Twenty

Birthdays have always been fairly brief, somber occasions for me; it is the time where I feel most down for I do that bad thing which isnlooking back over time and seeing what I have or have not managed to do since my last birthday. I feel the problem stems from the idea where one should live each day as if it's their last for you only live once, paired with my general laziness, for I am the guy who would much rather travel further from home on the tram, if only it means that I can walk down the hill rather then struggle up it. I suppose this should be obvious if I were to think back and feel I have not done all that I could. This year however I didn't feel that at all.

I did an equally as bad thing when I realised that this year was not so bad after all. I tried to think of things which should have been bad, looking for details which were not really there before as regrets in my mind, but still that could not get me down. I was thus forced to be positive about my last year, I could not be sinicle or negative or even pessimistic about nineteen, I had to be positive.

Whilst nineteen I took part in something I was interested in, I successfully lived with 8 people that were knew to me, I passed my first year at university, I had successfully driven my car without crashing it and allowed it to roll on to another good home. Ok, I may not have been living each day as if it was my last however I don't think I did too bad.

Things have been going well with the man I went on a date with all those months ago. It feels like a long time but it hasn't, even been a year. With our birthdays separated by just ten days (and several years) we decide that we would go away to celebrate. I wasn't in the know as to where we were going, until we got there. It was a surprise for me, which he took great pleasure in watching me form an opinion about a destination only for me to change it to being indifferent when I realised he could have planned something which I had said something against. I'm sure he thought it was fun watching me decide how it better not be something, however if it was to be that it wouldn't be too bad and actually I think I would quite enjoy it. Needless to say, after a few hours at the airport, we boarded a plane to Glasgow.

This was the first time I had flown internally, within the UK. It was interesting only passing snow covered homes and crops which primely cultivated snow. The 45 minuite flight felt as if the plane just took off and landed. It was faster and cheaper then the train.

I had never been this far up north before. Friends of mine would think that I understood England up to Sheffield, everything after that was just North. therefore, finding myself up north, I couldn't really pin where a bouts I was. To further disorientate me, we took a taxi to our destination where the driver was shown rather then told where we were going. The car ride took about half an hour and when we arrived I was anticipating Best Western, or well, the Northern equivalent. What stood instead may as well have been Scotlands school of witchcraft and wizardry. Cameron House cut through the snowy highland landscape, leaning towards lock Lammond. He had chosaen well.

I always find old houses are a little sad when someone like the national trust gets their hands on it. Quite why they are so insistent on letting a house hang about in the past, representing how the room was like when a late royalty had had to crash there, I shall never understand. Luckily Cameron house had been saved from that fate and had been kept very modern. It was like looking inside a house based on a Ted Baker shoe, modern and tastefully decorated. The right shades of gray to feel warm and enough puple to hint regal rather then Barney. The smell of smoke and old polish gave an atmosphere Ambi Pure just can't quite recreate.

Lush rooms, spa, treatment rooms, gym, restaurants, a pool... I asked my partner if this was basically just grown up Centre Parks. In a sence it was. It was a themed retreat, couldn't live there forever, but great to holiday in and take a break.

So my birthday present. I had an afternoon in the spa. It was great, having never had a massage like that before. Homedics chair dies nit quite compare to the hands of a woman with an NVQ in skin. Needless to say, both mine and my partners skin was branded a car crash of dead skin cells and blocked pores which should be rectified with £500 of products avalible at the spa shop. So that was lucky.

That weekend was very relaxing. I don't think we actually did anything other then eat, drink, relax and drink. We stayed long enough to enjoy our stay but not long enough to get a taste for whisky, tartan and crave the sound of the pipes.

It was a great surprise. Lastly, before we were to leave he surprised me with one last gift: an iPad.

I am now complete.

TWENTY

Short Cuts

Along with my second year at university commencing soon, living in a new house with new people I decided that I should get my hair cut. It had grown far too long to control, resembling a secret garden; To comb back ones fringe one could see a small gate and a disabled boy learning to walk with assistance from a rather pushy girl. It was high time to get my hair cut. I have always tended to get my hair cut when I wanted a change. I sometimes feel that something has to give and it is only then when I decide that I should let someone else loose on my curls and square me up a new look.

This morning bought me to Johnny, a tattooed guy in blue shirt working in a three year old, retro barber store. The store looked nice, he was not too bad so I thought things should go ahead ok.

