Email to Perlilly

Hi loveliest, how's it going? I'm sure you're having a blast down there in France - it must be a really awesome thing to be doing. And not that I know if you're checking your email or not but I thought I'd like to write to you anyway. Me and Diego went out for a day in the Yorkshire Moors today, which was pretty awesome. We walked loads, bashed sticks, slid and rolled down heather-covered hillsides, saw some choo-choo trains, and chased some sheep (I was wondering if we could catch and wrestle them; answer: no) - pretty much all the things I like best in the world. We also found a ruined house and sat there eating bread and butter atop this high hill looking out into the valley below and it was pretty wildly awesome. Then I came home and this footbball team called me up for a game - with like five minutes notice - and I raced down to Kirkstall, played in goal - it was like a proper league game - and got man of the match in a 7-0 win! It was pretty wild - I don't know what came over me; I was saving everything. I think I'll call it beginners' luck, lest I jinx myself and play shit next week. I also had my first game in the squash league last night - which was a disaster, so the football helped make up for that a bit. I don't know what happened, I was just playing this guy and immediately realised I was better than him, and so didn't really try, and also felt sorry for him when he was losing, and before I knew it I'd totally lost. Same old same old! I was so mad I threw my racket into the wall and fumed about with my housemates for about an hour. Then we talked about pee and not wearing underpants and Nicky and Holly both said "cock", which was a bit of a shock (but I'm getting used to that by now) and that was jolly good fun. Tomorrow's the Oxfam area meeting; I wonder if they'll notice if I take my laptop in and do some writing or something. I could say that I'm taking notes.

In other news I'm looking into some hypnotherapy to get to the bottom of these commitment issues; I think I've realised it's definitely a thing for me, and I want to get it sorted ASAP. It's both scary and exciting - I mean, I feel like I'll be a whole new person if I can just sort this out - but it's scary because I feel like, well, who exactly is in control of my life? It's like there's some sort of parasite inside of me that's making me do things. Worse than that, though - the worst of all, and what I find most horrifying about the whole thing - is that these various articles all say that these people - commitmentphobes; ie, me - can have a bad effect on their partners - making them feel to blame, making them feel crazy; you've said this about me, as did Sophie at times - and that's freaked the living shit out of me, to be honest. I fucking hate the idea that I could be doing things to hurt people - beautiful, lovely people - and it makes me feel like damaged goods; it makes me want to cry just thinking about it and typing it now. It makes me so sorry for the hurt I have caused you (and others) because of this, and a big part of me feels like people should just stay away from me until I can get myself fixed. But I don't want to be alone. And I don't want to be without you. Still, I felt like I had a duty to tell you about this, because I felt like you should know before you make any decision about what you want to do with 'us' - because I really don't want to cause you hurt. I wrote about this in my blog, and there are some links from there if you fancy reading them, and have the time. It all feels like heavy emotional stuff - and a big part of me doesn't want to get into that with you, because I do prefer being fun and silly and light - but I guess that's been the problem sometimes, and I guess sometimes you just have to go there. Anyway, I wanted you to know - and, also, like I said, I do find it sort of exciting too, because I'm really sure I can sort this out, and I just think, my God, without these issues, how amazingly awesome will I be then! Someone's gonna get a really great guy, at some point in the not too distant future.

I've been thinking about you loads, missing you tons and wishing you were around to hang out with, be silly, have fun and talk about whatever we want. I've been thinking about all the good times we've shared - even over the last few weeks, like when you told me, "I don't know if I can be with someone who just pees everywhere" - and it makes me really sad to think this might be the end of us. I've realised so much since we 'broke up'; I've realised that I do love you, and want to make an effort to make things work. I'll understand if you don't, though - but if you don't, I still hope we can be friends, and do fun things, and hang out and that. I think we ought to get back into playing squash - and I think it would be fun to go bike-riding with you, if you still bring yours back from Oxford. My life won't be the same without you, I've realised that now - just as I've realised that I have a needy part to me, and miss people, and want them - I feel like this is role reveral from me going to India, and you're away having your fun and wanting a break from me, and I'm here missing you and feeling needy and unsure - and that's okay, because that's a good lesson for me. I only wish this wanting and longing and needing had come out a bit sooner. Different to India, though, I'm determined that your short and busy and emotionally distant (or non-existent) emails and texts (I'm saying that with a smile, an ironic jest) won't put me off from feeling and expressing my emotions, my love. I feel like I have to give myself and not hold back, because I've sold myself short too many times in the past, and I don't want that to happen again. Even if - lol: when - you decide you just want to be friends, at least I'll be able to say "I tried".

