Monday’s the new Sunday (at least in my world it is...)

Oh, I'm so sick of living in damn paradise! Plucking mangoes from the trees and listening to this gently gurgling stream! I want some concrete 'round here, some noise and some machinery. I want to scatter the most important things in my life for miles around and make it a draining headache to get to them. I want lights on bright twenty-four hours a day and for this blessèd air to stop smelling so stupidly pure and let's get a bit of lead, a bit of smoke, a bit of grime in it. I can't stand the silence and the goodness and the shimmering leafy trees anymore!

What I did this week

Well, I guess the highlight of it was my little day out on Wednesday, which I didn't know was going to happen, but did. See, it started a few days before that, and me keeping hearing the word 'Penistone' – that's penniss-tun, not pee-nuss tone – and thinking that it meant something. Finally, on Tuesday, I saw it one last time and thought, "right, I'll go there" (knowing that it's on the train line somewhere near Barnsley). Wednesday morning comes, I toss the coin and the coin says, "go" – and then I think, but I don't want to go to stupid Penistone, what's the point in that, the weather's crap and there's probably nothing there anyway. But when I realised that I would probably do nothing worthwhile with my time that day I sort of talked myself into it, and off I went, taking my trusty bicycle with me.

Well, an hour later I was there and the sun was shining on me and this quite quaint and charming little place barely ten minutes across but with its own market and even a cinema. It never ceases to amaze me to find places like this around here – like the gem that is Hooton Pagnell barely a stone's throw from my own South Elmsall – and even more so being so close to Barnsley, supposedly one of the worst places to live in Europe; you imagine the stench of it sort of covering everything in the surrounding areas with some grim layer of shite – but no, not sweet little Penistone (nor, for that matter, some decidedly marvellous countryside neither; perhaps Barnsley is doing is all a favour, sucking up all the brain-deads and crackheads and wastrels and keeping them contained within its walls so the rest of us may live in peace; perhaps Wakefield is doing the same). Anyway, I digest – just as I did after I'd eaten a large and lovely bag of chips in order to fortify me for my journey; I'd discovered, you see, that not too far from Penistone was the northern most section of the Peak District, with its moors and views and hills, and I thought a bit of frolicking there might be the order of the day…

I saw a sign for the Trans-Pennine Trail, thinking that might take me somewhere pretty, and followed that; soon, I was once again leaving my working city mind behind and feeling myself slow down to the rhythm of my legs, the wheels, the butterflies and bugs, digging the country air, loving how pretty everything was, giggling to myself at my latest silly journey; soon I was saying, for the millionth time, "ah, this is the life" – and then realising, wow, it's only being in nature that can do that to me, not once, not ever have I stretched out and smiled big 'n' true and put my hands behind my head and thought, yes, this is it, in the middle of some city, or staring at some building, or rushing somewhere, adrenalising it, getting caught up. Ah, this is the life surely only applies out here, in this air, in this quiet, in this sun on my neck and insects on my wrist and, my, how suddenly the world has slowed in its ceaseless spinning and turning and why do I feel so good all of a sudden, something's changed…

I rode for about five miles, to the sealed up entrance to some three-mile long railway tunnel that ceased trading about 26 years ago, all those dead Victorian navvies that gave their sweat and limbs in dynamiting through rock and hill perhaps thinking they shouldn't have bothered; I felt for them, but it was also kind of cool, and I was wishing I could get down into it, how great would that be to go skulking off into the darkness and have to feel your way along five-thousand feet of ancient black passageway all blind and unbeknownst to the monsters down there? How terrifying! How cool! But, alas, of course, it was all sealed off and further adventures denied in the names of health and safety and not risking your life, etcetera. So, instead, I got back on my bike and rode then up ultra-steep hills high above the bowels of that ghastly catacombs past reservoirs and valleys and then to the other end of the tunnels and a welcome break at a surprisingly little stream where shoes and socks were jettisoned and lying in beautiful, gorgeous rocks – oh, how I love rocks! – it really was, ah, this is the life! Stream and valley and sun and water and gently and clear and quiet and relax…never anything finer; absolutely marvellous!

I lay there for a long time; I cleared out some silted-up channel that looked a little sorry for itself and felt happy again to see the waters flowing, my child-glee on haunches to watch that man-made current alive and free once more. I balanced one little rock and loved it; I cleared some garbage from the bank and out of the water; I leapt around a little, showing off, jubilant in my remembrance of barefoot sprightliness among my beloved river-rocks. I was happy there; I loved it; I rode on once more. I didn't know where I was going, just following my nose before thinking it was probably time to turn back soon, Penistone receding far into the distance behind steep hill climbs and the onset of the falling sun. I had a little look at the guarded tunnel entrance, marvelling at the coolness of the breeze that swept from it through heavily padlocked gates and railings. I rode on a little more, just to see what was around the corner. I found it.

Towering high to my left, high up on the hillside was what looked like a fairly sheer hundred-foot tall cliff face – climbability! I hid my bike behind the wall there, left my sweater and then began the ascent through heather and field and sheep. Oh, how I used to love to climb those hills in my hitch-hiking days, deep in Arizona or Montana or wherever I happened to be, just dropped off, just there, and then spying that big old rocky old steep old hill thinking, right, I just want to get to the top of that! Some lovely memories of hills outside Bisbee or Superior (from where I walked to Roosevelt Lake) in Arizona or that mountain in Montana, racing to the top up pathless paths, just for the hell of it – and then less so in Sedona, for example, that 2000ft climb for no real reason, trapped the night up there, scaring myself half to death twelve dozen times over – but it had been a long time and I guess I wanted a little something of that back. So off I went, quite a long way, and then up the cliff face – at the third attempt, too old/wise/afraid/can't-be-bothered to really want to scare myself again, that wasn't the point, and then out there at the top staring at miles in front of me of empty moorland, all heathers and streams and muddy little bogs and solitude. Bloody brilliant! I raced off into it and soon the world was far behind and, for all I knew, there was nothing ahead of me for another twenty miles.

You get up there, and out there, knowing that there's no-one around, and then you know what it means to be "supremely alone." Those were the words that came into my head; that was how I felt. I felt big. Ecstatic. Alone, and supreme. Yes, indeed, it is a supreme feeling…

I found, then, a mile in, some large rocks, obelisk-like, reeking of Stone Henge (but not that big) or the meditation seats around Crestone. I remembered Mount Shasta – "use your knowledge of the stones" – and I took me to lay down on a bed-like one looking back across to the other side of the valley. I was probably a mile and a half back to the road, really in the quiet of it now. Golden grass swayed all around me; the occasional explosion of alien-sounding birds and the chill of the wind the only sounds. The rock welcomed me into its bosom and as I settled in to lay I heard these words: "you should take off your shoes." I hesitated, thinking I'm only gonna have to put them back on again, but did it, the memory of how good and cool that rock would feel on my soles coaxing me into it. But socks were barely jettisoned and toes kissing rock when I heard these words: "you should take off your clothes." I sat back up and thought. "I'm not taking off my bloody clothes," I said, and lay back down. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but again I heard those words. I laughed. I sat up. It was cold, and the wind was getting up, and the heat of the day was fading. I laughed again. "Right," I said. I peeled off my shirt, I pulled down my trousers. I threw them in a glorious heap on top of my shoes. I stood naked on that rock, bare feet plunged down into it, legs big and strong as the trunk of a tree, torso and hardening, goosebumped chest leaping out into the moors, the sky. It was cold; I was naked; on a rock.

"Woo-hoo," I said.

I started sheepish, looking out for others, so aware of my nudity. The cold was bothering me so I ran a little and it died away. The running made me feel good, almost primeval, and I started to forget my nudity, my lack of coverings. I ran faster, feeling light and free away from the shackles and burdens of my clothes, my clodhopping hiking boots, their weight. The heather was soft to run on, the ground squelching black and soft beneath me; holes and hills buffeted me along and I just kept running, no longer fearing for my nakedness, thinking only of where my feet would land, how fast I could go, how good it felt, how big I was. My body was good! The feeling was excellent! I'd only ever done this once – in Norfolk, back in 2002 – but that was more of a stalk and a walk, not this prehistoric nakedness of streaking hunter across barren and bleak untouched heather moorland. The speed and lightness were wonderful; the not caring about the mud, the mess, the short, sharp pain of where I landed, jumping across streams, muckying myself up, hungrily looking for prey, feeling every inch the bearded naked caveman. It's as freeing as losing your shorts for a skinny-dipping swim. It's a marvellous, marvellous feeling.

I went about an hour like that, trying over and over to reach the top of the moor, to find the place where I look out onto the other side and see what was there – but it just kept going. The afternoon was well and truly fading by now, and I'd had my naked fun, lost all trace of hesitation, forgot even that I wasn't wearing clothes. I turned around and began my big stride back – and then thought, oh, how am I ever going to find my clothes in this? I don't know why, but I hadn't thought about that before I'd set off, I'd simply gone; now, it didn't seem so easy, and my first attempt took me way past where they should have been. I retraced my steps to the furthest place I'd got to and tried again – and failed, again, to find them, or to find anything that looked familiar, anything that I recognised. I laughed and thought, hell, I was gonna get rid of those boots earlier, and giggled at the thought of me making it back to civilisation, balls in hand, begging some rags or riding naked through the Pennine night, or sitting there on the train wrapped in my sweater making excuses about tickets left in trousers on moors and knowing how hilarious they would all find it. I got my back-up plan – the sweater left by my bike, and a soggy pair of shorts I'd fished out of the stream that although I'd filled them with garbage, including a baby's nappy, would still be better than nothing – and felt happy with that. I laughed about it, and implored the skies, and when I realised I had no idea where I was in those thousands of square metres of identical looking moorland and hidden streams and heathers I took myself back to the cliff face and thought I'd start from there – and when I got to back where I'd started I realised I was about a quarter of a mile off target even then. The sun was getting low and I thought I'd give it one more try.