I sat there while he quizzed me on English, assuming I take an active interest in my degree to the point where I am well versed in all literature, hair fell over my face and to my lap and Johnny learnt nothing he didn't already know. When conversation dried up I found myself falling into a horrible trap. Yet again I have some how managed to structure a question where there was no way I could stop asking it or not offend him. "Have you ever started cutting someone's hair and feel that nothing is going right, the more you cut the worse it goes." Could I have offended him more? The whole time I was asking I was just thinking more and more that I was possibly talking about what he was doing to my hair. I extended the question, including lines like "In you whole time as a hair dresser" and "that you may have had done to yourself" However he was near the completion of my hair and I kept looking at mine. I feared that he would be thinking that I was projecting that question in the case of me thinking that his cutting skills were not up to much.

Admittedly, I was thinking that I was looking a little bit too much like Dr Spock for comfort, I was two pointy ears away from being from a galaxy far far away. I just didn't want him to think that I was talking about his skills.

Having defended himself whilst looking a little more the offended, the conversation hit a sticky point. I tried to more it on talking about my own hair experiences. Most of which in hindsight I wish I had had the confidence to turn around and tell these hair dressers that I looked like a dick.

This got me thinking. I started to wheel back through the distressed faces found commonly in Jehovah's witness promotional leaflets depicting people looking for answers. The faces that looked back at me in the mirror, unable to comprehend what had materialised on my head.

I think back to when I was at secondary school and I had gone to a hair dressers in the city that seemed to look all hot and was always busy. I had recently gotten an earring put in my ear to make me look a little alternative, however I had long curly hair down to my shoulders. The woman who cut my hair must have only ever experienced cutting women's hair, women who are, well, lets say, no longer thirty. I left that hair dressers at a pace, having parted with twenty two pounds sterling in exchange for a bob. It curled neatly round at the ends to just below my chin. Very pretty for a girl at bible class, but for me, it looked like I was suffering some sort of gender identity crisis.

I often found that hairdressers are often a good prediction for how the hair they cut will turn out. Take last year for example. Lulled in by the 12% student discount I found myself looking at the mirrored image of a fatty muscled tattooed beast of a man, whom at some point had had to breath through a tube through his neck. I kept having visions that the hole would open up to blow the hair away from my ears as he trimmed round them. The resulting hair cut is what was branded as the new look for hedgerowsexual monthly, I looked like I had had myself taylor made to look like I had been dragged through a hedge row backwards. Minus a few twigs and greenfly, I looked a treat.

As a kid, I waited over an hour in the barber store, waiting to have my hair cut. The bloke to have his hair cut before me has the most horrible scaly flakey scalp which could be seen dusting a trail behind him. Hair seemed to break through the skin like a weed through poured concrete, leaving that trademark destruction in the upper demis. Having seen this destruction aggravated by a comb and a pair of scissors followed my clippers, I felt very sure that I really did not want to have my hair cut there. Only when I had the hair catch-cloth draped around me, sitting on the highchair, looking like a hobbit, did I say 'I don't really want to have it done'. Distress from my farther. Disappointment from a lost sale from the barber. I allowed my hair to grow out nicely down my back and refused to have it cut for three years.

The difficult thing about getting ones hair cut is that you have to get it done at some point, unless you are terrified of loosing your strength. It is a task you can not do yourself and the result is something you have to live with for at least a month. Its putting your life and reputation in someone else's hands and one misguided comment can lend itself to you looking outlandish. There are some things in life where you wish you could just cut it out.

Moving On

It is commonly shared that moving house is one of the most stressful moments in someone's life, somewhere under divorce and the death of someone we love. I suppose however I could scale down my situation, moving from one room to another, 100 miles away, I suppose I did not find it all that stressful.

Well, thats the thing, moving, I am not so sure if that is that stressful, no more so then moving food from the supermarket to your home or delivering a house plant to a new neighbour (not that I received one). I did however find being in a new house, alone, at night the most stressful. The house makes strange noises and the space is something that I am unfamiliar with. There were also strange smells, shut in behind the front door and left to linger for several months since the last tenants departed.

Then there is the whole fear that the mind plays on you. Not that these are totally irrational. I mean, there is a whole world of the unknown surrounding the area that one now finds themselves living in. Is it safe? Is the house likely to be broken into? The high police presence is hardly reassuring considering they returned several times in one day.