So I suppose I'd better call it a night, now; seem to have been having quite a few late ones recently, not sleeping so great. Staying up to watch the entire last series of Peep Show the other night probably not such a good idea - but wicked fun! I had an awesome day today; I hope you did too. Diego's such a nice chap - it's great that we've become such good friends so quick, and enjoy each other's company so much. He took me swimming last night; the boy swims like a plough. I was rubbish, alas; I think I'd better stick to dry land.

So eat some frogs' legs for me and maybe bait a few Frenchmen with jokes about the war. I love you lots.

Big hugs, and kisses, and smiles,

Rory

xxx

PS Thanks for everything. Your presence in my life makes me a better man. You're awesome.

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

17

It was the same old story, really: boy meets girl (in a television studio, say), boy gets all smitten with girl, boy pursues girl, they kiss, fall in love, spend some wonderful time together, and then one day girl says to boy, “how do you feel about me?” and boy gulps because for the last two weeks he’s been mantraing these three little words around in his head – “I love you” – and now it seems like the time to let them out.

“I love you,” he says, and she smiles. She’s happy to hear that, he sees.

“I love you too,” she says, and in their smiles and cuddles, they kiss, and all is right with the world.

Something happens, though, over the following weeks: the boy starts to feel a need for distance; he feels pressured and overwhelmed – for the truth is that, as soon as he said those words it was as though he’d peeled off another layer of his inner onion, and underneath that layer – the one he’d been staring at for those two weeks – he saw fear. Suddenly, he was filled with thoughts of where “I love you” would lead – to babies, to mortgages, to jobs and commitments – and it freaked him out. He hoped that it would pass; it didn’t. He wanted more and more distance – he went on holiday, for Christ’s sake – and the more he pulled away, the more the girl pursued him, her insecurity warning lights going overtime, her need for reassurance unfulfilled by this running, ruining boy that she had come to love. He started to blame her; she started to believe him. She felt crazy. He got mad. One day they had an argument, and things came to a head, and they went their separate ways, amid tears and accusations and anger, and in the place where they met, their ghosts passed each other and couldn’t understand what went wrong, those in the past thinking only of the future, and those in the future looking only to the past.

For the two days the boy felt relief; he could justify all this, and see why it was a good thing: you was too young, he told himself; she was this and that; it wasn’t right. On the third day he started to miss her, and his thoughts for her grew. He wanted to talk with her, but she didn’t want to talk with him, and he waited, and tried his best to feel okay. Everyone reminded him of her, though, and he began to think of her constantly. Finally, after a week, she said hello, and chatted, on the most romantic of forums, MSN Messenger.

They talked about things: there was still anger, and explanations, accusations and temper, but beyond that there was also an openness and an honesty – nothing to lose now, since everything had been lost already – and only a desire to heal. In some moments there was tenderness, and the boy felt longingly for her presence, her touch, to snuggle up to the beauty of her body and to be how things were. In these moments of tenderness he would shed a tear, and feel something in his heart that had perhaps been missing; and in their conversations he began to realise more and more about what had actually happened, and to see how he was far more to blame than he had believed at the time; she allowed him to explore himself, and to come up with some answers.

The next time they ‘talked’ he expressed the fears he had had when he’d peeled back that layer of love; of how he’d realised that he could trace everything back to that moment, like a trail of crumbs through the woods, and the second that he expressed it he felt instantly transformed.

“You could have told me,” she said.

“I wasn’t sure I was allowed,” he said. “I thought you wouldn’t want to hear it – that it would hurt you, or make you doubt.”

A grim silence hung in the air – one that needed no explanation.

“You could have told me,” she said again, “you might have been surprised.”

Well, he told her now, and he was surprised: she allowed him to express, she held him in his emotion; she listened with openness and acceptance and she didn’t freak out, or think it unacceptable or weird, and he wished that he had said something before. Once more, he discovered that you can say these things you think unsayable – but how many times was he going to have to learn this lesson before it finally got into his thick head? His sadness at having ruined everything by keeping things inside was infinite; his knowledge at his failings; his inability to be good.

And immediately on expressing those things – another layer had been peeled back; the pressure was gone; all the justifications and reasons for running disappeared: what remained was what had been there before: the memory of her awesomeness, the love he had felt for her, the good times – the great times – the happiness and smiles and laughs and sillinesses, the tender moments, the generosities, the sharing and the caring and the thought of her beautiful chimpy face. At once, he wanted her again. At once, he began to think that maybe he could win her back.

They arranged to meet a few days after that. Boy was nervous and ashamed; girl was forthcoming and friendly. They hugged, and sparks flew off them; all boy wanted to do was hold her, to slide his arm around her and feel her close to him – but he felt undeserving. Maybe she wanted it too – but he couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t prepared to risk it; still, repression of expression had stunted him once more, and he was unable to speak, or move, or feel anything but not okay. They glanced at each other when they thought no one was looking; but the whole room noticed anyway. The room knew what was going down.