I stood for a while, though, atop that cliff, looking down upon the road and one or two houses, and wondering if perhaps someone could see me, spying there through binoculars, wondering about the naked man, the beast of the moor, the crazy fellow with no clothes on lost up there so close to dark with the cold setting in. The thought amused me; I liked it. I wondered if they'd send for the police; I wondered, too, if aeroplanes could see me, this whooping mad pink shape leaping around from bush to stream to bush. By now the soft and cushioning heather had turned sharp and nasty, cutting my tender feet, making me long for my shoes, for it to be over. And yet, happy still, in the madness of it all…

And did I find them, once I'd regained my bearings from that cliff-top (or so I thought) and zig-zagged once more across that land? Was that them another half a mile or so later, ahead of me, in that grassy hollow? Or was it a mirage, this two hour search done me in, a cruel stone or rag masquerading as my cords, my shirt, my shoes? I approached carefully, I didn't want to get too glad – but it sure looked like them, the place where I had left them. Joy began to sweep through me; I warded it off; I didn't want egg on my face as I picked up that rag, that stone, that glint. Joy kept fighting through, though; it had to be them. I neared. I got there. It was.

Ten dark, hilly miles back to Penistone, a bottle of water – first in eight hours – and a fish from the chippy. Distance biked this day: at least twenty, and a lot of it up some serious hills; distance walked: about eight – and a lot of it naked! I ache, I stink, I'm dirty, it's late. Eleven in the pee-em I get home, ten hours after departure, back when I had no idea what Penistone was, where it was, what was out there. My toes are full of black, boggy mud. I like that. It was a good day. This is the life.

The biggest tragedies in my life

That my knees and hands hurt from too much computering
That I don't get to play football more than once a week
That I lost a thousand pounds on my last car (meaning I've only four grand in the bank instead of five)
That the back brake on my bike needs adjusting
That I'm very occasionally slightly unhappy
That I sometimes lose lives on Pacman when I shouldn't

The biggest tragedies in the lives of others

That they go home to abusive, violent, smelly partners
That they have no food, and watch their families die
That they will never know love or joy
That they live in daily fear of guns or bombs
That they have no limbs

Mr Onniss T. Factor is back again, saying, "talk about Y..."

Y, oh Y, oh why? Why did I do that? Why did I stop? What's the truth of that matter? And where did all go wrong? Or, at least, where did it all go? Y – who shall remain nameless – you were jolly nice to me, and we were lovers; we had great sex, we ate nice meals and watched TV; we…but that was about it; I guess there wasn't more than that. Yes, I suppose, that's what it all came down to – there wasn't more to it than that. You need to be able to look someone in the face and give your all to them, no holding back, just look at them and know…they're the one you want. I didn't want you – but, the thing is, wasn't it just your face that I didn't want? I mean, don't get me wrong, on certain days I could think you pretty…but on the whole? No, it just wasn't there. And that's not your fault – that's me realising that I'm shallow. But don't you need to find someone attractive? Does anybody really marry someone they're not attracted to, who they can't look in the eye and love the way they look, who they can't say, "you're beautiful, you're gorgeous"? Is that even possible? Always, that's how it was for me – that image, the lifting back of the veil, there in front of the altar, and me not being able to, not being able to have that feeling of falling into you, your eyes, your face – which is what I somehow equate to love. But should I trust my feelings or should I doubt myself, put myself down as shallow, as being swayed by things that aren't really important, that soon fade, that are mere superficial? Tough question – and one I don't know the answer to. Your hugs were good, your body was great – but that will soon fade too, as will mine – and your personality just swell; very compatible; lovely. I liked being in your arms. I felt love, and I felt love from you. It was only when I opened my eyes…

What if I were a blind man? What would make my choices then? Love, surely; feelings, pure compatibility, emotions, connection, mind. What if I couldn't see your face – how happy I'd be then! But I can, so how can I say? But saying that, though…I feel such a fool. How did I ever get to be so shallow, so swayed by things that just don't matter? What happened to the Rory that was all heart, all soul – only love?

But what if the heart's truth is somehow reflected/mirrored/told in the eyes? If I felt something real, shouldn't that somehow transfer itself through my soul to my brain, over-riding, overcoming? Don't they say "love is blind"? And I say again, does anyone really get with someone they don't find attractive? How could they?

No, I feel reconciled – even if, sometimes, I miss you, now that you are no longer speaking to me – and even then there's a clue, because I don't really care, don't really pine; I miss your sex, the contact, your skin – but your company, your love, a future of companionship and children? No, it's just not there, not now, not yet. How does one even know those things? I haven't a clue. Maybe we never do – maybe it just happens and it's not worth thinking about…

And now Onniss knows that I'm thinking about Z…

Indeed I do. Z is one of your first loves; you loved her when you were fourteen, and then later at sixteen, but you never had the courage to tell her so, to make a move; you've regretted that ever since (not because you think it could have lasted, but because it could have been for a time, and could have taught you things, and would have been done). You came back into her life around five years ago, and made something of a move – one brief night of 'shenanigans' – but you were too wild with your spirituality to see things clearly and she was too mixed up with her own, very different stuff for the two of you to be able to communicate. You lost touch again, until earlier this year; you were more grounded, more able to see things as they really were, and you laughed at yourself for the way you had been…

Yes, even though I still felt things I could see just how incompatible we were, how very different our lives and our personalities, how impossible it would be to share them, in any sense of the word.

But still, you felt things…

Yes, and I've felt them again. She feels good in my arms; I'm attracted; I like her a lot – despite her madnesses, which are probably even madder than mine! But the attraction is there. But…

But…

But I don't trust myself; I can't be sure of my intentions. I've seen now how I can be with a woman, and how I can lose myself in the chase, start dreaming things, start imagining that she's the mother of my children, "the one", and then…watch as it all crumbles once I've had my way, got what I needed in a physical sense. Not even 'the conquest'…actually, I don't understand it all myself – but it definitely seems to be there, and I don't really like it. Why do I want a woman like that? And how is it I'm so able to fool myself in that way, thinking I want more, turning on the charm, making them think it too (I do believe it) and then watching the bubble burst once the connection has been made, the passion consummated? No, I don't like it one bit and it makes me very wary indeed. I wouldn't want to do that to Z – I wouldn't want to risk it – and yet, at the same time, I would. How I wish it was olden days and men spread their seed as much as they could and women took genes and tried for the best! No hassle, no complications, no getting wrapped up in the future and pension plans and child support agencies and unfulfillable promises of fidelity and eternal love forever and ever! How I wish I didn't have to think beyond tomorrow…

I remember this one time – and I've never told anyone this – five years ago I was at Z's place and her son, then three, was laying there and I was struck so hard in my heart thinking that he should have been mine. It felt so real at the time; it really touched me deep. Now, though, I don't know – I mean, maybe there was something in that but…I guess I used to feel so many things, so strong, and – I just don't know if that's enough to make them real, to make them mean anything. I used to think I could save the world, for Christ's sake! I used to think I could be a Christ, my God! [lol] I mean, then, how can I trust my feelings on anything when I have the propensity to get so deluded? I'll be the first to admit I seem to spend half my thinking time in some crazed and fantastic make-believe world. I tell myself a lot – but who knows how much of it is true?

I don't even know why I want a woman in the first place; it seems to be this burning quest, this question that won't leave me alone, keeps seeking to force me to make some sort of choice between this one or that one – but why can't I just be single, just be free to not think about lifelong partners and babies and settling down and all the rest, like so many other folk?

Tell me Momma's story again…

Momma's story – yes, the one that started it all; the one following my Paris days with E, when I was bouncing backwards and forwards with her after our breakup and not knowing which way to turn, and Kestrel saying, "try not to come up with an answer now, probably in six weeks you'll know" – and on that exact day me being appointed to call Momma and her saying, "she's not the one; another will be coming before the end of August, a soulmate, forever and ever" and, again, that feeling right. But I meet no-one – except Y, who sort of appears around this time, but probably before this call, I can't quit remember – and then in my madness at wondering just how the hell this was going to happen I cry out, "just tell me in a dream!" and I have that dream where that little imp/sprite character comes up, gives me some wisdom and then says, "by the way, Z is your soulmate," just like that. I guess since then I've just been on this mission – wherever I've liked it or not. So I found her – didn't even have any contact details – and we eventually got together, and we were happy for a long time, and very, very compatible, and everything was groovy – and you know the rest. But that's what kicked it into gear – and that's why it's such a big thing with me, since our split. I guess it's the feeling that I'm supposed to be with someone – that I should be with someone, even though I can't say I really want to be – and maybe that's for reasons beyond my knowing, I just can't say. But I do just wish I could let it go. God, I don't even want a woman that much! So why must I think about it all the time? Why must I ponder these impossible riddles, trying to seek and answer, trying to narrow it down and get the clues to add up, lost, without markers, without guidance, without a map? I don't even know how you're supposed to tell! I don't even know what the criteria is! Is it how you feel when you look at them? Is it how you feel in your heart? Is it how you feel with them after one day, one month, one year – because that will surely change, for better or for worse – or is simply, "who will have you"? I honestly haven't a clue – and I honestly do crave for a simpler day when choice wasn't an issue, when one was grateful to have anyone, and when one took the plunge and stuck with it, through thick and thin, whether they liked it all the time or not.

Does that answer your question?

What question?

Exactly! :-)

Bank Holiday

Marvellous! Lazy afternoon on the couch while the world is shopping or stuck in traffic, Charlton Heston hogging several channels and even more hours on the TV - fall asleep in the middle of Planet of The Apes, wake up for the end of Ben Hur, just carry on where you left off - and, best of all, athletics! Oh, those prize specimens of man, their bulging muscles and supernatural feats! I mean, how the hell do you jump eight or even nine metres!? Memories of those teenage years: Cram and Coe and Ovett; Said Aouita and various Kip-Ko-Kenyans coming from behind to triumph 1-2-3 in steeplechases, in bright-toothed victory; little gray haired choirboy Jonathan Edwards jumping further than anyone in history - must've had some Divine help - and then Ed Moses and Butch Reynolds, Carl Lewis, Heike Dreschler, Linford and Roger and the world's most famous Canadian, Ben Johnson. Oh, I could go on forever! Marvellous, I tells you - marvellous!

Final thoughts

It's now a month since I've eaten chocolate, cheese, biscuits, sugar or crisps - I think I've done very well considering how addicted I was! Now if only I could apply that determination to my computer addictions...

My yuvutu video has 2837 views, just over 600 more than my myspace blog.

I feel like I've changed from pure emotional expression; writing lately has been more examinatory, simply put there to see what's what and move on.

Does anybody know what the world records are for a) riding a bicycle non-handed; b) juggling devil sticks without dropping them?