After the first night, I think that the morning brings something good, where the natural lights suggests that things are going to be ok. I suppose, like stated in novels, surviving the night is the key point, when the sun rises then the balance of threats seem to move out of favour. Light also spills out onto the rest of the world, and the aim digest the surrounding area becomes more then desirable. Bringing something from the outside into the house I feel gives some control because not only do you take one thing from the outside and control it, also by allowing it into ones home, a level of acceptance occurs and things feel yet again in balance.

So I don't think moving is the stressful event, I think the concept of change to be the most challenging to an individual. Putting this into consideration, I would think Dorothy should have appeared more distressed for her change of situation however our circumstances are a little different. I have however befriended a lion, so I can't be accused of being inconsistent.

Cheer up! It may never happen...

I can't help but think that people are too constrained in showing how they feel. Is this just a british quality?

I think that as long as I can remember, I have found people telling me to cheer up or that things are not too bad. Now, i'm not a pessimist, nor do I feel down often, but when ever I do, I have this feeling as if it is not accepted. As if that side of emotion in any quantity carries too much weight. As I understand it however, it is very British to be positive regardless of how dull the situation. Take the world wars, with the posters carrying Mr Spud, ready to be reused as pig feed or 'Make do and mend' says Mrs Sew and Sew. I remember the high school librarian would say to any tortured child informed that they will have to endure reading Spot The Dog with the same anticipation of getting into War and Peace for light reading 'Cheer up, it may never happen' when the kid really was grieving for their lost evening of sitting on the park bench outside the pub. In reflection, I think why not? Why not just let them experience sadness and loss? It is a valid emotion, created by chemicals released in the brain. Why is it bad?

Think then to a phrase I know everyone has been on the receiving end of, I may paraphrase over the long speech a fond grandmother might have conducted, however the short of it would be that one should cheer up, there are other people in worse situations. Look on the bright side. I don't doubt the logic in that sentence, nor the truth, however it seems very strange to me to not allow oneself to experience negativity, pessimism or sadness. I know they don't mean the same thing however the usual reaction to expressing such feelings result in a similar response where people should hide how they feel or forge a smile through it.

This I think I can show my strongest argument through seeing the flip side; showing happiness and joy. Think how plain the world would be if you were unable to show and express feeling of how happiness, joy or excitement unless you were the happiest person or you were in the best situation out of anyone else in the world. This sounds like a stupid concept, for we would have people with about as much emotion as a cardboard backed envelope with the exclusion of two individuals, one inhaling tungsten and the other on helium. A truly strange world. Why then are people so often muted from showing sadness?

I just think that as much as it is good to feel happiness, there is as much validity in feeling and sharing moods and emotions which are of unhappiness and sadness.

Love Box

Yesterday, I spent my day at the Love Box Music Festival in Victoria Park, London. This was a first for me, having never been to a music festival, I was not so sure as what to expect. I have in the past flicked through a couple of channels showing music festivals or live gigs and shows, just recently Glastonbury was broadcast to the licence fee paying public. However I feel that you do not really get to understand the atmosphere until you are there and the even encapsulates you. Thus I have limited prior experience, limited to the May Day village fate.

May Day was the one day of the year where people would come out of their homes and visit the local play park and interact with others in the village that they would otherwise cross to the other side of the street to avoid. The mood is faked, with strained smiles, window washing waves, and short but loud laughs. The large tent, crammed full of stalls, the elderly flogging their harvest box gifts as raffle prizes, the local charity shop flogging their least fragmented wears, a depressed mother selling face painting consisting of sad lions and Jolly Green Giant incredible Hulk faces. The main event as rated by popularity is forever a toss up between the auction of a rejected lamb and the ribbon plaiting event. The parade it mostly overlooked for it represents far too much the story of the pied piper leading the children away, the disabled kid struggling to keep up. The Lions prize the largest let down of all for the non alcoholic beverage is hardly worth the trauma of turning out for.

Music festivals, they are much bigger. For me, the main difference was the distance. The distance people were willing to travel to get there. From all over the country people would make the effort to get there, despite the closest tube station being closed, people were prepared to get on the bus or walk. There was a small amount of failed Eastenders extras going against the traffic buyin' or sellin' tickets. One man pulling out all the stops (literally) selling poppers. Arriving at victoria Park was not the end of the migration, for over well trodden grass people would move towards the centre where the event was enclosed. The types of people the event attracted were those of homosexual orientation, men with a tendency of levering their feet into heels with a shoe horn, and people who choose to wear the 'alternative' dress code, thus the bars made it a fitting enclosure for a safari, where these people could live out their lives in relative safety from the poaches from the greater outside world. A large map depicted the stages on a map which could only be described as looking like a chode, a fact which looking at the content menu beside it, would suggest it was an image of intention.

