Identity Crisis #3,044


Sunday 27th

It’s the Great British Bird Count this weekend. Look out your window for an hour and write down all the species that you see.
I ring my grandad and tell him about it because he’s got so much wildlife it makes me weep.

“There’s only about 4 goldfinches that come now”, he tells me, “not the usual 10. And the long tailed tits are away at the moment.”

That only leaves the great tits, bluetits, greenfinches, jays, blackbirds and dunnocks then.

I sit at my study window for an hour. A crow flies over the house. Two pigeons flop into next door’s tree.

That’s it.

I’ve had it with birds.

Monday 28th

Lisa accidentally put her foot through the floorboard in her living room. She lowered a steel ruler into the gap, gasping as the inches mounted up. All in all, there’s a three foot cavity under there.

“Just the right size for a monster,” she shudders.
‘Especially a gnashing, slithering legless torso,’ I want to add, but she’d be back living in our dog bed if I did.

When I get there, her and Esther are using it as a wishing well, clamping their eyes shut as they toss pennies into the void.

Tuesday 29th

I’ve booked a Man-date with George in the Manhattan Coffee House on Ecclesall Road. Last week, I got a bit confused and poured milk in my peach tea and it curdled but I drank it anyway out of sheer embarrassment. I’m playing it safe this time and having a hot chocolate.

“Let’s go and watch a film soon,” George says, “The Showroom do a deal where you have a meal and a glass of wine for 2 and see a film for £20.” “Yes, lets,” I say, as we sit on out little table sharing a slice of cake and looking for all the world like we’re on a date.

"I'm man enough to say it. I love you, man"

“I’m man enough to say it. I love you, man”

About once a year, I have a funny turn and shave all my facial hair off. Without fail, every time I do, I go into mild shock.
Today, after my man-date, it’s time to do it again. Loads of men are clean shaven, I tell myself, why not me?
For 2 seconds after I’ve done it, I seem to look ok. But then the realization dawns, that it is very far from ok and I have to go on a mirror tour of the house to confirm it. Dear God, I am a freak.

Wednesday 30th

I’m going through the stages of grief about my beard. Unfortunately, there’s no denying it, so I crack on with anger and resentment and self pity.

I start a manifesto about The Tyranny of Beards.

“For too long it has been them wearing us,” I write, “Once established, like parasites they erase all memory of the naked face. They demand absolute obedience and are only banished on pain of losing your very self.”

Thursday 31st

I’ve realized that the only way to make my mouth look normal is to keep it moving. I’m chain-chewing gum and licking my lips a lot.

I bump into an exam invigilator at work. He tells me the latest craze among students is to write answers on the food they’re allowed to take into the exam and then eat the evidence before they get caught. As we chat, I over-exaggerate my mouth movements a bit to much when I speak, so he makes his excuses and leaves.

Alrighty then.

Friday 1st Feb

It’s my day off. I’m having a lovely lie in, but there’s a knock at the door, so I leap out of bed and pull my trousers on. For some reason I have taken to wearing a dingy white vest that my mum bought me when I was a teenager. It’s not a good look.
It’s the gas inspector man, who no-one told us was coming. The house is a tip. There’s half eaten food on the table, and as he walks in, I notice my glittery 80s bellboy outfit (seemed like a good buy at the time), lying next to the washing machine waiting to be washed.
I figure the best thing to do is leave him to do his thing, so I go upstairs in houseshame (the opp of housepride). As I get back in bed, I tell Esther about the mess.

‘At least the living room is clean and normal,’ I say.
We both sit bolt upright;
“Oh Christ, the Christmas tree!”

It’s Feb the 1st and there’s a ginormous tree in there still.
I start to laugh hysterically while Esther hisses at me to be quiet.
The gas man shouts up to me so I go downstairs.

“I’m working from home today,” I tell him, trying to explain why I’m here and that I’m not a lazy student.

Then I notice the photos of me on the wall from my feminist performance artist phase. There’s a naked one of me as Marilyn Monroe’s centrefold, and lots of me in wigs and makeup. Working from home takes on a different hue.

I decide to change tack. Suddenly, an idea comes to me, how to make the weirdness into a positive experience.
“I don’t spose you get rid of Christmas tress do you?”

He looks blankly at me. It’s a bad idea.
“Funny you should say that,” he adds, “my mate does. Leave it outside and I’ll get him to take it.”
Result! I manhandle it through the door, but it gets hooked on the kitchen doorframe and he has to help me, “to me,” “to you,” we go until finally it’s out.