Addiction 7 out of 9 (selected lowlights from DS:BB)

When Charley said, "Eat the shit out of my arse" (or whatever it was)

I so wished I was in the house when she said this so I could sidle up to her later in quiet moments and all deadpan say, "about that eating the shit out of your arse...." and just make her think I was into it, be the complete naive weirdo and freak her out; I think that would be a good way to handle her, sneak up while she's sleeping and whisper, "Charley, can I bum your head? Charley, can I take you like a frog and cum in your ears?" Imagine that! Imagine what she'd do then!

i have arrived at the land of the degenerates!!

yay!
lol but seriously guys you are making me feel sick

"Oh Charley, Charley, I don't normally go for fat girls' toes but yours are gorgeous...let me chew on them, Charley, let me dribble and drool on them and gnaw you like I gnawed me grandma's bones..."

ok beginning to worry bout rubs now

When I worked at the corporation that shall remain nameless we often had meetings about [...] (you know who) which probably went somewhere along the lines of, "you really ought to put a tick by his name," and, "there were seventeen Scotts in Neighbours; he was the eighteenth; he was the worst," before descending into Florentian episodes of causticnesses and solitude. That was back in the day before we had turtles (which my Uncle Jan invented) and before the Irish had turned Glasgow into a four-gallon bottle of flour. "The greatest thing I ever learned," he said, "is that little can be done without the love and support of a nice bar of soap and a roll of sellotape. Puddles can be crossed; mountains looked at; train timetables flicked through. The love of sellotape is all I've ever needed - and, really, the only thing I never got." I smiled hissilly like a well-worn record and kissed Norris McWhirter on his shiny tiny shoulder. That was pretty much the last I ever saw of him - well, that and Upton Beacon.

Upton Beacon!

No natural comedians

What the house needs is a total freakin' weirdo - someone who would actually take Charley up on her offer of eating the shit out of her arse. Arguing with her is what she wants; eating your bogies and peeing on your own clothes in front of her while she's trying to get a rise is what's needed, she wouldn't have a clue what to do with that.

I'd certainly find that funny!

errrr think we have a different SOH ;-)

Chanelle is a Goddess!

Or, at least 'round Wakefield she is!

I was walking around town yesterday and it really is staggering how many genuinely ugly people there are in these parts. Like, rough, man! Ziggy was dead on the nail when he said she's probably the center of attention of all her friends and that - she's probably one of the only people around here who would actually be allowed on TV. Honestly, the proportion is amazing!

(Apologies to all you (fellow) Wakey people, by the way - but you know it's true!)

:-)

Amy's cool! She's the only woman in there…

...who's shown any signs of maturity, self-awareness and emotional intelligence. She listens, she learns, she doesn't get over-excited (note the way she dealt with Liam, totally down to Earth) and she's not a complete bitch. Her only crime, really, was when she first went in there: a bit full-on with her moaning about the other HWHMs and maybe so keen to stay in there - which I thought was more self-preservation than anything; fair enough - that she came across as competitive. Well, those crimes and threatening the others by being 'together' and having her little bit of fun with Liam (totally understandable, given the circumstances).

The others:

Carole: horrible, black, malodourous presence that stalks the kitchen and control-freaks over everyone. Never listens, just talks over, has no empathy, just dishes out unasked-for advice without realising people just want an ear. No self-awareness at all.

Kara-Louise: blubbering wreck

The twins: Okay, so they're only fourteen, so you can't hold too much against them but...well, need I say more?

Tracey: generally sound, but - she's not really real, is she? Everything she says seems like it's at least one layer above what she's really thinking/feeling (whether she knows it or not). A real nodding dog.

Chanelle: hysterical, demanding, blind in both ears

Charley: who? oh yeah, 'nuff's been said about that demon-possessed monstrosity

Shanessa: actually quite nice, if more than a little desperate and self-deluded (among other things)

Nicky: miserable, moping, blinkered (have I missed anyone?)

For me, Amy stands head and shoulders above them all as a decent, intelligent, strong and sensitive woman, mature beyond her years. Just because she's a glamour model don't mean she ain't got no heart or head or brain!

Gerry a Laughing Stock – Come Swim In Gerry The Fool Gravy!!

The thing is, because Gerry's Greek he probably doesn't even like gravy and I bet he's never taken a bath in Yorkshire Pudding mix in his life! Tracey, on the other hand, has dredged many a canal and that's why she gets my vote. If you stuck the two of them together in a barrel and whisked it around I don't suppose they could make it across Niagara Falls but they'd give it a bloody good go! Can you imagine that? Ziggy'd be there in a leather tuxedo whooping 'n' hollering like a big left-handed chimp while Brain took stock and counted all the pins that Tracey's witless uncle had spilled across the road. It'd be worse than that old bean commercial where Keith Moon slipped on an Oscar-shaped meringue and landed smiling into Carmen Silvera's hat!

Anyway, at least that's what I think.

Funniest moment in BB8

Funniest moment for me was when liam was throwing poo around in the swimming pool

Carole's driving me mad!

Why does she have this total inability to listen to people? Why does she just talk over them, and tell them not to be upset, and totally disregard their feelings? Tracey needed comforting just now when she was upset, not to be told not to feel how she was feeling, or to be told that she could do the thing that she was blatantly feeling that she couldn't do - just give the poor girl a hug and listen to her talk about what's wrong! And then maybe she'll feel a bit better and be able to get on with the task. Carole's no mother - because she hasn't got a clue about other people's feelings, how to be compassionate, or listen, or make someone feel better, she just steamrollers them and totally ignores what's actually going on for them, intellectualising it away, absolutely without heart, without awareness. It would drive me mad if she did that to me - I really couldn't tolerate that - and I'd definitely have to tell her so.

Also, she's another one who makes me wish I was in there; makes me wish I was in there refusing to eat her food, doing my own cooking, or maybe getting pushed to the edge with all her rationing and controlling and just going in the kitchen early one morning and eating every single little bit of food that's in there, just to pee her off and see what she would do.

Most of all, though, it's that listening thing, that monotone drone, that way the grey mist falls down over her eyes and she gets so blinkered it's like she doesn't even see the other person, just the command to bleat out cliches and rationalisations and blah blah blah; that's what gets my goat...

And, there, I've expressed myself. :-)

Chanelle would have won if she had stayed in!

Chanelle would have turned into a poodle on Day 72 and non-human animals aren't allowed to win Big Brother, unless I'm very much mistaken.

Also, I have it on inside information that Sam and Amanda (aka, the wints) are going to start shrinking next week, and by finals day they will only be seventeen inches tall between them. BB regulations state that contestants must be at least two feet tall at all times, so they will be asked to leave the house, leaving the way open for Kara-Louise and Jonty (who are going to be revealed as twins, and therefore one housemate on Thursday) to seal a shocking, coming from behind victory.

Can I have some of whatever you're on please :-)

Sure. But you wouldn't believe me if I told you what it was...

Paracetendomol?

What was so great about Emily?

People who have several acting parts on their CVs can safely be assumed to have some acting skills? How do you explain Orloondo Bland? Sorry, Orlando Bloom, and Keira Knightly for that matter?

That's a very good point; I'd explain them in this manner: Orlando Bloom was a tea kettle salesman for Grundig back in the seventies, around the time when they used wind-up alarm clocks instead of remote controls (and you could also shave with them), while Keira Knightly - or to give her her full name, Steve Shapiro-Twig - grew up on the underside of a dustbin lid in Stockport, just outside Moon-on-the-Moon. Therefore, it bequeaths me to state that they don't really have any genuine, on-the-breath acting talent as their numbers will never add up to more than 13 (Orlando+Bloom+Keira+Knightly=7; Orlando+Florida+Bloom+Steve+Shapiro+
Twig=9; even factoring in for Bovril you can only get to twelve and a half) - and as we all know, acting talent can only really be measured in little upsy-downsy waves of Trevor's tremulousnesses and sandwich.

Amanda leading Brian on?

Anyways, the thing with Brain and Amanda says so much about so many of the people in our world today: he wants her, makes no bones about it, and she don't really know what to do, because she doesn't know herself, can't access her true feelings about it, and doesn't have the experience to know which way to go so she just kind of plays along and goes with what he wants while never really wanting it (I'll accept, of course, that she probably likes the attention and affection on some level). But how many young men and women get themselves in these messes everyday? How many people end up in bed and in relationships with others that they don't really like just because they don't know themselves, don't know how to say no? And how many go on with it for perhaps days or weeks or months, because they don't have the strength or the experience or the self-belief and self-awareness to find their truths? It's kinda heart-breaking in a way - because although nothing bad's really gonna come of this - 'cept, maybe, for Brian's broken heart - you could see how easily this could turn pretty crappy in the outside world, and just see how easily someone like Amanda would get dragged into something with someone she didn't actually want to be with, and maybe stay there for some time - if you know what I mean.

Best ever Diary Room moment?

1. John clapping a trumpet and Spoony wetting his whistle in a bucket of sod
2. Cameron waiting for over seven hours for Big Brother to say you can leave now, almost drowning in the process
3. When the elephant man (John McRicket) told BB to chew the ears off his own vomit and hung upside down from the ceiling like a bat humming the theme tune to Z-cars mashed up over a Ginger Baker drum solo
4. Simon Groom and Bungle doing the ditty dance in leotards
5. BB6 when Nadia ate Stan Laurel's shoe and then complained it tasted like a dead comedian's shoe. (That was my personal favourite)

What is to become of poor Kara-Louise?

I think she'll probably open a cats' home and then perhaps get a job on the side flying hot air balloons for elderly rich bachelors in Morecambe. In later life I imagine her wanting to settle down somewhat and concreting herself into a cheap home-made conservatory as a way of ensuring that rats don't sneak into her bun cupboard and leave little messages about "unwanted candyfloss" or "detrimental to the state boardroom", etcetera. When she dies she'll ascend to heaven in a fiery chariot and sit at the right-hand side of God, just behind John the Baptist but at least three seats closer than Bert (out of Bert and Ernie; Sesame Street) and then they'll all just kinda sit there for eternity (or until the chippy opens, whichever comes sooner) sharing toenail anecdotes and trying to guess which way one another's eyes will be pointing the next time someone says, "Butlin's". That's what I think.

I feel like I'm on drugs just reading that. Keep talking!

Happy to.

But need subject.