What I saw, I loved. Then behind an australian man I saw the Gaymers cider area, where trees were reconstructed with packing crates, and large foam apples and pears (the non cockney sort) hung swinging in the wind. An artificial tree house was part of the main attraction, giving a great vantage point over the tall shirtless men of the Gaymers stage.

A long food hall containing food from around the world and coconut water was enough to stabilise and absorb the huge amount of alcohol on sale. Not of course that they made it easy for you to drink, with £6 per beverage, your wallet was likely to empty before your gullet, however luckily, if you wish to get sloshed, then cash point vans are readily available.

The music, that is what I assume people came here for was really good. I find that when you watch these things as I mentioned earlier on the television, you see a crowd of people, unable to move about much, apart from maybe jumping up and down. However, when I was there in the crowd I noticed that there was a lot of space. For me, maybe the great thing was that I could sit down, for I was warned that there would be a lot of standing up. The music was well organised, and performances were staggered, so, whilst one stage was set up, another would start playing after a ten minute lull to allow people to trek from one stage to another.

As a first experience, I would say that it was rather good. My concern now however, is that they May Day fate just wont manage to meet my heightened expectations.

Sun Seal and Sand

The general thought of my past week has been 'it's hot'. Not that that is all bad, 95% of the year my skin prickles on my arms and I establish that from that, it is cold. Heat is all together a good thing. People turn their heating off, saves the planet and then people will carry on using just as much water as they always have, until a hose pipe ban encourages them to take a sudden interest in washing their own cars on a regular basis. Heat brings people added sensations, closer to things, like chairs and sofas, there is nothing quite like the sensation of peeling your back of the faux leather sofa, like a waxing strip on your grandma's leg, each bring you the same feeling of revulsion. The NHS love the hot weather, it seems to kull the ageing population. This I have concluded is something to do with their strange attachment to layers of clothing, going out in 30' heat in jumpers, reversible fleeces and waterproof coats, complete with hidden hoods. Needless to say, they slow cook and flesh slides off the bone like a well cooked chicken.

I always think heat is one of those strange concepts. One which seems to flout the nature vs. nurture debate. Nurture would teach us that touching something hot is bad. Yet, when the sun comes out, people go out in hordes to greet it. Unfortunately, if television statistics are anything to go by, which as a media student, i'm tempted to doubt, we have become Stout Britain, a country full of chubby people, so when the summer past time of going down to the sea side, the image in our minds has been distorted through the hall of mirrors and now the beaches resemble a blubber beach of basking seals, large pink sweaty bodies, moving over each other, like pouring out a tin of plum tomatoes onto a chopping board. There they cook, and burn and surround themselves with bendy wind breaks, to provide privacy while they oil up with sandy extra virgin before concluding the last task to complete will be to dig a hole, before packing up and leaving.

The free tan is always attempted by some people. But if it is free, then there will be a determined Brit trying to access it. An expensive collection of green, twice used garden furniture is pulled out of the shed, a series of floral waterproofed cushions are produced harbouring mothballs and spiders, however a quick dusting with a squeamish hand produces results which thus make it acceptable. The sunniest part of the garden is chosen and the chair is set up and is quickly inhabited. The sun shines strong and hard, but after twenty minutes, no results have been found however they have discovered how boring it is to lie still, thus they jump into action and go inside collecting jugs of drink in special garden plastic vessels, a small table, a collection of magazines, purchased only for the free gift and a yellowing novel set aside for just an occasion. Back outside, with all the entertainment needed to sunbathe, they will lie back and start to read. Within moments, they realise the sun has moved so they get up and shuffle everything around further up the garden so as to be in the sun again. They set themselves up to read but then discover the paper blocks the sun. This results in moving over the chair as if it was a yoga mat, where best to read the book but still get sun. This proves difficult and the book ends up on the floor. The Brit will then sit back and decided just to sun bathe. Moments pass and they decide it is getting hot, so they flip over and sun on their backs. They doze and imagine hours have gone by. They are bored and warm and want a shower, so they move everything back inside. After the shower, they compare the underside of their forearm to the top side and conclude. Still pale.

The British summer. It's strangely hot this year. We have had it for about a week. Possibly a record. If it lasts much longer I expect we will be forced to complain about it and wish for milder times. While it lasts however, I would say 'its hot'.

