Thursday, 14 September 1995 9:24PM
Wow, I can’t believe it’s September S. In a work context, this year seems to have snuck past when I was in the tea room, though I can’t recall what I did for New Year’s Eve at all. That’s a bit of a concern. I really can’t remember what I did. I just asked Simon. He said I did nothing, at home. He just reminded me about ConFest, and how I dodged it. It’s coming back now. That’s when I was in the vice-like grip of video-mania. I was hiring about ten videos a week, my air-conditioner wheezing in the corner, my back making those peeling sounds every time I moved from not wearing a shirt on a leather couch. I haven’t heard from Penny, the girl who invited me to ConFest since then. Although I did get an invitation to a dress-up party she was having, but I dodged that too. Shame really, she was OK. Can’t stand her boyfriend though, and they’re a package deal. I didn’t want him in my house.
Thinking about what I’m gonna do when Simon has fled to European shores, and I have to train his replacement. I wonder if Simon and I will still chat as much when he gets back. I guess he’ll be sitting out in the main room. I wonder if I’ll get along with Simon Mk II? A bit anxious about it all really. Hate change, give me a stagnant life any day. Change is the enemy of stability, of order, and heaven knows I can’t get enough order in my life. Order and train-spotting videos – the twin suns around which my cosmos revolves. Sigh. I’ll be twenty-three soon. Twenty-five is knock knock knocking on my door. You really have to have your shit together by twenty-five. You have to have a career by then. All I’ve got is a job. Sorry, I’m being a wet blanket again.
Friday, 15 September 1995 9:09AM
So another week slithers to an end. It’s my Great Friday Trial: do I go for drinks? Henry (the Brit) poked his bald head (he shaves it 3 times a week) in here before. I thought I should engage in office banter, so I asked him how he was. He said “Oh, I’m ok now.” My suspicious, gossipy antennae started to hum, (a few weeks ago he admitted to being on Prozac for a year) and I said “Waddya mean by’now’?”. He put a finger to his temple and tilted his head with its grey shadow of stubble and made some gargling kind of noises through his goatee to indicate disturbance and then fixed his eyes on me again and said “But I’m OK now.” I could tell he was a bit embarrassed, letting out more than he should so I didn’t push it. Maybe I’ll wait till he’s drunk then rrrrip it out of him. Hooo hooo haaa haa haaaaa!! I asked if he was going for a drink, he said yes. He asked me, I said no. Then he admonished me for still beating myself up over the party performance, saying I did nothing so terrible. I tried to explain that it wasn’t so much what I did, but the possibilities that putting myself in that condition presents. Just being that drunk itself is a no-no. Then he said “Look lehh me solve this one for yeh.” With that he looked at me seriously and said something in his flat, Sarf Londener dialect that sounded something like a goose being strangled. I didn’t understand a word, and there he is looking expectantly at me, waiting for a reaction to this grand statement which has just laid everything bare for me, I pasted on a smile and snuffled out a half laugh/snort and sagaciously intoned a thoughtful, reflective “Yeaaah, you’re right”. Darn. Geez I’m bitchy. I wonder why? Maybe it’s just a thwarted, distorted passion for psychological insight.
Sketch of J by J – My shitty little scanner drives me mad, it just doesn’t capture any of the detail in J’s sketches/drawings and it gives a dark shadow down the left side. I’ve asked it nicely, I’ve sworn at it and thumped it but it’s just a cheap shitty printer, sorry. S