And so the bad feeling returns. Hungary tomorrow and all day long I was feeling good, looking forward toward it, almost bouncing around with confidence and happiness. All that ended at 5.15 pm when I had a text saying: “Hey! Have a great time in Budapest!”
All very nice and pleasant you might think.
Except it was from Alison.
How can she know? What is going on? My stomach is twisted with dread again.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
February the 28th, 2012
The dreams seem to have gone. I even spent last night alone in my flat and didn’t have too much of a creepy feeling (the jitters hadn’t completely gone, but that might just be memory playing on reality). All in all I feel good, this year is going well. I do worry a bit how this blog will go if it’s about a happy man with a lovely life, but there you are.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Monday, 27th of February
I think Louise was surprised tonight at how upbeat I was (do people who are happy also go to therapists? It seems a bit like inviting a plumber around when there’s nothing wrong with the pipes, but maybe there are those who were unhappy but now they’ve gotten over it just go to continue having a chat. It’s a fix they can’t break). Having spent the weekend largely at Julie’s I had avoided my flat, while being with her seems to stop the dreams. Therefore there was a freshness to me, a joviality that Louise maybe hadn’t seen before.
In the event we spent a lot of time talking about my book, and how it was written the last time I was depressed and contains huge echoes of that. (Even if one produces a horror story about a Faustian pact, it can still be personal). Louise told me that a good thing some therapists recommend is writing down one’s problems, as you can of course see them more clearly in black and white. It didn’t feel like it at the time (I wrote it in the white heat of unhappy misery) but maybe the whole thing did me a lot of good. Maybe this blog is also doing me good, as despite all my moaning so far this year, I now feel happy, with a nice girlfriend and a holiday ahead. Okay, there are moments of paranoia and I’m sure there will be more dreams, but I can work on that.
Now if only I could lose the sense that if everything is so good, it’s bound to go wrong shortly.
In the event we spent a lot of time talking about my book, and how it was written the last time I was depressed and contains huge echoes of that. (Even if one produces a horror story about a Faustian pact, it can still be personal). Louise told me that a good thing some therapists recommend is writing down one’s problems, as you can of course see them more clearly in black and white. It didn’t feel like it at the time (I wrote it in the white heat of unhappy misery) but maybe the whole thing did me a lot of good. Maybe this blog is also doing me good, as despite all my moaning so far this year, I now feel happy, with a nice girlfriend and a holiday ahead. Okay, there are moments of paranoia and I’m sure there will be more dreams, but I can work on that.
Now if only I could lose the sense that if everything is so good, it’s bound to go wrong shortly.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Sunday, 26th of February
A nice, peaceful weekend spent with Julie. I feel – the word I’m going for is happy. Maybe things are turning around for me, perhaps this year is going to be good after all. If only I could sell more copies of my book....
Saturday, 25th of February
It felt like a particularly long week at work this week, it felt a particularly long week at home. I didn’t see Julie (she was too swamped herself) and somehow I failed to go out with any of my friends. I just went home to my flat at the end of the day and endured the odd sense that someone else had been there. That somehow I don’t live by myself anymore, that I now flat--share with somebody I don’t know and have never seen.
I remember reading once about when Sid James was having an affair with Barbara Windsor. That was not a particularly smart move as her husband at the time was Ronnie Knight, the South London gangster. But rather than beat James up, Knight merely broke into Sid’s flat and moved all the furniture around. There was nothing Sid could do about it (he could hardly go to the police about Ronnie Knight), it was just a way of showing how vulnerable Sid and his home actually were. The fact of arriving home and knowing that someone has clearly been there – invading your private space – is hugely disturbing.
Nothing like that has happened with me. In fact I couldn’t put my finger on anything being moved at all, but I just have a sensation that there is something there – someone there – and that they want me to know it.
Probably I should have gone out this week, got out of my head – but one always has to go home, right?
I remember reading once about when Sid James was having an affair with Barbara Windsor. That was not a particularly smart move as her husband at the time was Ronnie Knight, the South London gangster. But rather than beat James up, Knight merely broke into Sid’s flat and moved all the furniture around. There was nothing Sid could do about it (he could hardly go to the police about Ronnie Knight), it was just a way of showing how vulnerable Sid and his home actually were. The fact of arriving home and knowing that someone has clearly been there – invading your private space – is hugely disturbing.
Nothing like that has happened with me. In fact I couldn’t put my finger on anything being moved at all, but I just have a sensation that there is something there – someone there – and that they want me to know it.
Probably I should have gone out this week, got out of my head – but one always has to go home, right?
Thursday, 23 February 2012
Friday, 24th February
What about dream guides? Why don’t I set about a Freudian interpretation of my dreams?
I could do that, I could drive myself crazy doing that – but that reduces my dreams to the level of symbols and metaphors. All well and good, except the things I’m seeing appear to be too real to be reduced in that way. What if I am dreaming the future?
Obviously I know that none of my dreams are the same, that I see different things in each of them. But the one common thread is that I’m always dreaming of an end – some dreadful and bloody finale, the form of which is yet to be decided.
I don’t tell this to Louise, but I do believe that I am dreaming what’s ahead – and it is a terrifying place. And that’s why I don’t pick up a psychology textbook and start working out what they all mean, as the scope of these dreams goes way beyond my own head.
I could do that, I could drive myself crazy doing that – but that reduces my dreams to the level of symbols and metaphors. All well and good, except the things I’m seeing appear to be too real to be reduced in that way. What if I am dreaming the future?
Obviously I know that none of my dreams are the same, that I see different things in each of them. But the one common thread is that I’m always dreaming of an end – some dreadful and bloody finale, the form of which is yet to be decided.
I don’t tell this to Louise, but I do believe that I am dreaming what’s ahead – and it is a terrifying place. And that’s why I don’t pick up a psychology textbook and start working out what they all mean, as the scope of these dreams goes way beyond my own head.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Wednesday, 22nd of February
My colleagues were asking about my book today, which is odd as normally we don’t have that much in the way of chat. But they showed an interest and posed a few questions, and I roused myself from my normal stupor to tell them a little bit about it. I said that it’s basically about a man who is unhappy in his life, and has an incredible offer put to him by an old acquaintance – and from there follows paranoia, fear and terror. I kept a smile on my face as I described it, as basically a conversation like that might lead to a sale (visit my website, you can find out more information about it there (grins warmly)), but basically as I was speaking I was thinking how close that description was to my own life. I’m a dissatisfied man in my Thirties, I have paranoia and frequent fearful and terrifying dreams. The only thing I haven’t had yet is the wonderful offer, as far as I can see my life is just going to keep plodding along with no chance of a change. (For whatever reason, I seem truly incapable of altering my own life).
