SEPTEMBER 23RD, 2004 | ARCHIVE

Wednesday

“I am subject to various states. In one state I can speak and in another I do not speak. In another I can listen to the stories of other lives and respond to them. In yet another I withdraw to my room and see no one. In a further absoption in God, I am utterly distraught, unable to communicate. It’s too risky for you to come here on the chance I might be amiable enough to have conversation.”

I was feeling like this the other night. I woke up with the start of a cold. I hid away. I was meant to go to a party. I went to the party late and left early. There was no communication. I couldn’t catch up; didn’t want to.

I’m reading these lines from a book by Bahauddin, who was father of the famous poet, Rumi. It’s a book of ideas, ruminations. He lived around 1152-1231 in the Middle East somewhere. I just started it.

Although my state has been slightly akin to the above, I hope it won’t last. I’m still in my dealing throes. I moved into my new place. It’s pretty lovely; pretty strange to be gone from the desolation of The Hall though. I’ve got neighbours!

I thought I’d treat myself this morning, get up early and go into John Lewis and get a load of little things I need for the new place. I got into a borrowed car. I waited at the top of a hill for the traffic to come up, as the street was down to one lane. I took my turn when they had passed. A taxi was coming up the way. I had two cars following behind, so I thought it would be much easier for the taxi to back up. I thought he would see it that way, but I could see from 75 yards away that the guy was seriously pissed off.

I rolled my window down on the way past to explain. Before I said anything, he looked malevolently toward me and said.

“If I didn’t have a passenger in the back, I would have waited all day for you to go back!”

He said it as though he would have killed me for it. It was such a minor thing!

“I had already waited at the top for cars to pass…”
“I don’t care.”
“Look, I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Well I’m not.”
“Cheer up!”
“What, looking at you?” And then he drove off.

There’s a lot of anger out there. Neil had an even more dramatic road rage incident today. A fellow driving a Merc took some offence at the way the bus driver was driving. (This was while Neil was on the bus.) The Merc guy’s rage culminated in him screeching his car across the front of the bus, getting out, shouting “Black bastard!”at the bus driver and trying to break his way into the cab.

Eventually he got back into his car, but the journey on the bus was punctuated by the fellow getting out to wave a knife at the driver and at the bus in general whenever they stopped at the lights.

Thursday

Thoroughly unremarkable the days are being. I’m truly skiving off right at this time. I could be taking a forward step on the road of life; I could even be taking an attractive detour! But I’m not. I’m stuck, pondering in a lay-by!

I did an interview for the Scotland on Sunday this morning. At least something to get up for. The fellow was amiable, but we covered a lot of the same stuff as I’ve been talking about all year. DCW seems such a long time ago. I preferred it when we started talking about the novel he was writing. He’s trying to write a Russian epic with a humourous side to it. Good luck to him! In fact, he’s finished it, so it ought to be out next year. It was nice to compare creative processes. I’m always still slightly in awe of someone who manages to have the stamina for a full novel.

So I’m just drifting along here. If I could pinpoint the apex, the central core, the seed of the malaise, I might blame the broken switch on my boiler which is lying on the kitchen table. A couple of days after moving in, the central heating packed in. I got some men out. They had a look at it, drank some tea, removed the burnt out switch, and told me an entertaining story about how they played an essential part in the career of the fledgling Wet Wet Wet.

They must have been satisfied that the story was worth the call out fee alone, because they haven’t been back to fix the bloody boiler. I’ve called every day, but it’s a game, isn’t it? Workmen; they know they have the cerebral classes over a barrel. They’re not in a rush. They know the hapless pipsqueak (i.e. me) will never roll up his sleeves and fix the thing himself. Might as well draw the whole episode out. Could be worth more.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying a lengthening series of cold showers. My new neighbour offered me her bathroom, which I declined. Cups of tea have to be offered and drunk before embarking on such an imposition. Careers have to be established; ten year histories have to be explored; marital status has to be confirmed. Besides, I suspect that under her sweet and unprepossessing demeanor there lies the heart of a dominatrix. I want to string this fantasy out before I am disappointed by the pastel ordinariness of her boudoir.

Thursday Night After Football

Man, I wish I could have recorded my train of conciousness for you as I trotted home from football. I’m in the café now, but I sort of had my momentum broken by the stop off at the flat.

I live a lot closer to football now. It’s a beautiful thing, I can be home in ten, and in the café in twenty. It’s a beautiful thing all round. I love, love, love, love my new flat. I got to take a camera to the view and stick it up here. Watch this space.

This afternoon me and Ciara were just sitting out on the ledge with a beautiful 180 of the West and beyond. I swear I can see Arran. The top of Goat Fell. I can see the wind turbines on the Eaglesham moor.

The clouds wisped like a Ladybird Book painting of English Summer far away. As the sun dipped, and Ciara said cheerio, I stayed up there, angling the reflection of the big hinged window onto the houses on the other side of the valley. I sent secret morse messages to returning students telling them to study hard. I sent flashed telegrams to lonely single mothers telling them to try night classes. I flashed the incoming pilots carrying the businessmen back from Heathrow. "Safe home" I said.

I was nearly sick on the way back from football, so hard it was that I ran. We were a man down, so we were working hard. I lacked control at top speed. If you can marry speed and control, you’ve made it. I kept falling over. A good striker will keep enough puff back to compose himself in front of goal. This is what I want my next little musical divertissement to be like. Like Henry. Sleek, fast, but with control in front of goal. And French. And black. And pretty.

So I met my neighbour again. She asked a little favour of me, which I was only too happy to oblige her with. It’s funny how living in a flat amongst people can change you. I bought a pair of slippers so I can slip around quietly without disturbing the people below. And I find myself going to bed early. I used to stay up till all hours, picking my nose, watching the game, chewing chocolate. Now I hear the household preparing for bed. I can sort of tell when the girl next door is turning in, so I think to myself ‘Well if she’s going to bed I better as well. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow!’

She’s a journalist. She does human interest stories. I told her about my friend. He’s a human interest story waiting to happen.

He’s called Ewan. I may have told you about him before. I bump into him about twice a year, and have been doing since about 1990. He’s always going somewhere on his bike, planning a trip. Especially since he gave up the mini he had. Apart from that I don’t think he goes out too much. I wrote a verse of Dear Catastrophe Waitress about him, but it never made the final three verse version.

It started ‘Dear Catastrophe Grandson, Dear Catastrophe Grandson…’
The reason for that is that he told me this story once. He was visiting his grandparents in Aberdeen or somewhere. They were out on the High Street and they bumped into neighbours. Ewan hung back as the conversation went on. Eventually the Gran introduced him to the neighbours.

“This is our Grandson. He’s not very Grand !”

Anyway, when I saw him the other day he was planning another trip, this time to Prague. Another bicycle trip. Business as usual..

“Cool. Great! Well, good luck. See you soon, Ewan.”
“Oh, I forgot to say. I was at the doctor’s yesterday and he told me I’ve got four kidneys.”
“…Serious? Four kidneys?”
“Apparantly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t think it means that much.”
“Does it give you any special powers? Can you drink and not get drunk?”
“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t discovered any special powers yet.”
“Oh well, nice one. See you later.”
“Bye.”

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