The boy made a resolve; he was going to try. He stayed up late at night investigating “relationship issues” in a bid to find out what was wrong with him, why he had been unable to give himself to someone who was amazing and beautiful, who he loved, and who he had shared incredible, wonderful times with – I mean, sure there were a few challenging times in there on occasion – but most people would give their right ears for a relationship like that – and he just seemed to want to throw it away. What was wrong with him? was what he wanted to know. Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why was he acting so foolishly and idiotic?

“Relationship issues” lead him to a Wikipedia page entitled, <a href=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fear_of_commitment>”fear of commitment” – and what he read there both horrified and thrilled him – for what he read there seemed to describe him to a tee. <a href=http://www.relationship-remedies.com/Commitmentphobia.html>Another page</a> was discovered and perused – a list of forty-five behaviours which commitmentphobes display, of which the boy could see in himself maybe forty – and this dawning of what was wrong with him fell like a ten tonne weight. He had an illness – he had a bona fide illness. He had a mental disease – it was like he had a parasite inside of him, something that was in control of his mind, making him act in bizarre and hurtful and destructive ways. He was totally unaware of it – but now that he saw it, it was obvious that it was there; everything made sense. He was horrified because he had never been ill before, never thought of himself as even capable of having mental issues, and because of the sense that he was not in control of his life: his words, his actions, his thoughts and emotions were powered by something else, something that was in him, but was not him, and had been doing it for longer than he could remember. More than anything, though, he was horrified because of the way this disease affected other people – that it made them feel crazy, and in the wrong, and was “emotionally devastating” for them – things that he had been accused of doing, but could never see, always felt it was the other’s fault – and this he could barely handle. He felt like he was, on the whole, a good guy, and the thought of hurting those he loved and cared about was too much – these beautiful women, these kind and sensitive souls, that had given him love; he didn’t want to mess them up. He felt like damaged goods, like he should have a warning sign around his neck: keep away. He wondered how he could ever be with anyone if all he was going to do was screw them up – but he was also resolved to conquer this, and to find a cure, come what may, and that is why he felt too thrilled. “Imagine,” he thought, “if I do fix this – I’ll be a completely different person. I’ll be better. I’ll be great! And it seems to permeate all aspects of life – wow, everything will be different.” He had work to do, the realised that – but this wasn’t the kind of work he shirked from; he was keen to get it on. It horrified him, sure – but it made him more hopeful than ever for the future.

And what about the girl? Well, he decided he couldn’t let her go, and told her that he would give her what she had wanted – to be a proper couple, a boyfriend and girlfriend – if only she would deign to agree to it. He told her everything he had felt and thought, and cried his tears unashamedly, and felt his vulnerability, and in his heart he was grateful for her presence and everything they had been through, because even if she decides he is too much, and not worth it, her specialness, and his love for are what have driven him to this place of wanting to get to the bottom of himself and finding a cure for his ills; so he can better, for her, and for him, and for all. He knows now he is ill; he never knew before. He knows now he needs help; he’ll go and get it. The only question is, will she be by his side while he’s doing this – it won’t take long, he feels, he’s always been a speedy learner – or will she decide this is just a little heavy for what she wants right now? Well, he’s a heavy guy; there’s no getting away from it; he thinks he’ll understand. And he’s sorry for the hurt he caused – and he honestly didn’t realise what he was doing. He’s determined to get better – he really is – and if you want him, he wants you too. For real. Some things are hard – but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do them. He’s going to write more about this later.

Adieu!

12

Relationships

I think next time I get into a relationship I might try and stick at it; that was one thing that came up in India, that I never do that, and that maybe I should. Truth is, I don’t even know what a working relationship looks like – so how am I supposed to recognise when I’m in one or not? I never really saw my parents together, nor anyone else’s; I just don’t have anything to go on. I do, however, have a sense that no matter who you’re with, there’s gonna be problems, and annoyances, differences and disagreements, and that keeping chopping and changing in order to find the perfect partner is futile, because the perfect partner doesn’t exist. Of course, I suppose there’s got to be a willingness on both sides to make an effort, to try, and to commit. I also have a sense that it’s about cultivating love, and that a big part of that love is about tolerance; these things, though, are just senses, not abilities; I guess I don’t really know what it’s about at all. I’m at an age, though, where maybe I should; where I’ve done all my looking, experimenting, learning what I like and what I don’t, and realising that it’s all pretty much the same wherever you go so let’s make the best of what we have right here. I’m at the age where I probably ought to be thinking about children. I think it’s time to stop messing about, to maybe say, “you know what, you’re ninety percent good enough; I think that’ll do” and work at just loving the person I’m with instead of always thinking there’s something better. Next time…