Mrs Dalloway

or condaleeza rice

Well as you well know, Mrs Dalloway is a book by Big Virginia Woolf, an actress played by Ernest Borgnine in the famous seventie's sitcom, "I shot Alice in her frying pan switchboard and left an awful lot of cucumbers behind, forgetful." Now, when Mrs Dalloway was seven she got a job swinging on a rope from George A. Romero's left trunk and toured with him in various villages around North-East England; one day they were here; one day they were there; another day they might be here in the morning and there in the afternoon (or vice versa); another day they could be there in the morning, and then on their way to here around lunchtime, and then they might decide that they're their was there and say, "snuff" and stop off for an egg and fried ear-muffin in John Little's little john for breakfast. Rice was coming fast (that's not what you think it is). Anyway, old Mrs Dalloway felt sick and died and that's the end of this story. Did I mention Rice? When I look in the mirror I think I see shapely maid's undercarriages but it's probably just my own reflection.

Rice!

Carole meets Gorson Brown

"Goddamnit Carole," said Gorson Brown, long lost invisible werewolf-shaped twin of the recently behedged prime minister, Chris, "I needed that toaster fixing this time yesterday, not tomorrow."

Carole sighed into her eye-holders and quipped. "Last night's tea get you down, Gorson?" she said. "Probably because I licked it before you went to bed."

"Do I even know you?" he said. The chef came in then and danced a bit before lying in Carole's mighty lap and peeking up her bosom. His eyes were on storks; storks were on butter; butter was on Jim Jarmusch; and Jim Jarmusch was on Carole, that's the way it goes. The chef licked his lips and slipped a hand inside her liver and gave it a squeeze.

"Ooh," said Carole, "I'm not sure about that." She took out her notebook and wrote down the names of all the people who were born within a ten mile radius of Upton-on-Severn during the reign of George the Fifth. "Your hands are cold," she said.

Chef smiled and bleated his golden-eared niblets at her.

"Lady," he said, "that ain't my hands."

Sure enough, Carole looked down and saw Gorson Brown (the third) smiling in her lap and unplugging a variety of gadgets from his unbeknownst tentacles.

"Gorson?" she said, "I want you to stop that."

"I will," he replied, "right after I've told you about this dream I had where Angelina Jolie was climbing up the telegraph pole outside our Colin's flat and trying to pin some flag up there declaring umbrage on all things garment; she never made it though; her lips were too slippery and kept getting caught in the railings."

"Gorson," she said, "I'm warning you - either replace my giblets and put those slobbering dice tentacles back where you found them or I'm going to call your mum and tell her about the squirrel you keep locked in your slipper drawer filling out all those applications for fraudulent bus passes in made up languages that don't even exist."

Gorson licked her lungs and climbed a little further inside; he was up in her spleen by now; he had one toe dipped in her prostate.

"You underestimate me, Mr Bond," he smiled, "I've got one of the largest little envelopes in all of Scotland - and there ain't nobody gonna stop me." He laughed long and loud - and then short and quiet - and then neither long nor short and at a sort of undulating, varying in-between sort of volume (probably about seven on the Richter Scale). By this time, though, Carole wasn't interested - she'd already fried her best friend's donkey in old Kajagoogoo records and feasted on the dripping remains in between two nice, soggy pieces of bread. The battle was won, she figured; Chef and Gordon were two mice in her own private world of donkey sandwiches and entrails; even a Michael or a Martin couldn't touch her now. How wrong she was.

"Hi," said Michael, "I'm Martin." He reached over to touch her. His arm was thin and pink with little hairs on it, sort of like an arm.

"You can't touch me," she gurgled, and unzipped her eyes for the fourth time that day.

But he did.

rubsley.

What are you on? I want some!

All because The Lady loves...

Mr Onniss T. Factor knocks on my door, slides himself past me into the hall, takes off his coat and flops idly into a chair, his feet draping over the arm. It's three years since I've last seen him; he looks exactly the same. His cap falls over his eyes and he pushes it back into place.
    "Are you ready to begin," he says, not really asking, "because I think you are."
    I close the door and walk slowly over to the computer. I sit in the chair there, even though it's the least comfortable one in the room. I lean back a little and swing.
    "Tell me," he says. "why do you think your last relationship ended? Or, at least, why the two of you aren't together anymore."
    I sigh. I know the words are going to come out of me. There's no hiding from Factor, he knows me too well. I can see the words and sentences beginning to form already – they're there in my head; they might as well be here, in this room.
    "It was something to do with another woman," I say, "my lust for her and my thinking that I might be better off with her. It was because I called my ex by her name by accident over Christmas, and when she asked me if I'd been thinking about her I said I had, said it was because I thought she might be something of a muse for me, a creative inspiration. My ex got really mad at this and wouldn't let it go, and I never understood why – until a few weeks ago, when we discussed the meaning of the word, and I realised she thought it was something pretty heavy – a lover, a soulmate, a companion you share everything with, every special thing – and I understood why she had been so hurt – on top of the name thing – and why I thought it meaningless, because to me it just meant someone you hang around with and then go away feeling inspired. But we never figured that out at the time, and I guess it put something of a wedge between us. Misunderstandings; semantics. It's amazing how difficult it is to talk sometimes, how even the simplest words can mean such different things to different people, and how hard it is to get down beneath it all and make oneself properly understood. I've tried to express myself as plainly as honestly as I could – and so often I've found myself misunderstood; little wonder I sometimes wish I didn't bother, kept schtum! But…I guess there was something in it, too…a feeling of something else, of – maybe that I couldn't see her anymore – in the sense that, not that she was invisible, but that I had perhaps, you know, taken her for granted, ceased to feel that special thing you do in the beginning, the wanting, the longing, the magic, the gratitude; I guess I stopped caring. Being a teacher perhaps messed me up too – the stress of it, the worrying where it would go, how I would find my way through it. The not sleeping, the workload, the demands of the job. That was hard, and I'm not really sure if she ever understood that, ever took that into account – only saw that she wasn't getting what she wanted and then demanded it more, which only made it harder. I remember before that, though, when things weren't so tough, while she was away for a few weeks, while the World Cup was on, that my life would be nothing without her – and that was just the end of June! How did it slide away so quickly? How did it all change so fast? Was it school, the intensity of it, the misery, or…was it something else?"
    Onniss T. slides a little further down into his chair, folds his hands and looks at me from under his cap. He raises an eyebrow and nods me to go on.
    "I can trace it back to September," I say, "like following a thread, a railway track, a trail of black chalk scratched into the pavement – to the argument we had over her mum coming to visit, how she wanted me to drive to Glastonbury to spend the weekend with them there. I said I had too much work to do for school and, anyway, I'd just spent four days with her mum at home, took her out, chatted, etcetera; I didn't see why I had to go all that way just to spend another day or so with her. She said family was important, that she needed to be with somebody who felt that way, who would make that effort; I just couldn't understand that: I mean, it was a long drive, I had too much to do, and – hadn't I already seen her mum? Why the need for this extra time? We went for a long walk and talked it over – but that, too, just put a wedge between us. I wouldn't compromise, wouldn't budge, and I said if that's what she needed from someone then I guess she was with the wrong guy and that we'd have to end it, because I couldn't give it. 'If that's an absolute requirement,' I'd said, 'then I don't see how we can go on.' I'm not sure if that's what she meant – but we did go on. But in the spirit of openness and honesty on that talk I mentioned things about sometimes thinking I'd like to be with someone who had big boobs, someone who really, really loved sex – though pointing out that they weren't requirements, just things I sometimes thought – but I guess she took those things to heart, too; welcomed them into her thoughts; made them a home and stored them away and kept them safe for some other day, some other argument, some other reason to resent me. You think you can just say things, let them out, recognise that they're just thoughts, desires, fleeting passes of fancy and that that'll be okay – but it isn't, it can't be, it won't. Or, at least, it wasn't on this occasion. She brought up the thing with her mum over and over, and perhaps something in me gave up, because here was this person saying they needed this thing – and there was me saying, 'I don't have it in me to give, and I'm not prepared to change.' To me, I suppose, there wasn't really any way forward – if you need something, you need something, it's as simple as that, and if you're not prepared to go beyond it, to relegate it to preference or desire, then you just have to look elsewhere. I guess I'd always had this idea that there was someone else for both of us – probably motivated and fed by my desires for freedom, for something unknown, for the unexpected new (aka, not wanting to commit) – and so it was easy for me to slide into that and let it be. Life went on, and the pressures of school, of work, of teaching continued to mount, and I guess, inside, I continued to die. The thing she wanted from me grew smaller all the time, and I escaped all this by moving into a world of computer addiction and avoidance. And because I was her all – because, frankly, she had been crap at finding her own life there – she was left with nothing. Resentment grew, communication stalled, and despite our plans for a new start – a holiday in India, a move to new jobs in Yorkshire, close to family, old friends, a more welcoming part of the country, and perhaps looking to start a family six months down the line – things came to a head over Christmas, on a holiday to Canada – when I did the name thing, when I admitted to thoughts of another – and the nails were all lined up and waiting to be hammered into place. Quitting the job and having a break had done me good, however, and I started to feel my old self come back; I was excited about Yorkshire – unrealistically so – and looking forward to the change, for both of us. Unfortunately, I chose to stay with the other during a brief trip up here – truly, I swear, out of pure gay-hearted naivety and Aquarian future-child innocence – and that was the final straw for her. She felt I belonged to another – and maybe a part of me did. She changed her plans and headed for elsewhere, the other end of the country, and I stuck by mine. And the thing is, maybe it was for the best. Since then, she's become the thing that I so much tried to encourage her to be during our time in Canterbury – independent, fun-loving, with her own friends, pursuits and hobbies – things she hadn't sought during our time together, too easy to retreat to the comfort of my arms, our togetherness – the glue that binds becoming the glue that got us stuck – and I suppose maybe I've found something too. More, though, I guess I've acknowledged where I went wrong, and where I was a fool to myself and where I was disrespectful of her, ignoring the truth of what I've felt, and trying to pretend that things weren't there. I'm so easily led by own thoughts and fantasies sometimes, so naïve and unrealistic, so quick to believe in things that aren't really true, aren't really based in reality…I'm waffling; I'm getting vague. The crux of it is I felt and thought things about another woman, and whether they were expressed or not, she must have picked up on them in some way. I've investigated those things now and I've found – at least, I'm ninety-nine percent sure I've found – that there's nothing in them (you look closely at the illusion and the illusion disappears) and I've now come to accept my part in all of this. I chased breasts, I chased sex – I followed the desires of my pecker, as all men are supposed to do, in the myths of our badnesses, and I got my just desserts. And for her part, she lost herself in me, and ignored her own desires and needs, and together we stifled and killed what we had. Throw in a dodgy living situation – not a great part of the world; barely anything in the way of family or close friends to provide support; the stress of my job; a computer-addicted man – and add a handful of slight but important misunderstandings and it's little wonder it all crumbled. A little time apart, a little perspective…a little space to see ourselves, to be ourselves, to refind ourselves and our lives away from the other…that can only be a good thing. It was my fault that it ended – and yet, given the result, the benefits that have come, it's hard to regret it; I guess it's because life is about learning, and I've probably learned more having lived through this than I would have done having not; something like that. I…"
    Onniss T. Factor smiles and leans forwards towards me. He puts his hand on my knee, leaves it there for a moment and then slowly stands up. His cap has gone and now he's wearing a top hat and carrying some fancy-handled walking stick.
    "I'll show myself out," he says. He tips his hat to me and leaves.
    I ruffle my hair and sit confused in my chair.
    "What was all that about?" I say. I shake my head and turn on the computer; the monitor sparks into life and shines bright upon my eyes. I upload this entry to my myspace space and then watch Big Brother, then bed.

