I opened my phone notes in the hope I’d remember something worth talking about.
I went to the pub with some friends on bank holiday Monday and when we walked towards the door, the staff were congregated outside, smoking. Before any of us had chance to say hello, she told us to just go and sit in the garden and we’d get served when they were ready, it’s bank holiday for us as well yano. I loved that. I would love it if everyone who served me did it honestly. Tell me how shit your day’s been. Tell me how far away you feel from the place you wish you were, and tell me what you’re going to do when you get home to make yourself feel better.
This week, on two occasions, I’ve sat with a full tub of Ben and Jerrys and watched Downton Abbey. That’s how I’ve made myself feel better. The ice cream was £2 in Heron and is the nicest ice cream i’ve ever tasted. Caramel flavour with bits of brownie and caramel sauce throughout. Downton Abbey is not amazing. In fact it’s actually really shit. But something keeps telling me to put it back on. Part of me thinks it’ll get better, it must get better, there have been so many seasons. Another part of me doesn’t really care. It’s mindless viewing and I like to be mindless.
Another day this week I was at a gig. The venue is in a strange part of the city and out the back, where we all go to smoke in between sets, it feels like you’re somewhere in Berlin. It’s ~cool~ and industrial and surrounded by places that are hard to imagine being frequented by people. It’s quiet. In fact, on the walk there, I was about to point out how nice and quiet it was to my friends when I realised it would never be quiet as long as we were walking. Because my shoes squeak with every step I take. Honest to god there’s a screenshotted tweet floating around the internet somewhere that says how embarrassing it is to have squeaky shoes, how it sounds like you’re stepping on hamsters as you walk. That’s me. If they hadn’t cost so much I’d probably choose not to wear them but they’re docs and I’m determined to get my wear out them.
Anyways, across a barren bit of grass, under an old railway bridge, there’s a caravan surrounded by wood and mannequins. It’s a strangely nice thing to look at. That’s where we were sitting when it happened. Not in the caravan. In the smoking area, looking at it. Two lads approached someone nearby and went our ma’s sent us to ask if anyone’s got a lighter. I don’t know why I loved that moment so much, but I did. So much so that I got my phone out to write it down.
I think in an actual piece of writing it could work well in a scene, but here, writing without thinking, it’s hard to get across what I think it’s capable of getting across. In a story, maybe the boys came from the caravan. Maybe they live there with their mam. Maybe the mam has no legs. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t come and ask for the lighter herself. Maybe they look out the window every night after the vodka’s sent the mam to sleep, and they see everyone congregated outside whatever gig’s on that night. Maybe they wish they were there too. Maybe they don’t need a lighter at all, but simply came over in the hopes that someone might be drunk and kind enough to take them under their wing and invite them to have a nice time. Maybe they haven’t had a really nice time in a long time. Maybe they shoot their BB gun at the mannequins outside because they don’t know what else to do to pass the time. And maybe one day they’ll sack the mannequin off in search of a bigger thrill.
Maybe I’ll write it one day. The story. Or maybe not.
I just found another note. It was written on the same night that the bartender told us to wait to be served. My friend told me about someone she knows, an older person, who has a spreadsheet filled with the names of people she sends christmas cards to. And next to some of the names, she’s added DEAD. Because they’re dead. Firstly, it’s funny. God knows why it’s funny. But then more than that, it’s comforting. I take great comfort in the idea that with age, death becomes a simple matter of fact. Not a thing to fear, or get really sad about, but a simple matter of fact. An addition to a spreadsheet. One less christmas card to write.
Sometimes I watch old people walking down the street and wonder how they’re not screaming and crying and throwing up. How are they okay with the way things are going? The spreadsheet woman helps me to believe that none of us will be scared when the time comes.
Until then,
Sending love.
Edit: I don’t know how long to make these things. I don’t want to bore people. This little thing feels particularly boring. But the things I’ve talked about were interesting to me at the time, for whatever reason, so fuck it.