I’m normal goddammit!

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That Joke Just Isn’t Funny Anymore


Mon 21st

Lisa is embarrassed because she got a bit angry with time and screamed:

“THAT’S IT! JOKE’S OVER! I DON’T WANT TO GET OLD ANY MORE!!”

Then she remembered she had neighbours.

I keep cringing because when I tried to interview one of the artists for my BANK article, I pulled out my toothbrush instead of my pen. And it was covered in fluff from my bag.

The cringes get so bad sometimes that I have to wriggle in my seat to make them go away.

awk-is-my-game.american-apparel-unisex-tank.silver.w760h760

Tues 22nd

Couldn’t sleep last night, kept thinking about buttered toast. Finally got up about 2am and made Tesco Butter Me Upped toast. It was rubbish.

I feel like a meerkat on high alert today. Interestingly, meercats didn’t exist before 1994. David Attenborough made them out of fluff he found in his pocket.

Bullsh” is my newly coined swearword. It’s more expressive than the American “bull!” and allows you more of a frisson with the naughty word on the end.

Wed 23rd

Had a sex dream (a ‘seam’? A ‘drex’?) about my ex girlf. Now I can’t stop thinking about how to express it algebraically.

I’ve got it:

(S)ex

Esther is still asleep as I get ready for work.

“Why does your mouth sound funny?” she slurs as I eat breakfast.
“Alpen,” I say.
“Oh.”

Idea: There should be a rap band called The P’d O’s, with members dressed like Jimmy Savile, Gary Glitter and Justin Bieber.

Thurs 24th

I’m at the busstop. There’s a girl with studs on her Ugg boots (ugh), and studs on her hoody, and studs all over the shoulder of her jacket. It’s like she stood too long under a tree full of metal birds.

Dreamt that all the hipsters were buying East 17 gatefold LPs and I was well jel because now I would be forced to not like them anymore in the face of much cooler people soaking up all their likeability.

Fell asleep flossing while watching Cabaret.

"Dog food totin' SEX cap boastin' proto-hipster-chav"

“Dog food totin’ SEX cap boastin’ proto-hipster-chav”

Fri 25th

Just watched the first episode of Girls. Esther was not impressed: “It’s not a thriller, it’s not funny, and it’s trying hard to be cool.”

Rare Person Sighting: A man walking along with his hands clasped behind his back. Bless.

Sat 26th

Esther: “I was dreaming that the future belonged to Andrex, and they were knocking down all the houses and killing all the people that weren’t pretty enough.”

Esther is very resourceful. At least once a week, I find her buffing her teeth with a filter tip. She also uses it to correct her mascara.
She’s like an urban Ray Mears.

"The future is soft, strong and very long"

“The future is soft, strong and very long”

It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad…what was I saying?


"Baybee, let's make love conceptuallee"

“Baybee, let’s make love conceptuallee…”

Dream:
It’s Christmas Day and a black and white TOTP from 1964 is on TV. Jack Duckworth from Corrie is singing “Baby, Baby” and almost crying. Everyone laughs at how shit it is, but I want to cry because behind him on the studio wall there’s a banner that says “Feminist Deconstruction” and I realize with a jolt that he means what he’s crooning.

Wed 8th

It’s important before you do something exciting and important not to make yourself nervous by acting out of the blue. So, just before I get on the train I get Esther to cut all my hair off.

I’m coming down for my ex-housemate’s first solo art show- BLUE PLAGUE (named after the Tory lurgey we’ve all been infected with).  WestLane South gallery is a renovated shop, replete with artists, poets and jolly artisans. Like the only child I am, I expect Lisa to entertain me and pamper me. When she dares to socialise with other people, I stand in the corner, trying not to look anyone in the eye lest they think I have a problem with social interaction.

Godiva, my sister from a different blister, is out tonight. We hug and gabble about stuff and follow the art crowd to the local pub (there’s a curfew on the gallery as there’s an old lady living upstairs). There’s some kind of war of wills going on between the eccentrics- one is staring and batting his eyelashes aggressively at another who’s saying “fuck off, stop it,” which just makes him flirt viciously at him even more.

"You WILL fancy me!"

“You WILL fancy me!”

On our way home, I run into a shopping centre in Stratford in search of a toilet- what I find is an ecosystem of incongruous subcultures, living peacefully side by side. There are gorgeous graceful black kids rollerskating backwards past benches overflowing with alcoholics, and odd conceptual artpieces lurking between them- whole tribes of office chairs lashed together.