So far, so like my book.
Except I know how my book ends.
So far, so like my book.
Except I know how my book ends.
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
Tuesday, 21st February
A call out of the blue today from Roberto, wondering if I wanted to go to Budapest next week. Apparently he’s going on a trip with friends and somebody has dropped out - so he asked if I wanted to come along for a few days of drinking in Budapest. Why the fuck not? I need things to get me out of myself, and although I now have Julie, a few days away is surely just what I need.
I signed up immediately.
It seems a long time since I went on holiday, so am very much looking forward to this.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Monday, 20th February - addendum
And so I finally went and saw Louise, and she sat there as I calmly explained that what I want from life this year is to make a real go of things with Julie, work to make my book successful, and perhaps do something about the fact that I’m in a crap and boring job that I pretty much hate.
I did not mention my dreams, I didn’t mention Alison’s disappearance (and resurrection over the telephone), I certainly didn’t mention my growing suspicion that someone else comes into my flat and makes themselves at home when I’m not there. I knew she wouldn’t have wanted to listen to any of those fears, to any of those notions which so dominate my mind. So rather than try to get past her wall of scepticism, rather than try to earnestly speak as she almost literally rolls her eyes – I decided to avoid it all.
I am now paying a therapist so that I can lie to her.
I did not mention my dreams, I didn’t mention Alison’s disappearance (and resurrection over the telephone), I certainly didn’t mention my growing suspicion that someone else comes into my flat and makes themselves at home when I’m not there. I knew she wouldn’t have wanted to listen to any of those fears, to any of those notions which so dominate my mind. So rather than try to get past her wall of scepticism, rather than try to earnestly speak as she almost literally rolls her eyes – I decided to avoid it all.
I am now paying a therapist so that I can lie to her.
Monday, 20th February
My own bed, my old dreams.
Last night I was outside the Royal Exchange again. The sky was blue, the air was crisp and cold, but all was peaceful. Somehow, even within the dream, I could remember what takes place – and so knew what was coming next. I knew that a hoard of people would descend upon me, that I would be thrust to the ground, either because they are after me or because I am in the way. For whatever reason though, I don’t feel frightened. I don’t feel as if I'm in trouble. In fact I stand there and enjoy the peace, relishing that odd sensation in The City – total quiet. I know I should panic, that I should run – but instead I wait there. And even when I hear the distant rumble of feet, hear the mass of ugly humanity rushing towards me, I don’t turn and flee. Instead I open my arms, ready to greet it.
Last night I was outside the Royal Exchange again. The sky was blue, the air was crisp and cold, but all was peaceful. Somehow, even within the dream, I could remember what takes place – and so knew what was coming next. I knew that a hoard of people would descend upon me, that I would be thrust to the ground, either because they are after me or because I am in the way. For whatever reason though, I don’t feel frightened. I don’t feel as if I'm in trouble. In fact I stand there and enjoy the peace, relishing that odd sensation in The City – total quiet. I know I should panic, that I should run – but instead I wait there. And even when I hear the distant rumble of feet, hear the mass of ugly humanity rushing towards me, I don’t turn and flee. Instead I open my arms, ready to greet it.
Sunday, 19 February 2012
Sunday, 19th of February
Another night out with Julie, another great time of drinking and dancing and just basically getting high on each other's company. She suggested we go back to my place this time and I think was a bit surprised that I was so reluctant (what kind of impression does it give her about my place? Maybe she just assumes that I'm your typical bloke who never does a lot of cleaning). So we went back to her place again, and this time we made love – going at it in that nervous and energetic first time way.
In the morning I realised something. Twice now I've slept in her bed and neither time did I dream, let alone have nightmares. It was the kind of peaceful and blissful sleep that I'd almost forgotten existed.
Well we had breakfast together and then she went off to meet some friends for a late lunch and an afternoon playing music (she's a violinist, though I've never heard her wield a bow). I told her I was going home, but instead walked the streets for awhile (my toe is much better now, I must have only bruised it). To kill time I went to Oxford Street and looked around the shops and window browsed in the cold and bought myself a couple of Starbucks coffees. Finally though, I had to summon the courage to go back to my place.
When I opened the door it wasn't with the same sense of certainty that someone else had been there, but my flat still seemed very strange to me. I felt isolated and alone within it. And after such a good night, I suddenly had the sensation of being really cut off from the world.
In the morning I realised something. Twice now I've slept in her bed and neither time did I dream, let alone have nightmares. It was the kind of peaceful and blissful sleep that I'd almost forgotten existed.
Well we had breakfast together and then she went off to meet some friends for a late lunch and an afternoon playing music (she's a violinist, though I've never heard her wield a bow). I told her I was going home, but instead walked the streets for awhile (my toe is much better now, I must have only bruised it). To kill time I went to Oxford Street and looked around the shops and window browsed in the cold and bought myself a couple of Starbucks coffees. Finally though, I had to summon the courage to go back to my place.
When I opened the door it wasn't with the same sense of certainty that someone else had been there, but my flat still seemed very strange to me. I felt isolated and alone within it. And after such a good night, I suddenly had the sensation of being really cut off from the world.
Saturday, 18 February 2012
Saturday, 18th of February
There’s no point calling the police, as they’d just think I was an irrational madman wasting their time (and maybe they’d have a point). But I’ve been here a day now and I swear that there is something different. It’s impossible to put my finger on, to say precisely what it is – nothing has been trashed and nothing has been stolen, but it feels as if someone was here. Without a doubt it seems like everything I own has been moved an inch, that someone has been here and just subtly switched things around.
It’s all crazy and nonsensical (how could anyone have gotten in given the state of the lock?) but it does feel to me as if someone was here. When I was outside I was so looking forward to the sanctuary of my own flat, and now it doesn’t feel safe at all.