Me

One of my biggest problems is letting go of this idea of myself as ‘a spiritual person’ and a ‘seeker of God’. I mean, I once was – and devotedly so – but I can’t quite get it into my head that that’s a phase of my life that is over, and it’s messing me up. But do I meditate? No. Do I pray much? No. Do I go to church, and get down on my knees, and think lots of God, and devote myself with my heart and mind to that stuff? No. I’m lapsed, I guess – and one only has to look at one’s day to day actions to realise the truth of themself. So if I don’t do those things with my time, then what do I do? I play sport. I work. I watch football on TV, and I like comedy and movies, strumming my guitar, lazing about and procrastinating, and riding my bike. I’ve got the modern disease – infomania – it seems, and I battle with that as I’ve battled with many various other addictions over the years. I’m clean living, in a way – eg, no alcohol, no drugs, no caffeine, no sugar – but I’m not hardcore with it, as I perhaps was in the past (not bothered about being organic, for example, or caring what other people do). I’m quite messy, in some ways, and fastidiously tidy in others. I’ve got a talent as a writer, though I rarely put it to good use, for one reason or another. I try to be a good boy, and though I fail at so many things – relationships being just one of them – I guess I do pretty well most of the time. I’m a bit of a loner, though I do enjoy the company of others; it’s just more that I’m maybe not quite able, or a little different, or quite picky about my friends, or more happy on my own a lot of the time. In a nutshell, I guess I’m just your average guy: a football and squash playing go-karter with a few hobbies, a job, a fairly decent outlook on life and an inability to commit to just about anything. What I am not, however, is a would-be Buddha, as I once imagined myself to be, and if I could just get that into my stupid thick head, things would probably be a lot better…

My past

Now what I’m tempted to do is detail my past – explain exactly just why I have the aforementioned problem – talk about my ‘spiritual years’ and sort of justify it all, and maybe bask in former glories a little. But then I don’t see how that would really serve me. Maybe I should just put it to bed, mention it no more, and let it only exist in an inner struggle known only to myself and my head, a fight that is ever dwindling, a battle to be won by normality, alone. Do you think that would be a good idea?

I do.

Sex

I quite fancy some.

Money

I’ve found Joel Heyes. I’ve got his address. I’ll send him a cheque real soon. I’m also thinking about donating a guitar or two to my old school – actually, I’ll email them now – and then I’ll sort out my dad and his partner (slightly tricky, as I’m sure they’d find a way to rip each other off if I only paid my debt to one of them). Finally, I’ve got my own private Sherlock on the case of the previously-mentioned robbery. I’ll be out of money soon, then. Well, I guess it was never mine to begin with…

Family

I told my dad yesterday how I was pretty much done with my mum – you know, too many chances, too many forgivenesses, and nothing but heartache in return – and how I wasn’t bothered about talking to her again. He said he was gonna ring her and find out what was going on; I rather wish he wouldn’t. Her, and my brother, I could quite easily put to bed and forget they ever existed; my dad’s alright ‘cos he’s harmless enough and I’ve never expected anything from him anyway. Maybe that’s harsh; it’s just how I feel. I don’t want to give my heart to people who just trample it underfoot anymore. My dad said, “why is she acting like that?” I said, “because she’s crackers.” I mean, what other reason could there be? Some people just are. And if it’s her nature, and if it’s her problem, I don’t see why I should make it mine. Simple.

Creation

Writing; I just wrote. I’ll write some more again soon. I’ve got more story ideas and I’ve no doubt that I’ll get them done by the 25^th of each month, as I’m supposed to. I do sometimes wish I was a little more active, and maybe developed myself slightly more quickly than my current rate of progress – but then maybe this is the way it’s meant to be. Maybe I should just take it easy on myself and relax, and trust the juice. Amen.

Work

Work’s okay; work’s been okay for quite a few weeks. S’hard to believe, after the way I felt all winter – and especially when coming back from India, when it seemed absolutely untenable – but it’s all been fine and dandy of late. That’s a relief…

Entertainment

Boy, have I been watching a lot of football! It seems like there’s just so much on – and so much that’s worth watching, too. I mean, Champions’ League, FA Cup – come on you Barnsley! – and then all the Everton games. And now that I’ve discovered <a href=http://www.rojadirecta.com>rojadirecta</a>, and have access to all the Premier League action…well, phew! But really it’s only the lovely Toffees I have an interest in. Plus I played for three hours on Sunday, and got muddied up to my eyeballs, and kicked full-on in the face – amazed that my nose didn’t “bost” – and scored seven out of twelve goals, and had a right rollicking time. Plus my weekly squash, plus the newly discovered Monday night go-karting (fifteen quid, all you can kart), plus another game of squash, and a bit of badminton, and the Saturday morning 5k run, and all-you-can-bowl ten pin bowling, and…well, it’s all rather active and good; these are the things I’m into. I don’t know why; I guess it just makes me feel really good – and maybe I’m getting a sense of my age, of my body, and that two hour games of squash, and three hour games of football aren’t perhaps gonna be available to me in ten or fifteen or twenty years time – and that I’m certainly not gonna be able to sprint and run the way I can now – now that I’m thirty-two – not too many years in the future.

