me be. When I closed my eyes I could see flashes back to my last dream of 2011 – flames not only shooting down from the sky but out of the ground. I could see the faces of those people around me screaming, uncomprehending at this dreadful thing happening to them. In the dream there is a mother – a young and petite blonde lady, in a long grey coat – shielding the baby in blue to her breast while she yells out at the top of her lungs.
There were a couple of occasions I let my New Years companions walk on ahead over some awe-inspiring cliff-top, while I tried to control the mounting panic at my core.
As I write this it’s Monday but no Louise because of the bank holiday, that’s a shame as it would have been good to speak to her.
January the 1st, 2012
Even though I know what I know, I still can’t help but feel a little optimistic about this year. After all I have the new book coming out, my love life is looking up and around me I have incredibly supportive family and friends. By all rational measures this year is going to be good, one in which I can do myself proud. And yet the dreams I have, the dreams which come to me virtually every night now, give me a completely different notion – one that is suffused with nothing less than doom. Please understand, I’m not a man who normally believes in dreams and yet here they are – so vivid I just want to scream – each and every time I close my eyes. How can I not give them some credence? How can I really believe that at some point the fire I see every night is not actually going to fall from the sky and scorch all it touches?
Let me be clear, I don’t believe in any of that Mayan shit. The notion that 2012 is preordained as the apocalypse just because their calendar ends at what was for them some magnificently far-away science fiction date, is ridiculous. (What was it that man from NASA said? “My calendar runs out on December the 31st, but I don’t choose to see that as a sign of impending apocalypse, more a sign that I need to buy a new calendar”.) But there is something coming, either this year or swiftly in the next, let me assure you of that. Maybe it will be an onslaught on nuclear weapons, or maybe it’s something I can’t even imagine yet – but I see it every single night and feel now that few things have ever been so real.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)