It’s all crazy and nonsensical (how could anyone have gotten in given the state of the lock?) but it does feel to me as if someone was here. When I was outside I was so looking forward to the sanctuary of my own flat, and now it doesn’t feel safe at all.
Friday, 17th of February
Apologies for the delay, but it’s been an odd week.
Let me just start by saying that Tuesday night was great. Julie and I went out and unlike last week there was no discord or disharmony, in fact I think each of us felt the kind of warm fuzziness that comes from knowing that given half a chance we could fall in love with the other person. We went out – not to anywhere fancy, an All Bar One – and had drinks and sat across the table, holding hands and staring intently at each other. It was wonderful. As predicted there was no chance of us getting food (apart from in the All Bar One, but who wants that?) so we went back to her place and had a fairly good Chinese takeaway. Then, because we’d had a bit to drink and started talking about Whitney Houston, we danced a bit to Eighties pop tunes in her bedroom. Of course I stayed the night, but we didn’t make love (I’m a thirty seven year old man who’d drunk a lot, there are some things now beyond me). The way things went we both kept our pants on and instead dreamily kissed each other. (It’s going to sound caddish but she’s a great girl with a cracking body!) Even when we awoke up, just before dawn, we just came together and kissed slowly and peacefully and tried to resist the inevitability that we were both going to have to get up soon, go to work and separate.
We walked to the train station holding hands and not saying anything, then lingered a little too long over the kissing goodbye as we parted. We’re a couple now and we can do what we want to.
For a day at work – especially for me – it just skipped by. Normally I’m bored and irritated, but such was the pleasure of the night’s experience that I even smiled at people as they passed my desk. In the evening I went out for drinks with a few old workmates – which was another good and fun time – but it’s when I got home, a little drunker than I should have been, that the troubles started. I put my key in the front door and it snapped, just came clean away. The remnant lodged itself in the lock and blocked me from my flat.
Well, all that beautiful feeling just evaporated. I swore for a bit and punched my fist against the door, but that was just ridiculous and impotent fury born from the fact I knew there was nothing I could do and – at that time of night – no one I could call. So feeling furious at the expense I checked into the nearest hotel I could think of. A bland and soulless place, whose staff did nothing to hide their irritation that I was disturbing the peace of their boring evening.
The next morning I went into work feeling decidedly more grumpy (and wearing exactly the same clothes three days in a row) and tried to get a locksmith. But none – incredibly – were available, the earliest I could get was Friday morning. Finally I gave into the inevitable and booked it for first thing and arranged to stay with a mate. (I didn’t want to stay with Julie as what we have between us is good but still at a fragile early stage. We’ve arranged to see each other Saturday and I’d rather do that than show up grumpy and grubby at her door).
Yesterday morning a sullen man spent three hours trying to wrestle with the lock, before finally popping it open and charging me a fortune. He fitted a new lock and departed with a cheque in his pocket, and I settled back to enjoy my flat. Except I got the strangest and most disturbing impression that since I was last at home, someone else had been there.
Let me just start by saying that Tuesday night was great. Julie and I went out and unlike last week there was no discord or disharmony, in fact I think each of us felt the kind of warm fuzziness that comes from knowing that given half a chance we could fall in love with the other person. We went out – not to anywhere fancy, an All Bar One – and had drinks and sat across the table, holding hands and staring intently at each other. It was wonderful. As predicted there was no chance of us getting food (apart from in the All Bar One, but who wants that?) so we went back to her place and had a fairly good Chinese takeaway. Then, because we’d had a bit to drink and started talking about Whitney Houston, we danced a bit to Eighties pop tunes in her bedroom. Of course I stayed the night, but we didn’t make love (I’m a thirty seven year old man who’d drunk a lot, there are some things now beyond me). The way things went we both kept our pants on and instead dreamily kissed each other. (It’s going to sound caddish but she’s a great girl with a cracking body!) Even when we awoke up, just before dawn, we just came together and kissed slowly and peacefully and tried to resist the inevitability that we were both going to have to get up soon, go to work and separate.
We walked to the train station holding hands and not saying anything, then lingered a little too long over the kissing goodbye as we parted. We’re a couple now and we can do what we want to.
For a day at work – especially for me – it just skipped by. Normally I’m bored and irritated, but such was the pleasure of the night’s experience that I even smiled at people as they passed my desk. In the evening I went out for drinks with a few old workmates – which was another good and fun time – but it’s when I got home, a little drunker than I should have been, that the troubles started. I put my key in the front door and it snapped, just came clean away. The remnant lodged itself in the lock and blocked me from my flat.
Well, all that beautiful feeling just evaporated. I swore for a bit and punched my fist against the door, but that was just ridiculous and impotent fury born from the fact I knew there was nothing I could do and – at that time of night – no one I could call. So feeling furious at the expense I checked into the nearest hotel I could think of. A bland and soulless place, whose staff did nothing to hide their irritation that I was disturbing the peace of their boring evening.
The next morning I went into work feeling decidedly more grumpy (and wearing exactly the same clothes three days in a row) and tried to get a locksmith. But none – incredibly – were available, the earliest I could get was Friday morning. Finally I gave into the inevitable and booked it for first thing and arranged to stay with a mate. (I didn’t want to stay with Julie as what we have between us is good but still at a fragile early stage. We’ve arranged to see each other Saturday and I’d rather do that than show up grumpy and grubby at her door).
Yesterday morning a sullen man spent three hours trying to wrestle with the lock, before finally popping it open and charging me a fortune. He fitted a new lock and departed with a cheque in his pocket, and I settled back to enjoy my flat. Except I got the strangest and most disturbing impression that since I was last at home, someone else had been there.
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
February the 14th - addendum
After typing all that, I feel I have to try and cheer up before I see Julie. This has to be a good night.
Tuesday, 14th of February
Before I go out for the night, I thought I’d share that today I received the first review of my book from someone I know. Rather predictably it came from my mother. Although it isn’t a genre she likes (supernatural thrillers is what I write, of course) she told me she enjoyed it. Although it concerned her somewhat that the main character seemed so close to me and yet seemed so miserable (pretty bloody depressed, actually) in the opening stages of the book. She was distressed in case that’s how I felt; in case I ever reached such lows of morale or depths of despondency. I told her that at the time I wrote it I did feel really down, but I’ve felt much better since then.