And there you have it: the pillars of a life on this particular day in history. Amen.

9

Good howdy there, blog fans – or <i>blans</i>, as you’re known in the trade – and welcome to my Sunday morning, write-a-little-bit-so-I-can-say-that-it’s-done. Sorry I haven’t been very busy in the blog world – <i>blorld</i> – I guess I haven’t been adventuring/thinking that much of late. Also, seems like my writing energies are more devoted to these ongoing short stories for the book I’ve mentioned. Also, India seems to have thrown me through a bit of a loop, and I’m only just recovering from that – as well as Christmas – and once the habit goes, it’s so easy for it to disappear. But habit’s something I’ve been trying to cultivate of late – you would not believe, but I’ve so been getting into planning ahead, trying to work to a schedule, think more than a few hours in advance, etc – and it’s actually been working out quite well for me. Indeed, I like it.

Today, though I want to talk about money. A year ago this week I received a cheque for the three thousand pounds I won on <a href=http://youtube.com/watch?v=-7pESRAmf5Y>BrainTeaser</a>, which I promptly earmarked for several things: buying a Mazda MX-5, buying a laptop, sending some money to this charity shop in America whose window I accidentally drove through in 1998, and giving about a grand to a band whose guitars I nicked in ’97. I did the first three (the last one has proved thus far impossible, despite extensive efforts to track them down) – but even though I probably blew about fifteen hundred quid on the dear, doomed Mazda, I still had about four grand left in the bank by the beginning of December and it was starting to play on my mind. The thing was, I’d always harboured this idea that I might <i>need</i> it for something, and was sort of saving it for when that something arose – except it never did. It was a bit ridiculous, really. I mean, I don’t buy anything much, and it was just sort of sitting there waiting, and growing, despite my miniscule wage. Finally, I started to blow it – a nice new laptop, a trip to India, several hundred quid to charity, a couple of fines – until I was left with about two and a half grand. Now I just sort of want rid of it. I mean, how nice it would be to start again! And how nice to be able to feel that I couldn’t afford something, rather than I just didn’t want to pay for it. Except I’m just not very good at spending money on myself.

One thing I’ve thought a lot about over the last year or two is this guitar shop I worked for when I was eighteen and nineteen; when I was fired from there, in May 1995, I had two of their guitars and, naturally, I never gave them back. I’ve often wondered if I shouldn’t do something about that; often felt a sense of guilt over it (which has sometimes entered my dreams). Thing is, though, I’ve never brought myself to do it, perhaps thinking, like I said, well, I might need that money for something else, and, also, that I’d paid for it in other ways (I bought an old band-mate a two hundred quid amp; I lent another band-mate a seven hundred quid guitar – neither of them paid me back; another guitar dealer owed me a five hundred-quidder; or that time I had two thousand dollars nicked out of my car; etcetera, etcetera) – but I’m not sure that ever really swung. Just lately the feeling had grown, and coupled with the realisation that this something that I thought I was waiting for was never gonna happen, I made a resolve.

I went in there on Friday. I felt absolutely unable to approach the boss, and the man who fired me for various other misdemeanours, not able to face him, nice chap that he is, so I went to see my old workmate, Chris, to see if he could help me out. I was pretty nervous, but relieved to have the feelings, a bit curious at my hitherto lack of remorse, wondering if that absence of emotion was another sign that it shouldn’t be done. Feelings, though, were strong – shaking, getting hot, preoccupied with my task while he tried to make small talk, the whole catching up and where have you been sort of thing.

“Listen, Chris,” I said, kind of cutting to the point, “I need you to do me a favour.”

I hastened to explain that it wasn’t the kind of favour that was really going to require anything of him.

“Basically, when I worked here, I had some guitars belonging to the shop, and when I was fired, I never brought them back. I’ve been thinking I should pay for them. I want to pay for them now.” I pushed my credit card across the counter to him. “Do you think you could run this through your machine and charge me?”

He took the card. “Sure,” he said, “how much?”

“Eight hundred quid.”

His face dropped. He left the card. “Bloody hell,” he said.

A few minutes then, with him going back to the small talk, and me trying to hint at the card, and him saying, “are you sure?” and, “that’s a lot of money,” and, “how about seven hundred?” – and me reassuring him I wanted to do it, with that amount, and eventually getting him to put card in machine, digits pressed, and, receipt in hand, job done.