Dear Nottingham

I have only written this year when I feel a need to. I have been to sleep for three hours. I was very drunk when my eyes closed. I've woken up with a great need to write. I still want to use this blog as I intended, to 'try and make sense of the world', however, I have learnt this year that I really have been trying to make sense of my world. I find now, that my world is about to break; my Eden bottle garden about to smash, I can see out and witness the impending hard surface it is about to hit, and here, corked inside, I can do nothing to stop it.

My world, since September has been university, this half way house to independence. Now June, this all stops and I have to go from Village life to village life. The comparison is not something I feel I want to run to, quite the opposite in fact. I have dug my heals in the ground and tried to stop time, to slow it. I've lived each day like its my last. It is my last. Today is my last. Tomorrow I leave.

I never thought for a moment, when driving here for the first time that I could learn to live in this place. The dark streets laden with soulless Nike knights, the dark, NHS, giving-up-promotional-tower, the Burger King where I felt like I was sentenced to consume my last meal... it all feels like such a long time ago. Who would have thought the city would turn into My City. I certainly did not. I was sentenced to my three years, to serve the term in full. I was to keep my head down, work hard and get a degree. Months later, I find my love.

My 'One True Love'? Not quite. This is no fairly tale city; a little pig needs to get planning before building his biodegradable house on a brownfield site, Cinderella will get into a brawl and Rumpelstiltskin will spin her straw into Cash My Gold. It is however the city I have made mine. It is the city I fell in love with. It is this city, which I now have to leave.

My life for the last few month has been that with my friends. Together living in flats and houses, getting together to drink and study (written in order of importance). When the bottle garden hits the floor, everything will smash. My fiends will be flung out back to where they moved from. They will go back 'home'. Its hard, because I don't feel like I have another home. I have a house with a room where I live. But it's not the same. Home for me is living with people who I don't always get along with, but who I know will be there for me when I need them. Home is my flat mates. Home is my friends. Now I have to go back to where I came from and act. I feel like I need to perform as an extra, in a production which is not about me. I go back and be a prop, an extra which adds nothing and takes nothing. To look big headed maybe, to want to be centre stage, but one should be able to perform the main role in their own productions. So I need to write a promise to my love.

I promise I will come back at the end of September. I will bring a tube of UHU glue and find the shards of glass. I promise I will make each piece go back together and once again fill it with life. The life inside will look different for I can not clone what I have currently. But I promise that I will put my globe on a better shelf. I look forward to returning to the city in the summer. I will visit it again. I can not wait to get back soon. We are not half the world away.

Bulimic Fowl

They (people with too much time on their hands) say that a fine wine can be valued by the length of time that the taste stays on the tongue, taking this into account, I think that vinegar is very much undervalued. All things have a price however, and the taste sensation is something that as a student, who's rations of Sainsbury's Basics are more about cost vs fulfilment then taste satisfaction, I often overlook the sense of taste. Taste, my father tells me, is one of life's experiences, one which should be experienced and enjoyed. It is however, possible to get too much.

How about a date? I've been on dates before. I remember the first one, where I was slammed for taking a girl (yes) furniture shopping. In my defence, I was eleven and Home Cargo, the shop forever hosted with misery over the impending year round closing down sale was hardly the pinnacle of home ware and objective design. But this was Peterborough. I needn't say more. As I got older they got better. I meat a guy who insisted we had to go to this restaurant which was '70's themed' or rather, had not been updated since the shopping centre was built. As events unfolded, I noted that he really was not for me and through some medium, a close friend had managed to track us down on the elevator, to which my 'date' insulted her, only to receive a dead arm in return. Therefore, my outlook on dates has been that if we reach the intended end, without anyone crying, then its a success.

So now to the recent past. I had gotten myself to London. It was a slow train, it dragged its self along the track reluctantly, like a dog scratching its arse on the carpet. I thought, things could only get better. Luckily, I was met at the station, so things were not too traumatic. I was a little nervous, but I hope I didn't show too much. The events unfolded as intended and seemed to go fairly smoothly. Dinner seemed like a good idea. I was, peckish. The taxi driver was reassuring; he has a feeling the restaurant was somewhere, but the clock counted up instead of down; enough to give Carol Vordeman time to illustrate the situation with three consonants and a vowel, however it turned out that we were not too lost after all. Club Gascon. Known simply as french.