In no way did I let onto her that once again I seem to have descended down the hill. But before, when I was depressed, I was simply low – I was never, ever frightened. There were no dreams to torment me. Back then I just felt as if life was giving me a kicking, now it seems as if the whole universe has taken it upon itself to destroy me. But I didn’t tell my mother this (how could I?) – I just reassured her that I was low when I wrote that book, but feel much better now.
The other thing she found really distressing, she told me, was the ending. And I can see her point there. But who knows what can lead to a distressing ending? I am typing these words now and have literally no idea how good or bad the ending will be. That’s life though, who knows what tricks fate has in store for us? Who can tell when those tricks will be played?
In no way did I let onto her that once again I seem to have descended down the hill. But before, when I was depressed, I was simply low – I was never, ever frightened. There were no dreams to torment me. Back then I just felt as if life was giving me a kicking, now it seems as if the whole universe has taken it upon itself to destroy me. But I didn’t tell my mother this (how could I?) – I just reassured her that I was low when I wrote that book, but feel much better now.
The other thing she found really distressing, she told me, was the ending. And I can see her point there. But who knows what can lead to a distressing ending? I am typing these words now and have literally no idea how good or bad the ending will be. That’s life though, who knows what tricks fate has in store for us? Who can tell when those tricks will be played?
Monday, 13 February 2012
Monday, 13th of February
Things I would like to achieve this year.
She would not countenance my dreams being any part of the discussion.
But – regardless of what happens with Alison, or with the book, (or even the fucking job) – I cannot conceive of me ever being happy again as long as these dreams continue.
- Make things work with Alison.
- Try and make the newly published novel successful.
- Find out what my dreams really mean and what I can do to stop them.
She would not countenance my dreams being any part of the discussion.
But – regardless of what happens with Alison, or with the book, (or even the fucking job) – I cannot conceive of me ever being happy again as long as these dreams continue.
Sunday, 12th of February
Well the coffee went as well as I could possibly have hoped. We met in a Starbucks on the South Bank and Julie was still quite teary – she told me that she’d wanted for so much from me and felt that I’d let her down. I reiterated what I’d told her about me not being the one who told Alison, and in fact I was equally as baffled as she was as to how Alison could know. As for the calling by the wrong name, there are only so many ways I could apologise for that but I think I tried them all.
Gradually she softened and we twisted our fingers together below the table. I kissed her on the cheek and told her how much I liked her and how I really wanted to keep our thing going. And after a little cajoling, I persuaded her that we should try again with our nice evening out. It’s Valentine’s Night this week and that, I said, was perfect for it. I don’t know how eager she was at first, but I convinced her, flattered her until she agreed.
Tuesday it is! Though God knows what kind of restaurant I’m going to get a reservation in at this short a notice. She said she doesn’t mind just drinks, but I’d like to do this properly if we can.
As we kissed goodbye, gentler and more caring than before, I reiterated how much I liked her and how much I wanted to see her. She said that she liked me too and we agreed to put all this behind us for Tuesday.
It was such a sweet moment.
There were no phone calls on my way home this time. But I had that dream again of watching Elvina in the park. In it, I realise now, I am definitely with Alison. If I am really dreaming the future, does that mean she’s coming back?
Gradually she softened and we twisted our fingers together below the table. I kissed her on the cheek and told her how much I liked her and how I really wanted to keep our thing going. And after a little cajoling, I persuaded her that we should try again with our nice evening out. It’s Valentine’s Night this week and that, I said, was perfect for it. I don’t know how eager she was at first, but I convinced her, flattered her until she agreed.
Tuesday it is! Though God knows what kind of restaurant I’m going to get a reservation in at this short a notice. She said she doesn’t mind just drinks, but I’d like to do this properly if we can.
As we kissed goodbye, gentler and more caring than before, I reiterated how much I liked her and how much I wanted to see her. She said that she liked me too and we agreed to put all this behind us for Tuesday.
It was such a sweet moment.
There were no phone calls on my way home this time. But I had that dream again of watching Elvina in the park. In it, I realise now, I am definitely with Alison. If I am really dreaming the future, does that mean she’s coming back?
Sunday, 12 February 2012
Saturday, 11th of February
I left Julie two voicemails – the second longer and more impassioned, but both emphasising the same points:
- I did not tell Alison about us;
- I’ve had no contact with her besides that bizarre phone-call where she already seemed to know about the two of us;
- the reason I didn’t tell Julie about that phone-call was that it all just seemed so inexplicable and weird. It seemed better to concentrate on us rather than Alison and whatever she was doing. That just seemed the most sensible thing to do.
The only part I couldn’t adequately explain, of course, was calling her by the wrong name. All I could say was that until recently I was going out with Alison and now we were having an argument with Alison as its cause. From that point of view it was an understandable mistake for a stupid person to make. But there was no way I could justify it and all I could do was apologise humbly and profusely.
About two hours after the second voicemail she finally called me back. She was in tears but she listened and we had a conversation. I don’t think she wanted to see me again for a little while, but I managed to persuade her and we’re going for coffee in a couple of hour’s time.
I have all my apologies lined up again.
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Friday, 20th February
On my way to work today, as I hobbled through London Bridge, I saw the woman who is in my Surrey Quays dreams. It was her with the auburn hair, the green eyes and that beautiful, beautiful face. She passed me close by but I don’t think she even noticed me. I noticed her though, I noticed her so much my jaw dropped open. Anyone who saw us would have thought I’d been instantly struck by cupid.
It was only a moment, though I saw a key difference to how I visualise her in my dreams. There she has a baby with her. Today there was no baby, but she was clearly pregnant.
Am I foreseeing the future?
It was only a moment, though I saw a key difference to how I visualise her in my dreams. There she has a baby with her. Today there was no baby, but she was clearly pregnant.
Am I foreseeing the future?
Thursday, 9th of February
So last night I met up with Julie. My intention was just to have a fun time, relax in each other’s company, have a laugh. I wanted to really get to know this girl. On Saturday she’d told me her doubts but I wanted to convince her that I don’t see her as a rebound; she is much more than just a shag. I wanted to make it clear that she is someone I really like, a fun person to be around – gorgeous in her glasses (I’ve always had a fondness for girls in thick-rimmed specs). She’s different to Alison, more open than her, more approachable. In short she’s someone I really want to be with.