It felt good.

We did catch up some more, and now it wasn’t small talk, it was happy talk, because I was feeling happy and good. After some time I left the shop, and re-entered the city, and the happy feeling stayed with me. It stayed with me all day; I was on a high. I walked and dwelled and replayed the scene, and thought about it some more, and thought also about other wrongs I’d done. I thought, God, I should repay them all – for what a wonderful feeling is this – and, as well, what right did I have to withhold that money – <i>their money</i> – which was, after all, rightly theirs. It seemed silly that I’d pondered it so long; rationally, all I was doing was giving back what wasn’t mine in the first place.

So what, then, of the tenners I used to siphon off from my dad when I worked for him? A hundred and fifty quid should cover that – and even though he’s been a bad man, and stolen/<i>acquired</i> far in excess of that, should that really stop me? And what of Joel Hayes’ guitar, which I sort of trashed at school when I was maybe fifteen, for God-only-knows-what teenage boys’ reason? What of the school guitar itself – that beat up old twenty quid acoustic I walloped over a chair one day, inspired by my Jimi plays Monterey, a massive whole in the side and adolescent titters? What else have I done wrong?

Sure, I could pay for all of these – and more. If only I could find that band! I have enough to cover all these debts – and while I can’t expect that it’ll make me immune to the karma of these wrongs I’ve wrunged (all things must be paid for), nor should I expect that the things that are owed to me by others will miraculously come (of course, how silly of me to think that they would ever be paid, when I was myself unwilling to put right my debts) but just perhaps it might put a little something right, and might relieve some of the deeply hidden burden on my mind and heart, even if I barely feel it in my day-to-day, in my remorseless and happy waking world. But, oh, what a grand feeling it was! And, oh, how blessed the day when I feel it – the righting of my previously caused wrongs – again! Why, I might almost be sad when I run out of people to give money to!

In other news: the sun is shining; Leeds is magic; I live in a house now with five other people (four jolly nice; one who’s probably nice but I’m not too keen on) and no longer my secret location, nest among the shoes and books; I went go-karting this week; it was amazing; and I played squash for two hours and ten minutes on Friday – a new personal best, the beatest, most bruised-up game ever: bloody knuckles, big bumped knee, bright red craters left by balls smashed to head and back and arse, racquet to mouth, full length dives, bare chest sweat – marvellous!

I also sold my ice skates.

A tout!

Rory

5

I was thinking I might try and get back to my tale of travels in America, which has been on hold a long time; sometimes I think it’s not really meant to be – after all, wasn’t I told, and didn’t I feel, that February would be the start of something? And wasn’t February when the whole short story thing kicked off? – but at the same time I still think it’s a wonderful project, and I still feel an ineffable anger when I read people like Danny Wallace – goddamn his stupid bloody newspaper columns! – and hear how well they’ve done, so I guess that’s a sign of something there. Publishing-wise, short stories may well be where it’s at for now; dream-wise, it’s still about the travel/spiritual journey book. Not having that as my professional focus, though, takes the pressure off, and rather than having to sit there and construct polished chapters I thought I might just blab it out and see what comes (which may well be good, and which is probably the best way anyway) in order to get things moving, and in order to satisfy those who have wanted to know ‘what happened next?’ At least, that’s the idea…

So…

I moved to Charlottesville in May ’97, sort of inspired by the multi-pronged fork of Laurel and Hardy (“In The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia”), the name of the town (I just liked the way it looked), and the number of cute university girls I’d met there on my way across country the winter before – and by how enamoured they were with the English accent. Plus, I wanted a slice of real America, a spell away from other travellers, from doing travelling things, to be normal, and settled down, and not constantly moving – and with that in mind I took an apartment for the summer sharing with two straight-down-the-middle, good American student-types (you know, baseball caps, white socks, nothing of interest to say whatsoever) and set about finding myself a job and filling my life with normal things such as stereos, bicycles, clothes, cushions; all the sort of thing you do when you have a base and a place to put things.

This is shit.

Oh, Perlilly! Where have my feelings gone? Lost in a computer, lost in Risk – as perhaps with Sara – or something more than that? Oh, why did you demand of me so much, when you could so easily have just shown me your wonderful self, and have me fall in love and willingly give myself to you? Is that the way of woman? Or is it just because you were too young, too inexperienced and overwhelmed by your feelings, and too pride/stupid/ignorant to lesson to some better judgement? I mean, of course I thought I knew more than you – have I learned nothing in my ten extra years on Earth?! But, well wasn’t I the same at 22, thinking I knew it all? Of course I should have known that our ages would make a difference – but not in the way I might have thought they would; well I guess I learned something there.