In the middle of the night, I steal into Godiva’s kitchen for a glass of water, and terrify her boyf, Joe. He’s sat in his boxers, holding a a glass full of ice cubes and closing his eyes. As he opens his eyes, he sees my nighttime face looming over him and spasms in terror, his ice cubes leaping into the air.

Thurs 9th
I’ve been drinking too much tea because every time I buy a pint I try and blow it to cool it down.
I’m definitely in London. I know this because of the scary man on the next table who’s angry with me for sitting down.

“Fackin’ cahnt! Why can’t he fackin’ cahnt sit over there?”

My neck has gone rigid with fear. At least that means I can’t accidentally turn and catch his eye. Thankfully, his topic of conversation moves on to more abstract victims.

“Fackin’ Claire Balding. What a fackin’ ugly cahnt. Must be a fackin’ dyke, no cahnt that ugly can get a man!”

Fri 10th

Lisa: “Something weird has been happening. Whenever I look at the digibox, the light changes colour. Even if I wake up in the middle of the night, it flashes from green to red. It knows that I’m going mad.”

Sat 11th
I’m reading The Comforters by Muriel Spark. There’s a woman in it who can hear the narrator speaking her thoughts. It’s a man’s voice.
If I could choose, who would I have as the voice in my head?
I wouldn’t go for the obvious ones like David Attenborough or Morgan Freeman. They are too authoritative. I need a ditherer.

I think I’ll choose David Bellamy, the sadly neglected plant pariah.

Mon 14th
Esther is out for drinks with Lisa. This means there is no one to slap my hand and change channels when I put Paranormal Witness on. Within a minute, the flesh on my scalp is starting to crawl with terror. Please god, someone turn over! But no one’s there.
It’s about a family who move into a house where there’s a strange set of doors halfway up the cellar wall. Behind them there’s an unlit room filled with earth.
I want my mummy.
At night, something comes from there and pushes the mother down into her mattress so she can’t scream. I’m petrified.

“PLEASE STOP ME WATCHING PARANORMAL WITNESS” I text Esther.

“DON’T BE SUCH A BIG BABY” she replies.

Finally the adverts come on, and I am released. I ring my mummy and put Golden Globes on in the background. It’s good to hear her voice. Before long though I become fatally distracted by Jodie Foster’s rambling speech. It’s so confusing and sounds so momentous I switch off from my mum’s voice and try and follow it, but I can’t.
I love Jodie Foster, she’s more of a man than I’ll ever be.
I want to cry, even though I don’t get what she’s going on about.
I always want to cry.

I try to go to sleep, but there’s a draught that feels like an icy finger pointing at the peak of my forehead. Every way I turn, it’s still there.

When Esther gets back, I tell her about the ghost that lives in the dark earthy room.
“You mean one like that half room full of rubble in our cellar!?” Esther says.
Christ, I forget that we have one too!

Suddenly there’s phonecall. It’s Lisa.

“I’m really scared because I can smell nail polish really strong,” she says.
“It’s probably just some glue Dom was using to make guitars,” reassures Esther.
“No, it’s overpowering, I can’t stay here!”
“In the olden days, having a really strong smell of nail polish was a sign of madness,” says Esther.
What? Oh God no!” Lisa is panicking. “Please can I come and sleep in the dog bed in your room?”

Within ten minutes, the room is full of me, Esther, and Linda on the bed, and Goldie and Devo flanking Lisa on the dog bed.

It’s an hour till I have to get up for work.

smelly smell

Tues 15th
Through the window at work I keep seeing a van marked “SHEFFIELD MOBILE CCTV UNIT” passing by in hot pursuit of something. Isn’t that just like someone running along with a big camcorder?

Wed 16th
There’s been a helicopter crash in London, but all I notice is the reporter saying;

“Many people dispersed to nearby coffee shops. They were in shock.”

I imagine them all sitting along the window tables, mochas trembling in their hands.

Every 3rd person I see on the street these days is carrying a hot bevvy. Someone should design gloves with a coffee cup already sewn in…

Thurs 17th
First day of snow. The world is a tabula rasa, and yet the only things someone has been brave enough to write are:

“CAR”

and underneath it, as if getting ever more daring;

“YOLO”

on a car windscreen.
Is this the start of the great ideas drought of 2013?

Fri 18th
Lisa has started saying ‘the’ whenever she gets a bad thought. She’s chosen this word as it has no emotional content.
‘the’ she says, while we have a cup of tea, ‘the. the, the.’

