15th July 2001 - 9:28 p.m.
And what did you do this summer?
You could imagine that I've been tied up in the underworld of work, or stuck on a 123 bus somewhere outside of Ilford, for the last however-many weeks. But that's the trouble with you - you get caught up in your world of fantasy, your illusory imaginings, and I'm forever left to pick up the pieces. Do I mind? Not in the least. Who else is going to take care of you?
I have been dreaming of sunsets over the Pacific, I have been dancing to soul music in poorly air-conditioned nighteries, I have been rattling about on ancient trains in ancient tunnels, I have glimpsed possibilities of lifetimes in wonderous eyes, I have discovered tragedy where I least expected it, I have reclined on sofas in civilised cafe-bars, taking champagne by the glass-full and praying to never be thrown out. I have stood tall, staring through the bedroom window at the sun rising; I have sat at a desk, head in hands, watching the night fall through the window, and falling, ever-falling, with it. Chances are scattered by the wayside, and my life, and my words, are no less scattered.
"Don't go talking too loud - you'll cause a landslide.."
On Friday night, I set out for an evening walk through the London parks. Last time, I chose the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park on which to lay my weight down. I was relieved of two cigarettes by a bearded man and two teenage girls, respectively, and flashed at once. I don't know if it counts as having been flashed at - the upstanding member was directed at the person in front of myself, and I had but a sideways glimpse making me, presumably, naught but a Passive Flashee. Which is a term I firmly expect to see appearing in the gig listings outside the Camden Monarch in the coming months.
I digress. Don't you? Upon going for long night time strolls, it is important to dress appropriately. Jeans are not acceptable, ditto trainers. When sharing dark park derives with The Scary of the night, it is important to differentiate oneself, to grant oneself the starring role. There is nothing more dispiriting than gazing faux-poetically into a moon-lit lake, only to see the reflection of an unshaven garage-attendant, possibly called Duaine, looking back at you. One caveat: entertaining Business Man Chic on these night-time strolls tends to ensure that one is: a) easily mistaken for a Pat Bateman-esque figure; and b) considerably poorer in spare change by the evening's end. The price we pay..These days, I try to cheer myself up by reading American Psycho before I retire to bed. I don't sleep.