Greeted by a Londoner, carrying a vaguely convincing french accent, we were seated at a table in the corner. I noted people were not seated based on looks for a lonely looking man who's chin rested on his stomach was given centre stage. Champagne, a must, was quickly poured, required to give people that added confidence boost to say the french phrases listed on the menu. The waiter staff wore mainly black and vacant expressions. An apron, stretched to the floor looked suspiciously like they were hiding something. Subsequent thought indicates that they cook all the food via slow cooking on the thigh, to get that just warm sensation.

Meals are ordered like 'tapas', a phrase the staff spit out with genuine dislike, as if it insults their heightened view of 'real' food. After careful consideration, based mainly on the words I recognised, I selected Duck Frois Gras with grapes and Black Cod with some sort of coconut sauce. The basics of bread was provided with two varieties of butter. Not salted and unsalted, the only varieties Lurpak allows us to know, but a salty garlic butter and a creamy light butter. I would have been quite happy to consume the butter on its own, as I discovered when a butter cup reflected in my greasy youthful skin as a kid, that I liked butter, but in this setting, the restaurant and company seemed to suggest that that would not be appropriate. Instead 'my friend' had an olive bread roll and I had what I guess was a french bread in miniature, but took on the appearance of a heavy croissant. This was offered again throughout the meal, as I was to discover, to ground the taste buds.

Next came a plate which looked nothing like duck. In fact, this is a not-ordered-but-expected-nessesity. A square plate, with two spoons and several small deposits of jelly. One spoon featured a transparent party sausage roll, made out of some sort of cold, red, what could possibly be ham or a rolled up ear. The next spoon had an orange phlem consistency. To the bottom left was a cube of jelly, like the sort you get before one dissolves it in hot water, only it had a slight bitter flavour relative to sweat. Top right held a herby macaroon. The centre held some red sugar paper, pretending to be a dried pasta bow. All of this was quickly consumed, and left me feeling slightly confused. This want food and as for the orange bile, that was the chefs frustration, aimed at a porcelain spoon. Quite nice, none the less.

Now, for what I had ordered. Not to sound ungrateful, but it wasn't what I expected. I should have clicked by now, that I was not about to receive some crispy aromatic duck on a peely skin pancake. I received instead a layered installation of mush topped with impossibly thin and brittle wheat toast, with a dark burger of duck cruelly nesting on the toast. My knife was blunt, but it met no resistance, as the weight of the blade easily made short work of the duck frois gras. The char grilled outside revealed a very pink inside. I never thought of duck being medium rare, nor did I think I knew what frois gras was. I stayed ignorant till at least 24 hours after when I discovered it was a duck, force fed and slaughtered. I have always said I hate textured meat. This however was devoid of texture other then smooth. It had no texture but a lot of flavour. The small morsel, the amount the duck possibly would have preferred to eat, was mind blowing. Sensual overload. As to flavour, I could not describe. I discovered that the Basic's range does not mean anything to flavour. 9p Jelly does not even know where to start. Already, I felt defeated. I felt full. The toast was expected, the grapes, sweet. I'm not much of a foodie. I struggled. The waiters, I expect realised that half way through this painful ordeal that we would need to move on to the next course or they would not be finishing their shifts that night. To say it was painful however was not fair. It was a great experience, but, one not to be repeated. As someone to whom words are so important, I found it frustrating that I could not describe the sensations. I had nothing to compare it to. I felt lost.

Next course was coming. Black Cod. The bowl contained white flakes of very sweet fish. The flavours were yet again strong, however I managed better with this one. The coconut, a surprising combination, first thought of in Scotland, when a battered Bounty became conjoined with a portion of fish. It was impressive. Each petal of flesh was infused with a sparkle of magic. A store for an impossible variety of ingredients. Each one melted on the tongue and sent taste sensations with so much energy to the brain, that my neck twitched with the recoil. The battle with the fish I knew was not one that I would win. With these two water based animals, each survived my stomach in some part, from being digested.

Finally, the desert menu. I knew I could not take on a desert alone. 'My friend' here would have to assist. We chose a cheese cake. Still, I was sure that the sturdy cheese cake would not fail me in my expectations. Another not-ordered-but-expected-nessesity came out. It was another porcelain spoon, with frozen blackberries covered in froth. The blackberries were semi-thawed, but still, small ice crystals gave the jelly some texture. A cumulus cloud suspended above the blackberries captured the flavour of mint. It was more subtle then the foam created from brushing teeth, but very refreshing. It tingled.