Dream:
I’m in a retirement home where all Carry On fans get sent. All the Carry On stars end up here as well, but for them it’s a living hell because every time there’s a birthday they have to act out a scene from their movies.

"Carry On Carrying On...FOR EVER!"

“Carry On Carrying On…FOR EVER!”

“Du bist a fungi”


A young professional couple have just moved in next to Lisa. The noises that emanate through the rustic walls sound very functional, she says, even when she holds a glass to it. The same can’t be said for us. Today we were having a pot of tea, all civilised like, and we got to throwing pidgin-German insults at each other.

“Ich liebe dich!” I crow, and snigger like a red-faced urchin.

“Du hat eine kleine, kleine penis!” shouts Esther, “Du hast kleine boobies!”

(Putting on her best thesp bawl) “Du hast eine grosse VAG!”

“SHHHH!!!” hisses Lisa, her face pinkening like an ominous October sunset.

“Du bist…Macauley Culkin!” I join in, immune to Lisa’s cringing, “Wo bist meine Bjork elpee?”

“Das ist nicht…(then in RP English) going to happen!”

Esther titters.

“Ich…tick tick tick, the bomb ticking down,” I have my hand aloft like I’m Hamlet, enunciating every syllable, drunk on my own genius.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” screams Lisa, slapping my cheek so it matches hers.

“You silly bally fool boy,” adds Esther, using the abuse my Grandad used to have hurled at him from a Scottish secondary school teacher.

We go back to sipping tea.

Presently, it’s time to walk the hounds. When we get to the park, I realise we’ve missed the annual Mushroom and Toadstool Guided Walk and I’m overcome with regret. I used to have a mushroom city, down a valley at the end of my primary school playing ground. I had it, that is, until I told a ‘friend’ about it and returned one tragic day to find each one stomped into smithereens by zealous feet.

Anyway, now I keep my shroom love to myself. I can see signs of the Walk; there’s a tree with white stickers on it saying things like “honey shoelace fungus,” and “unidentified”. My favourite kinds are everywhere: white headed Ink Caps. They look like Terry Nutkins (RIP) rising from the peat.

I bend down and poke one with a stalk of grass. It wiggles its head appreciatively like an Indian dancer.

Everything is alright with the world.

“Front view”

“Back view”

A little while later, we walk past a freshly dug mound of peaty Earth.

“God, I’d love to roll on that,” I say dreamily, “wouldn’t you?”

“No!” says Esther.

I look at Lisa.

“Erm…maybe…” she says uncertainly.

 

“My Great Great Great Grandad, Lindow Man”

Could my life be any more glamorous?


Monday

A good writer always carries a notebook. Other writer like me are forced to improvise. I use the Notes app on my iPhone. However, the big round button that does everything on my iPhone only works one in every twenty presses, so I have to stick my ideas wherever I can when I get them. Recently, I have been writing them in the place that I use the most: Text Message boxes under random people’s names. And then I forget about them.

And what do you think happens next?

Here’s one I sent to my Doctor’s surgery:

“The rapid prototyping of identity is often arrested in early stages.”

To a female friend,

“My pendulous sweetmeats.”

And to our landlord:

“The awfulness of someone else’s suffering.”

So far, no-one has texted back.

Tuesday

Esther’s cousin Britney came to stay last week. Esther has been turning her phone off to avoid having to talk to her grandmother, who’s just got the internet (she described receiving an email as “she put her computer inside my computer”).  As a result, Esther didn’t know Britney was coming and spent the morning pulverising every spot on her face.

“It was the worst I’d ever seen it,” described Britney when I saw her after work, “like she’d poured acid over her head. When I came upstairs and found her sat in bed she said;

“Look what I’ve done to my face! And there’s a poo rolled up in a blanket downstairs…””

This was a dog poo I’d discovered just before I left for work, having already trodden it up the stairs in my socks. As always, I was running late so Esther promised to take care of it. Britney arrived about 3 hours later, by which time Esther had got as far as wrapping it up in the blanket it was on and forgetting about it.

Wednesday

We’ve just finished watching both series of Game of Thrones and half of the new True Blood on our laptop. Esther saves time by fast forwarding through the opening credits. All day I’ve had the speeded up theme tunes running through my head, like the incidental music to head injuries in cartoons.