And so yesterday evening I was not going to think about Alison or any stupid lists Louise had asked me to do. I was just going to concentrate on having a good time.
Unfortunately it didn’t quite work out like that.
For a start Julie was twenty minutes late. Previously she’d always shown up on time (and more than that, had boasted of her punctuality). Last night she was tardy and I found myself sat in the bar just off Cannon Street checking my phone compulsively, wondering if I was going to get a message explaining just what the hell was going on. None came, but it was just as I was getting worried that Julie arrived.
This Julie though was different to the girl I’d met previously. When she finally got there it looked as if she had been crying. Her normal smiley and happy face was disturbingly absent, and instead there was a woman who seemed hunched and somewhat fed up with her life. Immediately I asked her what was wrong but she didn’t engage, just shrugging off my queries with a curt: “Nothing”.
I went to the bar and got her a wine, in the hope of loosening her up.
Unfortunately it did.
She downed half of it in one go, and then glared at me meanly. This is the downside of her type of spectacles – they’re cute, but the eyes are magnified by the lenses so any kind of stink-eye takes much greater force.
“I thought you said you hadn’t seen Alison?”
That was an accusation not a question.
“I haven’t,” I told her.
“Then how does she know about us?”
In an instant I could see what happened. I hadn’t mentioned my strange phone-call because I thought it would be easier not to, but clearly she’d had contact as well.
Perhaps she saw the realisation on my face, as she charged on.
“I had an email from her, she wished us all the best,” the words were spat with venom.
There was a moment’s hesitation and then I talked as fast as I could. “She did call me, but she said the same thing to me as she did to you. I’ve no idea how she knows though - honestly.”
“Oh come on. how else could she know unless you told her? It’s not like we have anyone else in common.”
With a look of disdain she got up from the table. “I hate fucking liars, I just want to know that.”
“Wait, Alison!” I called.
And then sat back with the sickening realisation of what I’d said.
Julie turned to me with one look of disdain and charged from the pub.
I knew it was pointless to follow her.
On the way home I kicked a brick wall. I think I’ve broken the little toe on my left foot. It’s not the worst thing that happened to me last night.
And so yesterday evening I was not going to think about Alison or any stupid lists Louise had asked me to do. I was just going to concentrate on having a good time.
Unfortunately it didn’t quite work out like that.
For a start Julie was twenty minutes late. Previously she’d always shown up on time (and more than that, had boasted of her punctuality). Last night she was tardy and I found myself sat in the bar just off Cannon Street checking my phone compulsively, wondering if I was going to get a message explaining just what the hell was going on. None came, but it was just as I was getting worried that Julie arrived.
This Julie though was different to the girl I’d met previously. When she finally got there it looked as if she had been crying. Her normal smiley and happy face was disturbingly absent, and instead there was a woman who seemed hunched and somewhat fed up with her life. Immediately I asked her what was wrong but she didn’t engage, just shrugging off my queries with a curt: “Nothing”.
I went to the bar and got her a wine, in the hope of loosening her up.
Unfortunately it did.
She downed half of it in one go, and then glared at me meanly. This is the downside of her type of spectacles – they’re cute, but the eyes are magnified by the lenses so any kind of stink-eye takes much greater force.
“I thought you said you hadn’t seen Alison?”
That was an accusation not a question.
“I haven’t,” I told her.
“Then how does she know about us?”
In an instant I could see what happened. I hadn’t mentioned my strange phone-call because I thought it would be easier not to, but clearly she’d had contact as well.
Perhaps she saw the realisation on my face, as she charged on.
“I had an email from her, she wished us all the best,” the words were spat with venom.
There was a moment’s hesitation and then I talked as fast as I could. “She did call me, but she said the same thing to me as she did to you. I’ve no idea how she knows though - honestly.”
“Oh come on. how else could she know unless you told her? It’s not like we have anyone else in common.”
With a look of disdain she got up from the table. “I hate fucking liars, I just want to know that.”
“Wait, Alison!” I called.
And then sat back with the sickening realisation of what I’d said.
Julie turned to me with one look of disdain and charged from the pub.
I knew it was pointless to follow her.
On the way home I kicked a brick wall. I think I’ve broken the little toe on my left foot. It’s not the worst thing that happened to me last night.
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
7th February, 2012
Another dream last night.
This one must be new though.
I’m stood in a London park I don’t think it’s one of the royal parks, if I had to guess I would say it was Burgess Park. (Not that I’ve ever been there more than once in my life). I’m stood in a crowd. Well I say a crowd but that implies that we’re all jammed in tight together, it’s more a loose gathering of people – just staring towards a distant stage. The stage seems miles away, and yet even over thousands of heads I can see it clearly.
With me is a girl. Shamefully I’m unable to remember (or maybe I couldn’t tell at the time) whether it’s Alison or Julie. Or maybe it’s neither of them. Maybe it’s just a girl, perhaps it doesn’t matter.
The two of us are staring at the stage and on it appears Elvina. She looks fabulous, magnificent – much better than I’ve ever seen her in Clerkenwell. She seems to have even bigger breasts, a tinier waist, longer legs – in short, the sheer embodiment of sex.
And yet, unlike Clerkenwell, she isn’t greeted with whoops and hollers. Despite all the thousands (tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands) of people there, at least half of them of men, she appears on stage to utter silence.
Seemingly undaunted though, she leans slightly back once and then – rather than sing – hollers into the distance. It’s a horrible sound, a deathly sound, one you would think no human larynx is capable of.
Now the audience responds, now everyone turns their heads to see what she’s looking at.
In the distance, over The City, arises a bright red mushroom cloud.
It’s the last thing any of us ever see.
This one must be new though.
I’m stood in a London park I don’t think it’s one of the royal parks, if I had to guess I would say it was Burgess Park. (Not that I’ve ever been there more than once in my life). I’m stood in a crowd. Well I say a crowd but that implies that we’re all jammed in tight together, it’s more a loose gathering of people – just staring towards a distant stage. The stage seems miles away, and yet even over thousands of heads I can see it clearly.