When did it start to crumble, to go wrong? Wasn’t I a little wary down in Oxford, even at Christmas time? New Years Eve, and your drunken, so young friends there – which I tried to make the best of. Too much time together – punctuated, thankfully, by our glorious recording project. You were so, so happy at that – that we could spend so much time together and still get on – but by the time we got back to Leeds I was ready – if, perhaps, unable, unwilling – to take a break. Did I like your mother’s company better? Hard to say. Was it the package? Of holiday, of comfortable home, of family and being liked and loved and cared for? Yes, I liked that a lot – but, yes, I liked you too. But by the time we were back in Leeds, I was finding it hard to think of things to say…

That was when I got my laptop too – and God only knows how much time we’ve been spending together!

Twelve days later I went to India; I was glad to get away; I thought the break might do us good. In fact, in all my unwillingness to go, taking a break from you was the one thing that saw me through. I didn’t want to stay in Leeds; I didn’t want to see  you more. It was enough. And in those feelings there should be something very, very telling indeed.

India was wild; not wild then, but wild now, when I look back, thinking about how I was gonna get all spiritual again, and pray, and meditate, and do good things – all mind goo fed to me by foolish thoughts. I thought I wanted a wife – a spiritual woman – and I thought that person couldn’t be you. I came back and I didn’t feel the same way – I needed time to readjust and integrate – and you knew that my feelings had changed – you knew before that, because of my emails – and that was pretty much the end: since then you’ve been nothing but demanding, wanting, acting odd, insecure, unsure, and giving me nothing that was worthy of my love, save in brief glimpses. You wanted to pressure me into wanting you – but what faster way to turn off a man than that? When all you had to do was show me the you that I fell in love with in the first place; it could have happened so easily, and so much how you wanted. But then you would have had to have been a different person to manage that, and you’re not – how could you be? You’re you – so I guess either way it was doomed. How I wish you’d learn from that – but the truth is, I didn’t want you – didn’t want to be rushed – wasn’t ready – and you couldn’t live with that, and didn’t have it within you to do to the clever thing to win me; fair enough. I hate to be demanded of – I just got out of a four year relationship with a lovely woman because she demanded too much; what chance this seed of a sapling of a bud? – and I guess I just won’t stand for it. That could be something in me; I just don’t care. I’m not going to commit to something I don’t feel a hundred percent – and I didn’t feel this. Sorry, but I don’t.

We had two good months; that’s probably about right. We made some beautiful music together – in bed, and in your compositions too. I truly believe that was an important part of it, and even in early January I felt that, if that was what we were really about – getting your recording done, and getting you on that road – then that was a worthwhile thing. More so, though, I feel that you helped heal some of my woman issues, my mother issues, and I feel sort of stronger and more clear with that – more able to withstand criticism – though I hope your recent accusations and angers haven’t undone that work. Two good months, and since then, nothing really. I know I said I love you – and I guess I did, and do, in my own stupid way – but since then…well, it scared me. I felt responsibility. I felt like it meant something. Maybe it did. I thought that I could just say it because I thought that it was true – it was right there in my head, those three words, over and over – but then it became too much. “I love you so much,” you would say, and I’d wondered what that meant, why you said it. It freaked me out; I didn’t feel it so much after I’d let it go; it was replaced by fear of responsibility, of commitment, of having to be something other than a ‘friend that fucks’, a lover. But will you be so attached to names and forms when you’re a little older? Will you be hounding for ‘boyfriend’ ten years down the line? I doubt it. And let’s get to the crunch: we just weren’t compatible. How could I spend my life with someone who beliefs were so opposite to mine? Who cared more about shampoo than God and humanity? Who chewed their face off, and scoffed at the idea of taking the kids to India, and chucked their last lover because he wasn’t making 40K a year? No, it just wasn’t right – not beyond those two months anyway. Perhaps you wanted it but…it just wasn’t there. And even if I do have commitment issues, and things scare me with that – well, won’t the woman I love, and the one who loves me, see beyond that, love me all the same, bide her time with patience and understanding, and one day win me simply by her irresistible presence? Yes, probably she will. But certainly not by hounding, by becoming a shadow of her former self, by refusing to share with me anything unless I give her this thing, this status, this “boyfriend”. Yes, I want it my way – but my way excludes not love, and happiness, and fun – which is far more important than name and shape and form – and…it just wasn’t right. Pure and simple. Done.

I want a woman who loves me, as I am – and not how she wants me to be.

I want a woman who understands what love is, and who understands that love is a giving thing, not a getting.

I want a woman who doesn’t give me grief, or cause me hassles, but who believes in love and fun and cuddles.

I want a woman who wants me, and who shares my beliefs, my outlook on life, and with whom I can create a harmonious home life.