The Glid, The Blid, and The Bluggly

I had a nice week: I played some hardcore football and squash; got all productive and busy in the shop; and yesterday night ate lovely sushi with three of my volunteers. Also went through about three bucketloads of rice and lentils and fruit; still no chocolate or sugar in three weeks now. Not that I'm getting any smaller, mind - just the opposite. I guess it's 'cos I'm thirty; they always said it would come to this. But, yeah, a jolly good week - and I've not much more to say about that.
    I did, however, get a bit carried away with my latest 'social networking' fad: leaving lots of messages on people's answerphones; replaying my own messages over and over again and sharing them with others; and walking the streets with all my photo albums under my arm and kind of showing whoever I could find pictures of me and various people on nights out, holidays, etc - I probably went a bit far with that. Also telling people how I was doing every five minutes or so, telling them about my favourite music and films, sharing my surreal witticisms in order to show what a jolly japester I am. It's maybe a little compulsive - but, at the same time, really genuinely nice to connect with so many people in such a cool way. I like having friends! Answerphones rock!

Cheers!
Rory

Adventuring it

So the main event of the weekend was my heading down to a big family farm just outside the island city of Tewkesbury for some birthday party, someone from X's work. The idea was either to meet her in Bath on Friday or Saturday and ride up with her, or maybe just meet at the place. Either way, I was easy, and when it came time to sort out of my travel – necessitating innumerable internet searches, coin tosses, convoluted attempts to find "the best deal" and unnecessarily agonised decisions – I realised what I really wanted to do was "adventure it." I did buy my return ticket, for Monday evening – for the bargain price of £21.50, Bath-Wakefield – but all I could think of in that mire of buses and coaches and trains for getting there was those two words. Coin confirmed and it all felt good, and sometime Friday lunchtime I took me a local bus down to near Woolley Edge services on the M1 just south of Wakefield to begin.
    The first thing I noticed was this: how horrible the bus ride made me feel. All that winding endlessly 'round country roads on a stinkingly hot day; all that going up and down, all that exploring every little village along the way, like some curious animal, all that taking forty minutes to go about five miles – I felt sick. And it made me so, so glad that I had shunned the National Express, even though that was by far the cheapest and most sensible option I had found. I really can't do buses, so cramped, so painfully slow – especially when they involve London! Oh, it's making me queasy just thinking about it…
  The second thing was…well, I ended up finally departing still about four miles from where I wanted to be, and got my head down for the march through fields and down country lanes, and after about ten minutes I realised that was pretty much all I was doing – ie, getting my head down and marching. I still had my city head on; my brain was running fast and I was oblivious to my actually really nice surroundings. That bothered me, for obvious reasons. I carried on, though, and then, after about forty-five minutes, I noticed my mind had changed, become calmer, happier – an almost spiritual happiness – and I was starting to appreciate my surroundings, getting more and more chilled out. The power of time in nature – and so little time! – and the power or using one's own limbs, to walk, to hike, to just get out there. The city and that bus ride faded behind me; in front, only the unknown and freedom; on my back, only a guitar, a set of devil sticks and a change of clothes (no sleeping bag). Everything I needed for my weekend away.
  By the time I reached the services I was so chilled out I decided to have a little lay down rather than get all wanting to hit the road straight away. I dunno, I had this sense that timing was on my side, that I could do that and everything would still all work out. I mean, it was by now about two o'clock – way later than I had wanted to be leaving, thanks to errands and bus rides and walking – but, to be honest, all through that I'd just had this sense of not rushing, of things unfolding in their own sweet time. It reminded me of hitching in America, of that sense that the perfect ride was always going to pick me up, that they were there, somewhere up the road, heading my way for me, and all I had to do was be in the right spot at the right time. Sometimes I'd wait for perhaps an hour or two, gainly and vainly thumbing it when what I'd rather be doing was laying in the bushes taking a nap, and when that perfect ride had appeared – the perfect person, going to the perfect place – I'd just think, man I shoulda followed my instinct and got laid out under that tree, it would've all been the same in the end. Slowly, I think that started to sink in to me – and on this day, I was really feelin' it. I mean, I had a long way to go – wherever I was going; not that I knew – and it was getting on a bit, time-wise, but still there was no sense in rushing, that was what I felt inside. Finally, satisfied with my laying about, and having exchanged insults with some passing moron in a white van (he started it – though I shouldn't have retaliated) I got up and stuck out my thumb.
  Twelve seconds later – the second car that came upon me – I was on my way.
  We did the whole thing of, where you going? etcetera, and I told him I was kind of heading generally South, had to be in Bath in the morning and was thinking I'd either end up there, or land at some friend's place in maybe Oxford or London or Worcester or Bucks, and I was really just seeing where the road was taking me. That was my plan, basically – I knew I'd end up somewhere that I knew someone that I was wanting to visit – or, if not, I'd end up somewhere else equally as cool. Thing was – and this is the superb beauty of "adventuring it" – life had other plans even beyond my own loose ones – for the chap who picked me up was going all the way to Norwich, and would be driving right past the home of a good old friend of mine from school days who I had been wanting to go to visit for some time but who I had totally discounted for this trip given that Norfolk is probably the other end of the country from Bath, and an almost impossible hitch in the timeframe that I had. A couple of surreptitious coin tosses later, however, and it was Dereham, Norfolk that was confirmed as my destination – lovely, lovely Dereham, with it's ever-so-friendly teenagers and holy water, and memories of my time there working as a postman, sleeping comfortable in a graveyard (yay!) and being madly high. I realised that by going there I was totally jeopardising the possibility of my getting to Bath – and, with it, risking the not-inconsiderable wrath of X – but, that's the thing with adventuring it, you just have to surrender to where life wants you to go, and forget about your own plans, and go with the flow. You've got to trust that where you end up is where you're supposed to be, that everything will work out for the best, and that there's a higher wisdom at work here than your own mere ideas of what you think should happen, what you want to happen. You've got to let it go. So I did.
  And me and that guy, well, we hit it off, and had four hours of good chat and good company, open, honest, thought-provoking, inspiring. As is often the case, I felt like I had something for him, that he was in a position of perhaps needing some answers, some direction – ok, as I often am too! – and that the things I said were of some use to him. As is often the case, it seemed like a perfect match, and our conversation flowed without effort, supported by that unique hitch-hiking dynamic that seems to enable people to really open up quick-sharp and express what's going on with them without fear, for some reason (thinking those North American truck drivers who had themselves on the metaphoric psychiatrist's couch within minutes of me settling into the seat next to them). It was cool. It was a real endorsement of my having chosen to go that way. And it wasn't to end there.
  My friend lives in Scarning; that's a couple of miles this side of Dereham, and the plan was that I would be dropped off there. My ride, however, missed the turn-off, and ended up taking me into Dereham itself. No matter; I could get some holy water, I could have a little wonder 'round town – and, in any case, my friend hadn't replied to my text to let her know I was coming, so maybe she wasn't even in; at least from Dereham I could find my way elsewhere, to perhaps another friend's place before it got dark.
  I set off walking merrily towards town – oh, good old Dereham, how pleasant you are! how funny my memories of you, and how nice to land so suddenly somewhere so familiar! – and after a bit of an unexpected detour I neared the centre. In fact, I realised I was walking past this pub where my friend and I had once sat in the beer garden on a sunny afternoon – and today was a sunny beer garden kind of afternoon too. I stuck my head over the fence; I had a quick look around…I spied the flowing blond hair of what looked like her son; I saw it was him. I smiled, and entered the pub, and tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned around and leapt up and gave me a hug and said, "oh my God, what are you doing here?" She was very happy to see me! And it was great to see her too! And, the thing was, it turned out she hadn't actually got my text – oh, blessed surprise! I love it when it works out like that! – because – here's the kicker – she didn't even have that phone anymore. I guess I don't need to spell it out – but I will: if he hadn't missed that turning, if the timing had been out by an hour either way, if I hadn't taken that route into town, if I hadn't looked over the wall, if I'd got to the services a little later or a little earlier, if I hadn't laid down and waited those extra few minutes…simply put, perfection. I settled in to the table, met the people there, and excitedly told her bemused friends exactly how I'd come to be there. What fun! And – oh, when will I ever stop talking?! but it doesn't end there! – she also had another visitor for the weekend: the man who married my first-ever girlfriend (who I saw for two years, 16-18; they got together not long after that) and the two children they had together (they're now separated). He and I haven't ever really talked much – I mean, I haven't seen her since I was 19 – but we got a good chance then, and really hit it off. His kids too, with their striking traces of my first girlfriend's face, were super-nice and had bizarrely seen me on Countdown when it was shown a few weeks ago, so knew who I was. Talk about a magic, magic day! And then our merry group wound our way through Dereham fields and streets – via delicious and marvellous as ever Dereham holy Saint Withburga spring water – into Scarning and hilarious curry and chatter and giggles and music and conversation and children and massage and contented 2 a.m. on-the-sofa sleep and everything seemed just right.