With me is a girl. Shamefully I’m unable to remember (or maybe I couldn’t tell at the time) whether it’s Alison or Julie. Or maybe it’s neither of them. Maybe it’s just a girl, perhaps it doesn’t matter.
The two of us are staring at the stage and on it appears Elvina. She looks fabulous, magnificent – much better than I’ve ever seen her in Clerkenwell. She seems to have even bigger breasts, a tinier waist, longer legs – in short, the sheer embodiment of sex.
And yet, unlike Clerkenwell, she isn’t greeted with whoops and hollers. Despite all the thousands (tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands) of people there, at least half of them of men, she appears on stage to utter silence.
Seemingly undaunted though, she leans slightly back once and then – rather than sing – hollers into the distance. It’s a horrible sound, a deathly sound, one you would think no human larynx is capable of.
Now the audience responds, now everyone turns their heads to see what she’s looking at.
In the distance, over The City, arises a bright red mushroom cloud.
It’s the last thing any of us ever see.
February the 6th, 2012
So what am I scared of?
Well what I see in my dreams terrifies me and lingers in my mind throughout the days. Now the fact that Alison is out there somewhere, doing god knows what, is something else I find completely disturbing. And I suppose the fact that my life is really not going anywhere, must also be a point of fear.
Only the last one though, will my therapist take seriously.
I told her about the Alison phone call and even though she didn’t say anything, I could tell from the slight raising of her eyebrow (she has a very expressive face, and I sometimes wonder how conscious she is of it) that she didn’t completely believe me. Swiftly she ascertained that it was late at night, that I’d been drinking and from there I think she just assumed it was an hallucination. I told her that I could remember it clearly, but I failed to convince. In that soft, almost patronising voice she has, she told me that I had to try and look at things calmly and rationally.
To that end she asked me what I wanted from my life – the things I wanted to achieve, what goals I had. I’d gone in there to talk about Alison, about Julie even, but ended up having a long conversation about things that I normally keep at the back of my mind. This meant there was much mumbling and stumbling as I tried to work out what my goals might be, and more raising of eyebrows from her.
My homework (fucking homework again!) this week is to work out targets for my life that I can easily achieve this year.
I’m starting to wonder why I go to see her.
Well what I see in my dreams terrifies me and lingers in my mind throughout the days. Now the fact that Alison is out there somewhere, doing god knows what, is something else I find completely disturbing. And I suppose the fact that my life is really not going anywhere, must also be a point of fear.
Only the last one though, will my therapist take seriously.
I told her about the Alison phone call and even though she didn’t say anything, I could tell from the slight raising of her eyebrow (she has a very expressive face, and I sometimes wonder how conscious she is of it) that she didn’t completely believe me. Swiftly she ascertained that it was late at night, that I’d been drinking and from there I think she just assumed it was an hallucination. I told her that I could remember it clearly, but I failed to convince. In that soft, almost patronising voice she has, she told me that I had to try and look at things calmly and rationally.
To that end she asked me what I wanted from my life – the things I wanted to achieve, what goals I had. I’d gone in there to talk about Alison, about Julie even, but ended up having a long conversation about things that I normally keep at the back of my mind. This meant there was much mumbling and stumbling as I tried to work out what my goals might be, and more raising of eyebrows from her.
My homework (fucking homework again!) this week is to work out targets for my life that I can easily achieve this year.
I’m starting to wonder why I go to see her.
Sunday, 5 February 2012
Sunday 5th of February, 2012 - addendum
I've checked my phone a dozen times today, and that phonecall did come in.
But did I imagine I spoke to Alison? Did I dream it?
And if I didn't, how could she know about me and Julie?
Is she watching us somehow?
What is going on?
My head hurts today from more than just last night's booze.
But did I imagine I spoke to Alison? Did I dream it?
And if I didn't, how could she know about me and Julie?
Is she watching us somehow?
What is going on?
My head hurts today from more than just last night's booze.
Sunday 5th of February, 2012
After a week of pondering and being inside my head, it was good to have an evening out with Julie last night. Social wise my week has been nothing at all, I’ve just gone to the office of a morning and come straight home at night – hence I had too much time to sit around and brood. As such it was great to have a fun chat with someone, to have a few drinks and some flirting. It was great to know that the world isn’t just about me.
I was so eager, I even got there and early and had a pint before she arrived. And even there by myself, I did feel better. Not talking to anyone, but hearing the conversations go on around me – a mix of idle gossip and sports chat, what had just happened in the rugby and how good Arsenal were at lunch time.
There was part of me tempted to take Julie to see Elvina in Clerkenwell,, but I thought that wouldn’t be the most suitable of locations for what presumably was a date – so instead we went to The Rising Sun on Tottenham Court Road. Clearly we timed it right, as the rugby fans were already drifting out by the time we arrived.
When Julie got there, she looked great. She was wearing a short pleated skirt and a white blouse. With her glasses as well, the overall effect was naughty head-girl. She had a wine and I had a beer and we just fell straight into talking, huddled over the table and staring at each other so close.
The two of us chatted about where we from (me Wales, her Tonbridge); where we went to University (me Liverpool, her Cambridge); past relationships (she knew about my last one, I of course didn’t know about hers); siblings (one sister each); parents (all alive, still together and retired); and work (neither of us overly enamoured with what we do).
After a while we decided to go for a curry on Charlotte Street and left the pub holding hands, walking so tight together like the happiest of young couples. We sat opposite each other and she slipped her hand onto my knee even before the poppadoms arrived. I inched my hand up and stroked her thighs under her skirt. We huddled over that table, almost as if there was candlelight and we were the only two people in a beautiful French restaurant.
If I’m honest I thought I was in. After last week’s sudden kissing, I thought this week was going to be an escalation to the next level. The outfit, the way we didn’t stop touching, the look on her face. I’ve been to that restaurant before and so know how good it is, but I couldn’t tell you anything about the meal last night. All I concentrated on was her, she intoxicated me.
The instant we left her lips swooped onto mine, and we were in each other’s arms again. I was so hot for her, so desperate to have her and she must have understood that as she quickly – and sweetly – drew a line in the sand.
“Let’s do something this week,” she said. “Let’s do something nice.”