Thursday

One of my students missed his appointment today. I have worked with him for over a year, but when he finally turned up 2 hours later he knocked on my door looking like he’s never seen me before, and said,

“Hello, I’m looking for someone called Vienna.”

Me: (applying logic) “Do you mean me?”

Student: (his expression softening) “Yes, that’s right.”

And then he hops into the seat next to me as if he always knew who I was.

Friday

Last time long haired brunette Lisa was left alone all evening, she decided to copy the hairstyle of a small boy she’d seen earlier that day on her road. He had a blonde mullet.

“Wot yew fokkin luken at?”

Today, she started to draw on her face to see what black hair would look like. She kept one half of her face as it was, and on the other side gave herself a fringe, and dark eyebrows and eye makeup. Then, she thought she may as well see if she suited being black skinned too and coloured in the rest of her face.

At this point, Alfie knocked at the door and she had to turn the lights & TV off till he went away again. I imagine she looked like a negative Phantom of the Opera skulking in the shadows.

“Listen, I’ve told you I’m not going to turn around”

“Well at least I know I don’t suit being black,” she says.

Saturday

Last night we had a mini house party. When I retrieved my laptop from the living room this morning, I find the following two Google searches open:

cricket man walks in waz

and:

hotels in kazakhstan

I have some strange friends.

Love is…


In the three weeks since I last posted, I have mainly been whoring myself out on Twitter and writing gig reviews. I did a Grimes one which I hoped she would see and cry herself to sleep about not agreeing to give me an interview, and I’ve just written one for the amazing L’Amour Des Reves, which will be published somewhere sometime soon.

What I’m trying to say is “I’m not workshy,” as my BFF Jaime used to bleat when he worked on a building site and the rugged menfolk tittered at his art school physique.

“I’m no weed, my work can lift the spirit of mankind”

I’ve just been on the daily dog walk. I seem to have lost about a stone in the past 3 months with our Thirds Diet, a lack of belly which made itself known suddenly and traumatically when my trousers started to plummet to the ground. Just as I made it to the main road, my belt gave way and whereas usually my baggy 90s jeans would be lodged on the muffin top they embrace, they now went into freefall. Picture me, each hand being tugged akimbo by a straining dog, hands desperately fumbling to get my buckle safely in its hole as families walk towards me, their faces turning from concern to fear to disgust.

Finally, I managed to get off the street and down to the park where I could manhandle myself unseen. As Gary Numan knew, down in the park you’re just another weirdo.

 

The dog walk is always a fraught affair. Yesterday, it was taking its usual mundane course until:

Lisa: Oh God, what’s wrong with everyone? Why are they all pretending?

Me: Who?

Lisa: Everyone. They’re all in on it!

Me: On what?

Lisa: They’re all dressed up as humans, but everyone knows they’re not. I want to scream.

Luckily we get to the end of the park and manage to bundle Lisa home where she could rock in the corner of her room while the light faded.

Behind closed doors, we can all be each other’s weirdos. It’s a sign of affection I think to sit next to each other muttering in our own private funnyfarms. Love is…a low security asylum. 

The longer a couple is together, the less veiled the insults and threats become. It’s quite sweet really. Love is…a killer diss.

“Mummy, are we in the matrix?”

Esther: Aww, look at those cows. The baby’s saying “get up mummy, I want to go for a walk.”

Me: Or that’s its fat lazy girlfriend…?

Esther blinks: Or the girlfriend is the little one and she’s broken the fat boyfriend’s legs.

Me (scared, so changing the subject): Which boy in American Pie would you rather be?

Her: The homophobic surfer dude

Me: Me too

So, to sum up, love is…agreeing where it matters.

Life’s a game of three thirds…


Mon

Lisa smokes like a cooling tower. She’s convinced this wont be a problem in our utopian future. Do as much damage as you want and just replace the parts.

“I want a lung transplant, but I don’t want them to be too big,” she frets, “I’m already bloated enough.”

Tues

Lisa is coming to stay for the night while Dom is away.

“Shall we have a pamper session and get loads of chocolate?” I say with sheer abandon, clasping my sticky palms together in supplication to the God of feminine delights.

Esther looks me up & down, stony faced.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t I look normal?”

I was sure I was incognito as a normal bloke today. I was sure I’d got away with it this time.

“Normal. For an 80 year old man playing golf,” she qualifies, surveying my loafers, argyle socks, beige chinos, baby blue Harrington jacket and skipper’s cap.

Oh.