Totally unrelated to what I've just written, just here to break things up, a list of the graveyards and churches I've slept in, in chronological order:

1. Just across the street from my mum's house in Wakefield, when me and Shawn turned up late one night during his visit in 2000 and couldn't get in. Was slightly scared, I seem to remember.
2. Also in Wakefield, in some old churchyard out in the sticks somewhere, trying to sleep on one of those big stand-up flat tombs, just for the experience. Wasn't very comfortable.
3. Inside an old church near the Dhamma Dipa meditation centre in Herefordshire (when I'd turned up late again one night!) remembering that they didn't lock the door. Nice.
4. The cemetery in Dereham, for about a week or two (and then when I wanted to treat myself to a 'night out' after that) which was lovely, just in my sleeping bag under big trees that shielded the rain, such a peaceful and beautiful place – though it did kind of cost me my job as postman when they found out and started to think me a little strange…
5. In a little graveyard next to a church somewhere in Cornwall (Padstow?) with X, sleeping good and having some morning nookie while some old lady outside was making comments about sacrilege and the like.
6. St Damien and St Cosmus in Blean, Kent, a lovely little graveyard that was my home for my first night in Canterbury, when I turned up to start university in 2002.
7. The one in Wakefield again, while I was working as a delivery driver for VW and couldn't stay at my mum's place because she wasn't speaking to me, for one reason or another.
8. The last one, I think, was in a church in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, the day I got back from China in July 2004 and kind of wandered that way in the hope that my old friend Richard could put me up. He wasn't home, though – but somehow I found shelter in there, the place calling me to discover its unlocked door…

And that's my list of sleeping in cemeteries, churches and graveyards! Now – back to the present day, and Norfolk, and the "adventuring it" of the story in hand…

I woke early the next day, about 5.45 when bright sunlight shone down on my long sofa home, and took that as a sign that I was to get a move on, set about booking bus tickets and things for the long trip Westward. Dereham to Bath is only about 230 miles, and maybe four hours in a car (if you go via the M25, which I had no intentions of doing; five hours on a sensible route) but, as I said, a practically impossible hitch given such a constrained timeframe and the fact that it was Saturday, not a good day for hitching (not really any working blokes; lots of full-car families). Mainly, though, it's hard because there aren't really any cross-country routes – the motorways across the Midlands all run North-South, and there aren't really even any big 'A' roads – and you've got the very real spectre of lots of big cities in the way, which could make things very tricky. I spent a few hours on the computer looking up buses and trains again, and figured my best option was probably a bus to Peterborough and then a train to Birmingham, and then on towards Tewkesbury from there. That should have gotten me there by four – which should have been in time to meet X and her friends who were heading up from Bath in a VW camper van – and would have only set me back about thirty quid (given my wicked clever way of splitting train tickets at some unknown place near Leicester to halve the cost). Thing is, though, by the time I'd done all that I'd just made myself dizzy with the possibilities and also made myself late for the bus into Peterborough – plus, I'd remembered how sick and uncomfortable that two hour journey would be. And so, instead, and perhaps somewhat wonderfully predictably, with the toss of a coin I made my way to the A47 and stuck out my thumb, thinking, well who knows where I'll end up – or, at the very least, I could make Peterborough by thumb and avoid the bus part of it there.
  I was on my way by 9.15, a short ride into Swaffham with a couple of Max 'n' Paddy-a-likes from Yorkshire, down Norfolk way on a camping holiday at some nudist place ("we like to get our kit off," the big shaved-headed one worriedly told me, before I changed the subject). Remarkably enough, we arrived there just a few seconds before the bus to Peterborough, and there I was thinking, "safe option" and getting ready to shell out a few quid on the X1. Coin, however, told me otherwise – to my surprise – and it was back to the A47 and the mystery of the thumb (still thinking it was probably gonna be Peterborough, and then train). But my next ride were a couple heading off towards Cambridge, and I decided to sort of surrender myself in that direction, even though it wasn't really the right way, just having this idea that I should go wherever whoever picks me up is going. One more ride and I was by the junction of the M11 and the A603 – some nowhere road heading towards Bedford – staring at an unpalatable ride into London as my only real option. It seemed a bit pointless, though, only to get stuck on the M25, or to have to struggle to get into the centre just to take a bus or train anyway (Victoria! Blargh!) and in the end I stuck with the nowhere road – at least it headed West – and waited as the clock ticked by and my chances of getting there on time started to fade.
  Most of my rides had required maybe a wait of between two and five minutes; the first one of the day was fifteen, and that's a long time for me on these British roads (America was generally longer, but with longer rides at the end of the wait). This time, though, I was stood there for over an hour, passed by hundreds of cars – most of them still receiving their 'Rory wave' – and the situation seemed hopeless. Coin told me to stick it out, however – and I gave him numerous chances to take me elsewhere! – before I finally got the go ahead to walk a few miles further down the road to a better spot. In all, I wasted about an hour and a half waiting there – and yet, the thing was, I was kind of hungry and in need of water, and I'd been thinking about taking something of a lunch break, which would have probably used up a similar amount of time, but I was too keen to head on. In the end – you know what's coming – I was picked up promptly from my new spot, taken about ten miles down the road to some other nowhere junction, and then picked up promptly again there by a nice man in a fast car who was heading all the way across middle England, at breakneck speed, to within about thirty miles of my destination. It was ridiculous! The miracle had occurred! And, not only that, but he was another like-minded soul, a real inspiration to talk with, who gave me some great ideas and some fun conversation. The time and the road passed quickly as we sped through Bedford and Milton Keynes, a little taste of the M1, a skirt of Oxford, of Banbury, of Bicester, and the beautiful countryside of the Cotswolds. It was the kind of journey that could have taken all day, and in the end it took about an hour and a half. I was dropped off in Chipping Norton with a simple straight road ahead of me. Trust, and surrender, and faith – and the coin – had all worked again. A few more rides and I was nine miles from Tewkesbury, just as X and her friends were getting there. They took a slight diversion to come and pick me up and I happily climbed aboard their happy little vehicle, giving it one last thumb for good measure. The timing of the day staggered me: that I had basically arrived exactly where I needed to be, at the exact right time, after seven hours, several hundred miles, and seven different rides, against all the odds, and that I'd done it by sort of surrendering my will to life and just trusting that I'd get there – or that even if I didn't that would be the right thing too. Just trusting, basically. Another magic, magic day.

Questions Rory would like to know the answers to:

1. Why is it that the skin of a woman you haven't been to bed with (and her conversation) seems so much more alluring than the skin and conversation of one you have?
2. What would you rather eat: your own bogies, or your own scabs?
3. Has there ever been a fireworks display that wasn't about five or ten minutes too long?
4. How do you make the infinity sign on a myspace blog entry?

The party was okay. I'm not a big party man but I found my entertainment and chatted and danced and played. I built a thirteen-feet high tower out of oversized Jenga blocks, borrowing straw bales and small, shoulder-dwelling women to reach the upper echelons. I also pretty much blanked X due to my unmovable and inherent inability to talk to her when she's been drinking, even though I can talk to others, which she really hates. I just can't help it, though, and feel okay with it, seems reasonable to me. We had a good time back in Bath, however, and I took her out for a lovely birthday dinner at some nice Thai restaurant, drank lots of talking tea and expounded my latest theories regarding gay sex and the male/female dynamic, which I love to do, and we got on great. I'm so not sure about what to do about that though – particularly given the way my feelings fluctuate, and the way I end up feeling about others (ie, Y, Z, K(1-inf.) and U(1-inf.) – although Y is no longer talking to me) but I guess the answer is I don't really have to do anything, since there's no pressure to decide. It's certainly an interesting time though! Finally, I had an afternoon at the Bath Thermae Spa, which was pretty cool (actually, pretty lukewarm – ha!) and chilled me out nicely, and then it was onto the train for the long ride home, which wasn't quite adventuring it, but then I didn't really need any more.

In other news this week:

• I went Thursday to see my dad play in Leeds, with his band Green Mac. It was pretty cool; he's still got the chops. Also still the funniest man alive (as in, character) - during a discussion on the anti-smoking laws, which he's not a fan of, he told me, in all seriousness, that he's still not convinced smoking is bad for you, that it's one of those things they one day say is good for you, the next bad, like "sugar and potatoes." Priceless!
• Also Thursday had a wicked game of tennis with somebody I hooked up with via gumtree, a nice young bloke from Spain. We battled it out for about ninety minutes before he came through 6-4 7-5 (me surrendering a 5-3 lead in the second). I was happy with my game, considering it's been a long time, and happier still to do lots of running around and have a good competitive match, even throwing myself full length on the concrete court to reach one ball. I love tennis! It's so gladiatorial!
• Business is booming, and I'm feeling a renewed vigour and enthusiasm for it, glad that I didn't make a move anywhere just yet. Though it would be nice if my area manager could see the good work I've done - and not be so negative all the time!
• I also didn't eat any chocolate again. That's seventeen days without sugar now. I feel no attraction whatsoever.
• I found the best myspace site ever. It belongs to one of my Creative Writing tutors at UKC. Genius!

And now it's time for work! By-eeee!