“Of course,” I said, and with that removed all thoughts of getting a taxi back to her place from my mind. That wasn’t going to happen tonight, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to happen.
“I really like you,” she told me. “I really, really like you – but I’m just scared that you’re on the rebound.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I promise you I wasn’t out hunting for anyone. This – between us – is just something that happened.”
She kissed me again. “Oh, I do like you. You’re really nice and considerate and funny and I really do want a boyfriend for Valentine’s day, and at the moment I want it to be you – but I just want you to be ready for that. I don’t want to be hurt,” her head nestled on my shoulder. “Are you ready for a relationship?”
“I am, Julie. Trust me, I am.”
We agreed to meet on Wednesday and then lingered over a kiss goodbye at the tube station. I skipped back to my flat last night so happy. Okay, so we hadn’t ended up in bed, but I had something going on with a fun and sexy girl who was not someone who had vanished or who I only watched through a spotlight. Earlier in the week I thought I was going to die alone, now that eventuality seemed so far away.
As I let myself in the mobile rang. I looked at the screen and it was a withheld number. For whatever reason I thought it must be Julie, calling from home perhaps.
I clicked the button with a big “Hello.”
There was a pause and then Alison’s voice said: “Hello.”
She sounded as distant as when I’d spoken to her on Katie’s phone.
“Alison? Where are you?”
That was a question she was always going to ignore. “I just want to say that it’s great you’re getting to know Julie. You were two people I really liked and I want you to know that I’m glad it’s happening.”
My mouth opened and shut before getting any words out. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“I’m fine,” she said, a non sequitur if ever there was one. “I’m totally fine, don’t worry about me.”
And with that she was gone.
I sat there in the hallway carpet, my phone in my hand, all good feeling now replaced with bafflement.
I was so eager, I even got there and early and had a pint before she arrived. And even there by myself, I did feel better. Not talking to anyone, but hearing the conversations go on around me – a mix of idle gossip and sports chat, what had just happened in the rugby and how good Arsenal were at lunch time.
There was part of me tempted to take Julie to see Elvina in Clerkenwell,, but I thought that wouldn’t be the most suitable of locations for what presumably was a date – so instead we went to The Rising Sun on Tottenham Court Road. Clearly we timed it right, as the rugby fans were already drifting out by the time we arrived.
When Julie got there, she looked great. She was wearing a short pleated skirt and a white blouse. With her glasses as well, the overall effect was naughty head-girl. She had a wine and I had a beer and we just fell straight into talking, huddled over the table and staring at each other so close.
The two of us chatted about where we from (me Wales, her Tonbridge); where we went to University (me Liverpool, her Cambridge); past relationships (she knew about my last one, I of course didn’t know about hers); siblings (one sister each); parents (all alive, still together and retired); and work (neither of us overly enamoured with what we do).
After a while we decided to go for a curry on Charlotte Street and left the pub holding hands, walking so tight together like the happiest of young couples. We sat opposite each other and she slipped her hand onto my knee even before the poppadoms arrived. I inched my hand up and stroked her thighs under her skirt. We huddled over that table, almost as if there was candlelight and we were the only two people in a beautiful French restaurant.
If I’m honest I thought I was in. After last week’s sudden kissing, I thought this week was going to be an escalation to the next level. The outfit, the way we didn’t stop touching, the look on her face. I’ve been to that restaurant before and so know how good it is, but I couldn’t tell you anything about the meal last night. All I concentrated on was her, she intoxicated me.
The instant we left her lips swooped onto mine, and we were in each other’s arms again. I was so hot for her, so desperate to have her and she must have understood that as she quickly – and sweetly – drew a line in the sand.
“Let’s do something this week,” she said. “Let’s do something nice.”
“Of course,” I said, and with that removed all thoughts of getting a taxi back to her place from my mind. That wasn’t going to happen tonight, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to happen.
“I really like you,” she told me. “I really, really like you – but I’m just scared that you’re on the rebound.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I promise you I wasn’t out hunting for anyone. This – between us – is just something that happened.”
She kissed me again. “Oh, I do like you. You’re really nice and considerate and funny and I really do want a boyfriend for Valentine’s day, and at the moment I want it to be you – but I just want you to be ready for that. I don’t want to be hurt,” her head nestled on my shoulder. “Are you ready for a relationship?”
“I am, Julie. Trust me, I am.”
We agreed to meet on Wednesday and then lingered over a kiss goodbye at the tube station. I skipped back to my flat last night so happy. Okay, so we hadn’t ended up in bed, but I had something going on with a fun and sexy girl who was not someone who had vanished or who I only watched through a spotlight. Earlier in the week I thought I was going to die alone, now that eventuality seemed so far away.
As I let myself in the mobile rang. I looked at the screen and it was a withheld number. For whatever reason I thought it must be Julie, calling from home perhaps.
I clicked the button with a big “Hello.”
There was a pause and then Alison’s voice said: “Hello.”
She sounded as distant as when I’d spoken to her on Katie’s phone.
“Alison? Where are you?”
That was a question she was always going to ignore. “I just want to say that it’s great you’re getting to know Julie. You were two people I really liked and I want you to know that I’m glad it’s happening.”
My mouth opened and shut before getting any words out. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“I’m fine,” she said, a non sequitur if ever there was one. “I’m totally fine, don’t worry about me.”
And with that she was gone.
I sat there in the hallway carpet, my phone in my hand, all good feeling now replaced with bafflement.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
February the 3rd, 2012
A new dream last night, or maybe one I’ve not had in awhile and so I didn’t remember it with any clarity.
I’m stood in my suit at The Royal Exchange in The City. It’s a beautiful day, with crisp blue skies – but it’s very cold (much like today). All I have on is my suit, no overcoat, and I’m freezing. There is something wrong, as around The Royal Exchange is freakishly quiet – there is not a single human being, there are no cars. Eerily there aren’t even the sounds of people or traffic from Leadenhall either. I am absolutely the only person there, shivering in my suit.
But then I do hear something. Off in the distance there’s a sound, it’s a fast noise, like a large wave crashing towards me. I stand there looking towards Moorgate and The London Wall, where I think the noise is coming from. It gets louder, nearer, and for a moment it sounds like there are hooves, a pack of wild horses charging towards me.