Lastly, the cheese cake. A small column of the darkest chocolate presented beside a small tsunami of smoothest chocolate ice cream. The column was relative to the size of a Kodak film canister of the 90's. Inside this dark chocolate pillar was heavy, dark chocolate, infused with a cheese paste which was too rich for royalty. I have been miss labelled before as a queen, and I wasn't about to slip on those Choo's there and then. Instead however, I ate the ice cream, it was kinder to my pallet. The not-ordered-but-expected-nessesity before hand made sense. It was there to show the sharpness of ice, and the lack of its habitation within the ice cream. It was so smooth it was the cold sensation of taste. It was wonderful.

Conversation continued throughout, and the date went well. Nobody left crying or feeling disheartened; like the whole meal, it was a time for firsts.

The tab came, but there was something missing. The white, oval, sugar coated mint imperial had been missed off the silver tray. Honestly.

The Wild Thorpeparies

Haven Holidays. The place where memories are made and fun times are had, apparently.

Arriving two hours early seemed keen to me, however, after getting our booking in number, I discovered that some people were more then keen to get there. Already, the tree tier hall was filling up with dads on day release, mums on cider and kids on their first yard of coke. The hall, divided in half with Bargain Hunt red and blue synthetic furniture, set up, sat on and climbed over. A silver shower curtain was the back drop of things to come. A 60 second Countdown clock was on a board, poised for the little time the elderly had left, and they chose to spend it here. Adding to the intense energy of the room, Bradley Bear was lead out, head hanging in shame and embarrassment. Then, then music. The lights. The clock. Check in was about to commence. A purple shirt, black waistcoat, silver tie, high trousers passed by with his microphone and instructed people to keep on the laminate dance floor. The numbers were called in 40's, and one person with their number ran down the ramp and was rewarded with a pack of activity beer mat passes and pair of keys.

The static caravan slumped on quivering metal legs, resigned to stay there for along time. The broad window at the front frowned out at us as our lively vehicles mockingly manoeuvred around them, free to leave the field. The front door, scaled to the relative size of a cat flap, sagged open before the key turned in the door. Everything was plastic. A dali door was warped where a hair dryer had been left on too long, the walls moved as easily as sheets on a line, the rigidity was 10 degrees either side of a right angle. The kitchen; a drippy tap above a bucket, the oven; an oil lamp, the extractor fan; a hose, storage; a shoe box. Like all things which consume food, the fridge stayed close to the kitchen, but didn't like to be seen in the kitchen for it crouched next to the seat on the carpet. A small gas fire kept the damp of the floor, whist the windows showed the moisture. Looking outside the window, you can see other faces, looking out of theirs, looking into yours. Entertainment.

Sitting in a cold box for too long, far too close to people, then you should ever get, you forget what air that has not passed through someone else's lungs tastes like. This is why there is evening fun, to get people out of their caravans and into a hall spending money. To get the the hall, one must pass through the bright lights of the amusement arcade. It's perfectly healthy; a method to get fruit into your diet. The fruit machines give people that much. When pennies are gone and your fingers smell like metal, then pounds need to be spent behind the bar. Past the miniature golf course, closed, the toilets (where people piss everywhere apart from in the bowl) and bingo entertainment hall is waiting for you. The people are there too. Four pints of beer, in a jug for under £10. Drink is on the mind and the beer belly needs to earn its keep. The alcohol is needed, its essential to grasp the entertainment coming next. Only Haven holidays could have a game show based on ITV shows. Guess the theme tune to Corrie and Emmedale and win your family a bottle of Summerfield bucks fizz. Teams are divided into two, red and blue. Holiday reps are there to represent their team. The walk ways need to be kept clear for Tubby and Scummy to run to the stage and win a point for their side. Then, when the music comes on, all stand and sing along. When the game has been won and the disappointment has had time to set in, the show shall start. Four songs, sang at a high pace, by men with high voices preform aerobic dance routines. The court of king caractacus seemed to pass by most of the audience.