Letters

Dear Rory, I've been watching you a long time and I feel kinda compelled to write as I think I know what your problem is – basically, you spend too much time on your own. You talk about dissatisfaction and that on here but I've seen you, moping about and wanting something different, and then the moment someone telephones you you're all happy and when they ask you how you are you say "great" – and you are, that is how you feel. At work, at play, in the company of others you're a very happy chappy, it's only when you get too much time on your hands and your mind starts to wander that you struggle. Sure, you could do better things with your time – eg, not use so much internet, not watch so much TV – but really it's just company you're lacking. I think you know it's true. The thing is, also, but for your misdemeanours in your relationship, and some misunderstandings, that wouldn't be an issue, you'd still be with your girlfriend. Plus, you two would probably be on your way to starting a family – and imagine how little time you'd have to ponder then, imagine how unimaginably different your life would be!
 I know, I know, you've got this "God thing", this "spiritual side" – but I think it's time to face facts: that you had that, but now it's a part of your past; that loads of people have some brief experience like that, and never taste it again, but keep it with them and find that it somehow enhances their lives without making it their everything; and that you use this as an excuse, as a crutch for wanting to escape the world, your life – ie, when dissatisfaction arises you somehow blame the world, blame the lack of spirituality in your life and want to run away from everything – yet in reality you do little about it. It's just moaning, just making excuses. You got a little too deep, a little too carried away with all that "wanting enlightenment, wanting God" stuff, and you're finding it really hard to let go of that, it's your comfort, and your way of avoiding criticism and commitment to the world. If you settle down, if you have a child, your life will be unrecognisable to the one it is now. Probably, that's where you're supposed to be. Little wonder that you feel something isn't right. I know you're afraid to commit – because, to you, commitment is a very real thing, to be taken seriously – but where you are now, you're just going round in circles. Remember, when you come to a fork in the road, take it. The thing is, though, there isn't even a fork where you are, there's just the roundabout you're stuck on and one imaginary and rather fanciful turnoff that doesn't actually exist.
    You need to go forward. You need to engage with life. You need to stop dwelling on the past, trying to recreate a life that can never be; you need to tell how it is, not how it was. You need to get real, and get ready for a little change. Stop moping about, stop with this complaining that you "miss God, blah blah blah" and accept the reality of who you are right now: just a fairly normal if fairly decent guy. Sure, you can do spiritual healings – loads of people can – and, sure, you have some awareness, some knowledge – loads of people do – but it's time to stop dwelling on that, be normal, get on with your life. Hell, maybe even go for a beer! (Just kidding.)

With love,
Your mystery friend (you know who I am)

The end of expression...

Blogging. Hm. Not sure I've felt this little about writing, hm – and that's not even a real sentence. You start, no you start. Okay, I'll start.

So tell me about your week, Rory.

Not a bad week – but I can't seem to remember very much about it. Bought a bike, on Monday, I think it was, and read a book about why men and women (and other people besides) have such a hard time understanding one another, which was quite enlightening. On Wednesday I went to see a nice lady doctor and she put her finger up my bum, which was nice, and gave me a kick. Can't understand why she asked me if I would prefer a male doctor, though – like, what guy would not prefer to have a lady do that to him, when given the choice? Strange. Apart from that, I worked, I rode my bike, I – oh, and I haven't eaten any chocolate in eight days now! Which has been interesting!

How so?

Well, Monday, when I first decided that I was maybe gonna have a month off eating like someone who wanted to kill themselves with sugar and fat, I was having major strong, almost irresistible cravings for chocolate and chips, and I almost gave in – but then Tuesday it had died down quite a lot, and by Wednesday it was pretty much gone – to the extent that I could hold chocolates in my hand and not feel any attraction whatsoever – although I had a really stonking headache, which reminded me of when I gave up caffeine. After that, I've had lots of snot, and a bit of a sore throat, and even some flu-like symptoms – and it could be totally unrelated, but it really feels like my body sort of cleaning itself out. The weird thing about that is, it seems to have really kicked in because I decided to give it a month – that seems to have triggered something. I mean, I've gone days without chocolate before – and not had headaches and snots and big massive cravings and things – but just making that decision to fight through it looks to have kicked something off inside my body. In any case, I'm pretty proud of myself that I resisted – and also amazed at how easy it's been, considering I was compulsively eating between fifty and two hundred grams of chocolate everyday, plus, quite often, biscuits as well. But once I broke that barrier, it hasn't been difficult at all. I think I must have quite strong will power.

Now about this lady doctor…

Oh yeah, well she sent me off for a blood test and then said they might have to stick a camera up my bum and have a little look around, which I thought was quite exciting, would be a brand new and pretty novel experience, etcetera – also made me think how easy it is to get yourself into that kind of thing, like all you have to do is go into some doctor's surgery and say, "I got some blood in me poos," and within a day or two you're getting a nice lady's finger up your arse. You could make a living out of it, if you wanted – or, not a living but, you know, you could make it a regular thing if that was your bag, it's really that easy. Still can't understand why you'd want a man, though…I guess maybe some people are shy, or don't just take it as a thrill. I've always enjoyed that kind of thing I guess – like going to the opticians: a very erotic treat with a nice lady optometrist all leaning over you in those monster frames with the light off about three centimetres from your face, her breath on your cheeks, in your ear saying, "better with this one…or this?" That's bananas straight outta the top drawer!

And I was wondering…how are you feeling about Wakefield? I notice you're still there…

Yeah, and I think I've decided to stop moaning about it – think I'm gonna try and be a bit more positive from now on. I mean, moaning's got its place, but it's being positive that really seems to draw things to you…so enough of that. And not that my opinion of Wakefield's changed at all – but if I want to do something about it then I will, and that's that. I know the only thing that keeps me here is my laziness, my lack of being arsed to get out and look for something else, the convenience – it's all my thing. Well, that and the ever constant idea that, "maybe there's some reason for this; maybe I need to be here, or maybe there's something else around the corner that'll require me to move quite quickly, that'll make perfect sense of my avoidance in moving to Leeds and getting involved in contracts and deals with other people" – I always have that. Thing is, that just keeps me from committing to anything, this idea that there might be something better, something different around the corner; I type that and that don't seem good. What can I do to change that?

Well, you could always just change that. Or you could ask the I Ching about moving from/staying where you are…

Say, that's not a bad idea…just gimme five minutes, will you, while I go and do a reading…

[Five minutes pass]

Hm, so I got Chapter 19: Approach – which, even in that word seems to talk to me about 'movement'. It also talked about "perseverance" and "persistence," and some troubling line about "misfortune in the eighth month" – which I guess I shouldn't really take too literally (I've been here six months now; I wonder if the spirit of this house/this town/my brother is sapping me somehow). Finally, my second changing line said, "Approaching with friendliness. Things go well. It is not a mistake." I guess that's pretty clear-cut! I mean, what I'm really looking for here is the assurance that there's not some good, hidden reason to wait it out in Wakefield – something I haven't yet seen, in which case old I Ching would quite clearly tell me to wait (which I wouldn't like, but would do), whereas this is just the opposite. I guess I have the green light then! (Also seemed to be some encouraging remarks about getting with others – perhaps more like-minded people – but I suppose that'll have to remain to be seen…)

So you're gonna go for it, then? Whatcha gonna do?

I dunno – put some effort in, perhaps? :-) That would be novel! Yeah, I'll put some effort in – I'll try, at least. I'm such a lazy boy at times. But, hey, I'm dying out here, I need to save myself. Agh, it was never this hard when all I had was a backpack and a tent, and a great fondness for standing by roads with my thumb out, waiting for a –

And there you go again, harking back to the past…why'd you do that?

What?

Why are you always harking back to the past?

Trying to relive something, I suppose – trying to recapture something…of my youth (I almost said).

(You did say…)

Trying to…I dunno, get back the life I once had, the life I used to live, the – listen, I just feel like something got lost along the way, or that life was better like that, and I have this real desperate urge somewhere inside to "get it back on track." I don't think I've turned out how I was supposed to – I think I had much more to offer than this: I mean, how did I go from people thinking I was Jesus, doing healings, having crowds of teenagers flock around me for hugs and singsongs, travelling, wandering, having insights and realisations and feelings, miracles and stuff, to being this guy who watches too much telly, uses too much computer and, even on a bright blue-sky day, can look out the window and just think, "oh, there's nothing out there," and go back to getting fat and wasting time. How does that happen?

Tell me something: when was the last time you felt at home somewhere?

Probably at Vipassana, at Dhamma Dipa, cooking food and hanging in the kitchen and doing lots of meditation and having spiritual chats and things. I definitely felt like I was with my kind of people then.

And after that?

Then there was Amsterdam, and Paris, and…Wakefield, Canada, Dublin too – and I guess that was a bit weird, like I never really fitted, like I was always looking for somewhere else to be…

And then?

And then? Dereham! And I've fond memories of that! Because, sure, I was still crazy, but in what felt like a good way – 'cos I was hanging out with all those kids, and they dug me, and dug that scene, and we had lots of magic times, with the healing and the discussions and the holy water and the girls saying, "give him a hug, it's weird" – and me knowing that's because they were getting something from me, picking up on that divine energy, getting a transmission – similar to at Dhamma Dipa, I suppose – and that was a magic time, full of growth and happiness and love, even if I was still a little on the outside (was I? no, I don't think I was) and perhaps some of the townsfolk thought I was a bit weird for wanting to sleep in a graveyard and hang out with teenagers, even if it made perfect sense to me. Man, grownups are so boring! – they're just like me, as I am now – what with their teevee and pubs and just sitting around not doing very much, at least those kids had life! Yeah, I dug that – but I guess it wasn't sustainable, was it? No, I guess I needed more…

University.

University, yeah – and that feeling I had when I got accepted, walking down the High Street, suddenly, for like the first time in five years or something not feeling totally and utterly different to everyone – all the normal people – around me, feeling like I'd come back down to Earth; that was refreshing. And yet I look back now and wonder if university wasn't the undoing of me, if that wasn't the start where everything started to trickle away from me – because it was a trickle, it wasn't an overnight thing, but…that's the question: how did I go from barefoot, graveyard-dwelling, Jesus-a-like to a bunch of Norfolk teenagers to barefoot, caravan-dwelling, long-haired juggling student, to be-shoed, house-dwelling, short-haired tie-wearing teacher, to teevee-watching, bored and boring, hair-concerned, material-chasing nobody? Weird, eh? [lol]

:-)

It was the girlfriend, was it? Did she change me? (Read as: did I choose to change for her?) Or was it time? The natural-aging process, the inevitable comedown from the vagaries and wildnesses of youth – especially a travelling, wandering, sadhu-like youth such as mine? Was it just nature? Was it just the way it was meant to be? And is the only problem in all of this that I'm holding on too tight to what has gone? Or could it have been different? Was there another way? I rack my brain to try and find the turning in the road I missed – and I just can't see it, it all leads more or less to this point [of being 'normal'] so…maybe that's just it, maybe that's the way it's supposed to be…

But the thing you want most of all – beyond the freedom, beyond the adventures…

The thing I want most of all is God – to feel that Divine Presence once again, the magic, the miracles, the light, the wonder – spiritual growth, discovery, revelation, insight, mystical experiences…

And do you believe that it is possible to attain those things in what you call 'normal life'?

I do – at least, I've read about it, perhaps seen it in others…it just never seems to have been the case for me, I've only ever really found that in being out there, being on that cliff top, on that precipice, alone, in the wilderness, on the edge…living the traveller's life, being free, unshackled…

Why not?