I feel like I should turn and run, but I don’t. Instead I hold my ground and stare at it. Then suddenly down Princess Street comes this swarm of people. There must be thousands of them. They are running in my direction, but I’m not sure they’re running at me, it might be that they’re fleeing something and I just find myself stood in the way.
Panic courses through me, but I still don’t move. There are thousands of them – people of all sizes, races, ages – and they are charging straight at me. I try to look at the expressions on their faces, to see whether they are fearful or angry. To find out whether this is the rage in society made real and turned into an unstoppable force. But their expressions are impossible to read – a combination of fear and fury, that seems to be both while being neither.
I know I should move, run away – but I don’t. Instead when the fastest ones – a big guy, and this wild eyed, middle aged lady – are only a foot or so away from me, I drop to a ball on the cold pavement. And suddenly on top of me are all these people and I can’t breathe.
What does this mean I’m scared of?
I’m stood in my suit at The Royal Exchange in The City. It’s a beautiful day, with crisp blue skies – but it’s very cold (much like today). All I have on is my suit, no overcoat, and I’m freezing. There is something wrong, as around The Royal Exchange is freakishly quiet – there is not a single human being, there are no cars. Eerily there aren’t even the sounds of people or traffic from Leadenhall either. I am absolutely the only person there, shivering in my suit.
But then I do hear something. Off in the distance there’s a sound, it’s a fast noise, like a large wave crashing towards me. I stand there looking towards Moorgate and The London Wall, where I think the noise is coming from. It gets louder, nearer, and for a moment it sounds like there are hooves, a pack of wild horses charging towards me.
I feel like I should turn and run, but I don’t. Instead I hold my ground and stare at it. Then suddenly down Princess Street comes this swarm of people. There must be thousands of them. They are running in my direction, but I’m not sure they’re running at me, it might be that they’re fleeing something and I just find myself stood in the way.
Panic courses through me, but I still don’t move. There are thousands of them – people of all sizes, races, ages – and they are charging straight at me. I try to look at the expressions on their faces, to see whether they are fearful or angry. To find out whether this is the rage in society made real and turned into an unstoppable force. But their expressions are impossible to read – a combination of fear and fury, that seems to be both while being neither.
I know I should move, run away – but I don’t. Instead when the fastest ones – a big guy, and this wild eyed, middle aged lady – are only a foot or so away from me, I drop to a ball on the cold pavement. And suddenly on top of me are all these people and I can’t breathe.
What does this mean I’m scared of?
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Februay the 1st, 2012
Or is it that everyone is now so angry? Everyone is now so fearful?
Look at what’s happening with the bankers. Not that I’m going to sit here and defend Fred Goodwin, but the public mood isn’t one of disapproval, it appears to be more akin to rage. The same thing happened in the football over the weekend. Yes racism is an incredibly serious issue that shouldn’t really be dealt with through the prism of club rivalry, but for it to be so viscerally vitriolic was just incredible. There just seems to be so much anger, so much sheer fury, everywhere right now.
Why is that? A sense of helplessness at the way the world has gone, or is a fear as to what is coming? Is there a sixth sense that everybody is feeling – and because most people can’t understand it – anger is the only emotion that can be expressed?
Is it possible that I’m not the only one who suffers a form of these dreams? Are thousand – if not millions – of people enduring them, or something like them? Are we all so angry and scared because we appreciate at a certain level that is something wrong, and it’s coming fast towards us?
Look at what’s happening with the bankers. Not that I’m going to sit here and defend Fred Goodwin, but the public mood isn’t one of disapproval, it appears to be more akin to rage. The same thing happened in the football over the weekend. Yes racism is an incredibly serious issue that shouldn’t really be dealt with through the prism of club rivalry, but for it to be so viscerally vitriolic was just incredible. There just seems to be so much anger, so much sheer fury, everywhere right now.
Why is that? A sense of helplessness at the way the world has gone, or is a fear as to what is coming? Is there a sixth sense that everybody is feeling – and because most people can’t understand it – anger is the only emotion that can be expressed?
Is it possible that I’m not the only one who suffers a form of these dreams? Are thousand – if not millions – of people enduring them, or something like them? Are we all so angry and scared because we appreciate at a certain level that is something wrong, and it’s coming fast towards us?
Tuesday, 31st of January
So what, if anything, am I scared of?
Well I guess I’m a now a thirty-seven year old single man, with no real ties anywhere and so there must be a certain fear of dying alone. I do look at those people of my generation with the happy home and the happy spouse and the happy kids, and wonder what’s the matter with me that I haven’t taken that route? And does the fact I’ve missed so many signs to head down that road mean I don’t really want it? After all there's never been a point in my life where I felt the desperate need to have a church wedding and some little ‘uns. It’s always been something for the future, something I could consider for far away and not worry about now. But is there a fear, as I get older, that that far away may never come.
What else could it be? Well I guess the fact that I’ve spent so much of my life’s time writing (to the detriment of my career and, let’s be honest, my personal life) probably gives me the fear that none of it was worthwhile. That I am destined to be your failed novelist, buried in a pauper’s grave and not really remembered even by the people who met me.
But would these personal fears really be enough for my imagination to end the world for me each and every night? Surely I would dream about those problems in my life; not something larger, more spectacular and involving so many other people.
Well I guess I’m a now a thirty-seven year old single man, with no real ties anywhere and so there must be a certain fear of dying alone. I do look at those people of my generation with the happy home and the happy spouse and the happy kids, and wonder what’s the matter with me that I haven’t taken that route? And does the fact I’ve missed so many signs to head down that road mean I don’t really want it? After all there's never been a point in my life where I felt the desperate need to have a church wedding and some little ‘uns. It’s always been something for the future, something I could consider for far away and not worry about now. But is there a fear, as I get older, that that far away may never come.
What else could it be? Well I guess the fact that I’ve spent so much of my life’s time writing (to the detriment of my career and, let’s be honest, my personal life) probably gives me the fear that none of it was worthwhile. That I am destined to be your failed novelist, buried in a pauper’s grave and not really remembered even by the people who met me.
But would these personal fears really be enough for my imagination to end the world for me each and every night? Surely I would dream about those problems in my life; not something larger, more spectacular and involving so many other people.
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