The audience, the people. Oh, they are a sort. The women and the men. Shameless. Each day, they will mostly be wearing synthetic nylon clothing, like a second skin, they wear it. The stripes too numerous to count, means that when they stand in a crowd, the police can not single one out, for they all blend into a mob with one identity. The tailoring is what consumers are told are stream lined, however, the seams are sealed with piping. Dressing up is a military affair for the women, they appear in similar uniforms, all managing to pull the same sad outfit on. Skin tight jeans tends to be the only skinny thing about them. Boots are suede, around the sole is the mess they picked up in the field which they have dragged in with them. Shoe Zone is the designer behind these atrocities. Colour on the body is important to these people, surprising seeing as their clothes always appear to be in mourning. Gold is the colour of wealth, however the gold in their ears or stretching their navels is turning their flesh green. Hair dye killed the volume from root to tip. Bleach blonde, as white as the sand on the brochure, lowlighted by beat red strips around the side of the face. Well, it brings out the lipstick anyway. The second and last choice of female hair is brown, with blonde highlights, scraped through into a pony tail, strangled by a black band. The gentlemen, have about as much hair on their heads as their grandmothers have on their legs. Shaved with one grade all over or, for a bit of variety, short back and sides. Fathers look like sons, kids look like the grandparents. They slur and squark at each other, omitting basic vocabulary, constantly trying to convince themselves they are having a good time.

The smart people however, know when it is time to leave.

Daines on Sexuality

At the age of fourteen I waltzed out of the closet and curtsied to the door man on the way out. The rainbow flag was my Union Jack and I was looking forward to growing up in this world and 'have a gay old time'. But now, five years on, I'm not so sure.

I wonder if I skipped before I could walk, while other children were toddling, I was mincing. I look back now, and if I could have just kicked my rainbow jelly sandals and take a look at where I am now, then maybe things would be different.

Now here's the thing. I'm wondering if in my adolescence, my view on sexuality was misguided. Fitting into a category was important to me. Even if it was one that left me with months of hellish bullying at school, leading to a life changing moment where I decided if it was time to stay or to move on. Not that I regret what I have done of course, but now I wonder if things are changing.

If I look back at my life, I can pull a number of facts. I always did seek female friends. Men always seemed intimidating. I'm not made for sport. Shopping is a hobby and emotions are to be shown rather then hidden. So there we have it, a slightly effeminate male. Must be gay then, bless him.

But, maybe he isn't. Maybe I'm not. You see, I can see women in a different light, Maybe they are more then friends and shopping partners. Maybe they are wives and mothers. But I don't believe in marriage and I don't like children. So, maybe this is not how things are, well not for me. But how can I claim to be a heterosexual man?

Well, here is my thesis:

Women are for relationships, men are for sleeping with.

I think that I would happily spend the rest of my time with women. I have the best friendships with women. But sleeping with them, well that is fairly gross. They have 'in' bits where there should be 'out' bits and have curves where there should be straight lines of definition. Men, going shopping with, going out with, talking to, well all that dries up as fast as a gob on the pavement. But with women, it lasts for ever, conversation is worth salvation.

This leads me to thinking I must be heterosexual. Sexuality is about relationships, isn't it? Or is it just the reality of sex. I wouldn't say bisexual however. That indicates confusion. I however know what I want. So, sex with men, relationships with women. Once you have figured that one out, the whole world makes sense!

Everybody Do The Mess Around

I'm writing this tonight under the veil of uncertainty. I do not know what is going to happen tomorrow. I somehow have the feeling that nothing will happen tomorrow. But, theres nothing quite like pent up disappointment to confirm we're still alive, I mean, look at christmas. I'm not explaining myself all to well. So I shall start at the beginning:

For the last week (yes, just a week) I have been talking to a man online. He seems nice enough and everything he has told me seems to be true enough. I have had no reason to doubt him, why should I? But now I'm starting to feel that I am getting messed around. He asked to meet me, I agreed. we set a day, Saturday. A time and a place, still has yet to be confirmed, however half way between him and I seemed like a good idea. Things seemed to have been going well, we have exchanged numbers and sent text messages. Lately however, on this week long time scale, i'm concerned that things are not going to be so. I have texted him three times today. Its been very one sided. No reply. I called him, voice mail, left a message, waited. Nothing. If he does not wish to meet me, then he may as well tell me. But what if he does?

What if? This is the question we ask our selves when we are not happy with the answer presented. What if, something else were to happen, for if it did, we would be able to maintain our balanced outlook on the world. So, my what ifs: Something awful has happened which means he can't get to his phone. His internet is down, possibly due to a power cut or a server going down. The reality? Well, I don't have the answers. Only he does. So I feel messed around. Do I stay up and see if he gets in contact? Should I go to sleep so I have the energy to see him if he chooses to finally reply. I'm not sure. To take him out of the equation I would go to sleep, at least this way I can do what I wish tomorrow. With him or without him. That sounds like a good idea.

But I cant sleep. I feel frustrated. I don't know what is going on and what is happening with things. I just don't know. Sleep. yes, sleep seems like a good idea.

Good night.