Why have I never found it? I dunno, I guess I feel different when I'm living like this; I get sucked into different things. I don't know where to find what I'm after – and then I get dissatisfied, disillusioned, bored, and I fall into bad habits – and bad habits grow, like a fungus, until they're covering me completely. I'm lazy, I guess; I always said I was. Except being out there forces me, and I need that sometimes (a lot of the time; well, all the time). I need forcing; that's why the idea of living in a graveyard appeals to me – it still does; it did today – because it forces me to be outside, forces me out of my comfort zone and…well, my life in Dereham improved a thousand percent once I did that, moved out of that room and made my home among the genuinely dead, but…

Yes?

There was this story that always struck me, the one about the student asking his master, "what is Maya?" and the master, I dunno, walking away and then the student, I dunno, leaves him and gets married and has kids and works and argues and laughs and cries and then he gets old and dies and the next thing he knows he's sitting there with his master and the master's saying, "there, that's Maya," and I've thought about that fairly often over the years, 'cos I asked that question once, and I'm wondering if that isn't somehow happening to me – and then, if it is, isn't there a shortcut through it, why should I have to live all that when it's all ultimately pointless and can't I just get on with the real business of realising my Self, my Soul, my God? But then…perhaps it's my karma to have to go through with all of this, and reap the rewards in the next life – I guess that's the crux of it: do I want to settle down and have children (yes, very often I do) or do I want to do something else? Do I want to make a go of it with Sara, or do I want to jack it all in? I guess I'm caught somewhere in the middle, and therefore I go nowhere – and yet my ship appears – and has appeared for some time – to be sailing towards the former. But why don't I go for it?

[All together now!]

Because I'm scared that perhaps there's something better around the corner, and that if I commit to this one thing, I'll close that off and miss the boat when the time comes! It's everything, really, with me; it's moving to Leeds, it's committing to a job, it's having an accidental baby, it's being in a relationship, a town, a bunch of friends, a band, or on a university course, it's the whole lot – and I don't feel good about that! (It's making me restless in my chair even as I type!) It's making me –

And what do you want to do about that?

I want to do the thing that I would if I didn't feel that way. I want to take the course even if I don't think it's right, even if I might drop out, even if I might lose some money; I want to move to the house, even if I might move out, even if I might lose some money – because that's what those things come down to, at the end of the day, just losing money and perhaps wasting a bit of time (which I'm wasting anyway). But other things – relationship, family – are different, and that's why I'm wary to commit there. Hey, I'm a loyal guy! I guess I know my commitment means something, and that's why I don't do it so easily. I…oh, I don't fookin' know…I –

Listen, why don't you tell us about the reading you had in Glastonbury back in March, I know you've been wanting to share that for a while…

Okay. Well…the things I remember from that are – first of all, the guy is very good, I've seen him a few times before, going back six or seven years, and pretty much everything he said came to pass – and he's very specific, too, with times and events, not at all wishy-washy, although I wasn't so sure about this latest one. Anyway, the first thing I can think of is…he told me I ought to be getting serious about spirituality – and that's bugging me 'cos I know I haven't, and I really don't know where to start, and it just feels like I might be missing out on something big if I don't crack that one within the next year or so – but I really don't know where to start. Spirituality, once so real to me, is starting to feel so far away, like a distant dream – man, I read some of my journals from like seven years ago, all about 'cycles' and 'light' and, oh, I don't know what, and I could barely make head nor tail of them, they sounded so far beyond me, like a whole different language – man, that can't be good! :-) So, yeah, "take spirituality seriously" – and not that I take anything seriously, but I think that would be a good one. He also said I still had "mother issues" – which is fair enough, makes some sense – and that I could probably do some work to sort that out – which doesn't seem to have happened either. He said it was perhaps related to something with my mum from when I was "four or five" – but I can't think of anything there – and I'll be damned if I'm going to ask her about it.

(Why?)

(I just won't.)

He also said I might travel to the third world/Asia around the end of this year (and not to think about the money for it; fair enough) and that I would write three books, pretty effortlessly, that they were already done (which felt right; thinking my university essays) and that now (we're talking March just gone here) wasn't the time, but at the beginning of next year I would probably be ready (if I did what needed to be done now, which I'm sure I haven't!) And he said that I ought to get out into nature (for sure, when I think about it, spiritual-wise that was always what brought me the greatest gifts; haven't been doing that either) and also think about doing some shamanic kind of practice, a vision-quest or sweat lodge or burial or something – maybe something I had a resistance to, something I hadn't done before. I thought about the burial – I definitely have a resistance to being stuck underground, unable to move, trapped in a cave stylee – but haven't been able to find that anywhere either (and I have trawled the 'net and emailed several people about it) – so I guess I'm stuck. There was also stuff in there about relationships – which I probably messed up by getting with Y (and then perhaps X as well!) – and, oh, I don't know what else. But unlike his other readings, which seemed to all come to pass without much effort or thought on my part, this one looks like it should have required something from me, and that's bothering me now that I've got it all wrong. I guess before I was travelling and living in that tunnel of light so things were happening naturally; now I'm focusing on work and living (and gameshows! and Big Brother! and the curve of a girl's bosom!) and nothing's really happening. Not good! So that's that…

I'm sorry I don't have words of encouragement to offer you…

That's okay; I guess it's just me own stupid self to blame – but there's always the hope that I can put things right; there's always the hope that the big Divine Hand'll come down and save me. Getting out of this place would probably be a good start! Going somewhere new – living in a graveyard! – and lightening my load and being more 'out there' and investigating what's an offer would be nice. At least, that's all I can think of – that, and tripping into nature, a jaunt on Ilkley Moor, a three-day walkabout in the woods, me and my sleeping bag and, man, what all else do you need? I want to be light and free again – not just in my load, but in my heart, in my intentions and motivations and anti-laziness cream; I watched Gryf Rhys-Jones hiking some Lake District mountain and him going on about the "suicidal" Samuel Coleridge doing it in his suit with "only a change of collar and two books" in his knapsack – compared to all the gear old GRJ was carrying – and I thought, hey ho, that's the life for me! I could do that! I want to do that. I can't be doing with all these, you can't-types, with their hiking boots and full-weather gear and what-have-you – man, people used to go walking in the North Pole just in their suit 'n' shoes a hundred years ago, we've gone soft.

And you've started waffling!

You're right, I have. I'll tell you what.

What?

I'll tell you about church today.

Okay, go on then.

Okay. So I went to the Methodist one just up the road, and it was all right. There were plenty of hymns to get you all light-headed and out of breath – which maybe helps bring on a certain feeling – and the place was packed out with all these well-dressed smiling types looking all happy and ting. I sang the songs, I did the standing up, sit down thing, I got a bit of a high feeling and started seeing the golden glow all around and that Star of David symbol in my third eye, which I generally take as a good sign (if you'll pardon the pun) and I guess you can't really fault it. I also had a few realisations – one of which was to start being more positive, moan less (which I may well do tomorrow); the others I've forgot! – and maybe that lovely feeling of sadness when you can almost taste the thing you've been missing out on. But – he says; there's always a but (especially when we're talking Christian churches here) – I just don't think I'll be going back, because much as I like being in a place where your being gets turned towards God just through the simple process of singing a song, saying some words, showing up and opening up to that possibility, when it comes to the whole thing of, "oh Jesus, you're so cool, you're so much better than everyone else, you did this and that for us, for me" and, especially, that "one true faith" malarkey I just think, "what a load of tosh!" I just thought: this whole place – strangely enough – is way too Jesus-centric (and then, the deeper truth, is that it's way too Paulist, if you get my drift, but that's a totally different argument altogether). I mean, sure, that makes sense but – I'm sorry, to me, who's sat at the feet of Amma, who's had incredible experiences with Mother Meera, who's seen far more of God in Sufism, in Shamanism, in Sikhism, in meditation, in tai-chi, in yoga; who's studied the works and words of Buddha, of Lao-Tsu, of Krishna, Yogananda, Ramana Maharshi…well, I could never give myself over to those blind declarations of faith – and that makes me sad, 'cos there's another place that I quite like, but could never be a part of, must always be somewhat of an outsider. I like church – hey, church works - but I want a church that's about God – about getting close to God – and not about some idiot's misguided idea of God (there's that Paul again) getting in the way of it. Maybe I should revisit the Lentilian idea of worship...

Maybe you should.

Hey, listen, I don't really know how we got here.

That's okay.

I just feel that…this writing doesn't seem to be lifting my burden any more. Am I complaining too much? Am I just going over the same old things, and that's why it doesn't feel like I'm making any progress (oh, I don't like Wakefield; oh, I wish I was living how I used to; blah blah blah)? Am I…am I missing something here as well? I'm not even doing those random, fact-based fictions, those gibberishes, those make-believe people that are really aspects of myself anymore – and I quite enjoyed that. Something's gone wrong; maybe I need to live a little again, so that I can write a little again; maybe…God, is it really two weeks since I last saw my car? lol

[I shake my head and wonder]

Time's doing strange things to me. I feel better without chocolate. I coulda probably said all this in twenty words – not four thousand. I don't care that nobody reads or understands this. I'll satisfy myself with my non-lonely bed. I dreamed last night that my mum drank out of one of my pee-bottles, thinking it was cider; it was strange how much she drank before she realised what it was. I also dreamed that Thaila Zucchi was five foot four. I think I'm going off the idea of a celebrity girlfriend. I may be going off the idea of women full-stop. What I'd really like is a harem. I can't be bothered with all the rest of it. I know that's bad, but that's how I feel sometimes. Sometimes all I need is to be taken care of. Sometimes I wish I had a house-keeper, that I was a rich old Victorian philosopher that chatted with his men-friends in the parlour and debated and discovered all day and didn't even know how to make a sandwich. Sometimes I wish I was a beatnik, and just talked gibberish and I think I could almost do that, except I couldn't quite believe it and, anyway, I'm straight-edge and you can't be straight-edge and be a beatnik, not a proper fifties beatnik. Sometimes I wish I was a sailor, an explorer, a mountain-man, a boy who never came home because home wasn't possible, because everything was so far away before planes and trains and, anyway, there was so much of the world to explore. I think I'd better stop now; my wrists are aching and I'm just waffling pap. Things'll be different in the future, I realise that now. Thank you! By-eee!