[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZXI9RJSgok]

Wed

Staggering back on the wrong side of town from a night out, Esther spots a tube of lippy and grabs it.
“That probably belongs to a prozzy,” I caution.
“Nah, it’s too expensive to be a whore’s,” she reasons, smearing it round her mouth.

Thurs

A moth bullied Linda tonight. She was flat out on the bed in front of our giant prehistoric TV and it came hurtling at her, mistaking her glowing white belly for an obese light.

She twitched with annoyance when it impacted, half-heartedly shooing it away with a turgid paw. After a while of relentless buffeting, she took herself downstairs.

“No way am I watching The Mothman Prophesies.”

Fri

I’d quite like to get a tattoo. They seem like a good way of hiding puny white arms under a mask of rebellious alpha masculinity. Better than relying on speech, which I would probably get wrong:

‘I’m a naughty boy, sorry I mean a bad boy’.

Instead, a tattoo would proclaim;

I eat pain for elevenses.

Speaking of elevenses, Esther has formulated a diet for us. It’s called The Thirds Diet and it means that between us we only eat one portion of any given meal; I have two thirds and she has one.

A sample day in our diet:

Breakfast: One mini chocolate brioche for me, a half for her.
Elevenses: Most of a yogurt for me, scrapings for her.
Lunch: Two thirds of a bacon sarnie for me, crust & rind for her.
Afternoon Tea: Three pieces of cherry & chilli choc for me, one for her
Tea: One ready meal unequally divided into two.
Pudding: An almond Magnum: she gets the frozen top first; I get the half melted bottom.

Sat

My exp-pat cockney pal Alfie is accompanying me round the university degree show. We go to see one of my student’s work. Liz is very blonde and has combined wedding photographs with Photoshop unicorns and rainbows.

Alfie is good in these situs, swapping his barrow-boy patois for bourgeois dinnertable talk in a heartbeat.

“I like these. They’re very, dare I say, kitsch,” he says to Liz with a smile.
She’s not going to understand that. I want to nudge him and whisper ‘She doesn’t know anything.’
“Th-Thanks,” she says, trying to gauge if it’s a compliment or not.
“Yes, reminds me of Jeff Koons,” he adds thoughtfully.
Her face goes blank.
“They’re good” he translates.
I steer him away before she overheats.

My parents got me this. They assure me that fans thought Liberace was straight. ikr!

Alfie has got me a ticket to see the fashion degree catwalk show. He says he got it especially for me, but I know he offered it first to a girl and she said no.

As soon as we arrive, he transforms into a full-on diva. The seats are nearly full.
“We’re going to sit at the fucking front,” he decides, “we’re fucking VIPs!”
The front seats all have names on which aren’t ours.
“I’m having a fucking drink!” he strops.
“The drinks are only being served after the show,” an usher explains.
Alfie goes straight up to the bar and yanks two free from under the protective covering.
“We’re fucking VIPs” he explains.

The show is the best student one I’ve seen. A monster comes on at first with ten-foot arms and legs, glaring at the crowd. Then ten-foot tall amazons stride up and down parading their freakishly proportioned bodies. My god, what’s wrong with them? They’re not hunched over or sagging in the middle. Freaks.

At the afterparty, I have one of those moments. I’m introduced to one of the models and I look up at her.
Surely by now I will know how to speak to women? There will be no unattainables any more- adulthood is place of accepting our common humanity etc?

“Wow,” I murmur in an awed child’s voice. I’m not going to say what I think I am am I-
“You’re really tall,” I murmur as I gaze up, stupefied at her (and at me).
She looks over my head and walks away.

A little while later, our friend High Bri comes over. He passes the model and is a good 2 inches shorter.

“Ha, that girl is even taller than you,“ Dom says with Record Breakers glee.

“No she fucking isn’t,” says Bri, going back over and straining to show that he is, in fact, marginally higher.

“I win,” he shouts in a voice unintentionally like golem.

Life would seem to be about small victories played out on the epic battlefield of human activity. There is no ultimate victory, only desperate deeds done in semi darkness, with the vague hope that you’ll have time to eat your pot noodle or have an orgasm before the next blow falls.
Or something.

Sun

“I want hot dogs for lunch today. What’s a portion?” I ask Esther.

She raises her eyebrow. Of course, how could I have been so insubordinate?

“I’ll decide,” she says in a no-messing tone before adding, “Jah will provide. And decide.”

I’ve never realised how must Esther sounds like a rasta…

“I googled ‘sad rasta’ and found NOTHING. I give you this instead: a rasta dictator, aka Esther.”