I want all these things, and I deserve them, because I am capable of giving them, and because I will. I’m a good guy; a nice guy; a loving guy, and a giving guy. You said yourself I was “amazing” – well maybe it’s probably true.

But you, my love, you were too young, and just not quite right, despite our compatibility in bed, and your beautiful big boobs, and your zest for life and talents and goodness. An older you: maybe. But how to get around nights out and drinks and materialism and non-spirituality and demanding nature and youth? No, I don’t think we can.

Friends? Sure.

Friends who fuck? Sure, too – but a bad idea.

And more than that? No. Why? Because I’m at an age now where I’m not looking for what isn’t right; I don’t need to learn that lesson any more. I’m at the end of that road, I think. At least, as far as relationships go. Sure, I can sleep with other women, no problem – but as for committing, to life, and kids, and future, and marriage? Well is there any point? Because some day soon my prince will come, and you will have to go, and you won’t like that one bit. So why commit? Why run the risk of really hurting someone, with betrayal and anger and broken promises/lies? When all we have right now is defeated expectations, the tears of one who didn’t get what she demanded? Better this way – even if it hurts a little now.

And me? A slight sadness – but nothing like true relationship ending pain. Shows how little I cared, I suppose; shows how inured I am to these injuries. Suffered them enough, perhaps; every time gets a little easier. But don’t be mad at me for that; it’s another thing that comes with age.

Cheers!

Rory

Feb 17th

Monday/Tuesday I felt like the maddest person alive: my brain was in a state; I was wanting to end my relationship with Perlilly; my job seemed untenable; I felt like I couldn’t remember who I was before New Year, before I went to India – what I did, or what I consisted of. I felt like everything had gone wrong.
    We got down to talk.
    Underneath it all, there seemed to be something about me being annoyed at this noise she makes when chewing her lips. I expressed that, and one or two other things, and the next day I felt supremely happy – even in my work; that was a shock. Since then, it’s been more or less okay.
    I don’t trust my head at all. It tells me things, and they seem to be true, but when (or rather, if) I take a deeper look and try to get down to the root of it, it’s like there’s always something else there, and the original thing disappears. The feeling of wanting to quit, of wanting to change or run away is the leaves, the nests, the branches of this weed of a tree – I’m aiming to prune them, these things that I’ve grown in my mind, these things that I’ve built on top of the original discomfort, when they’re not where it’s at all. The roots, the foundations – seek them out, and that weed of a tree will crumble and fall, for it was never real in the first place.

I’ve got to write a story – I’ve got eight days and two and a half hours to come up with a decent short story of at least two thousand words. It’s for this publisher who’s offering the chance to win a genuine book deal; the publisher with whom I was published three years ago in their anthology, Bracket. They’ve chosen twenty-five writers out of the fifty-five they’ve published over the years and asked them to come up with one short story every month for the next ten months, and at the end of that time they’ve going to choose five people to offer deals to, to each publish a book of short stories. They reckon half the twenty-five will take up the challenge, and a few’ll drop out along the way – which means maybe ten will stay the distance, which is pretty good odds when you get down to it. I’d like to be one of the final ten. I’d like to be in with that fifty-fifty chance.
    That means I’ve got stories to write; it’s not been easy coming up with ideas. Of course, I’ve got lots in the pot from over the years – and maybe that’s where you come in. Click on the enclosed links to check them out and see what you think has the most potential for development (some are finished, some are works in progress). I’d be interested in all feedback!

Feb 11th

Ok. So. Last time you heard from me I was just strangely on my way to India, not really sure why I was doing that, and not really wanting to go. That was a bit weird. But go I did – never really warming to the idea, and practically crying into my complimentary peanuts for being such a schmucking idiot for buying a ticket to a place I didn’t want to go, at a time that I didn’t want to go anywhere – and, there you have it, I had two weeks over there. I’m still not sure what to think about it; I’d thought, after three or four days of wondering what the hell I was doing there I’d sort of got into it, and sort of discovered one or two things – about myself, about my feelings, my life, my spirituality – but, since I’ve been back, I’m not even sure about that; it’s like my mind just sold me a big long cock ‘n’ bullshit story over the course of several days and I bought into it – you know: you should get back to meditating, praying, giving up sex, getting serious about God, once you get back – but what have I done about it? Nothing. In reality, I’m much more of a movie man – but caught in this in between. I don’t know what I am/what I want/where I fit. If only I could accept the reality of who I am and stopped buying into silly ideas I get in books or from my own head! :-) Am I making any sense? Probably not. Well, it has been two months – two months! – and that will therefore necessitate a lot of meaningless junk until I figure things out…
    In the meantime I’ve moved into a new house – very nice place, nice area, nice people; felt at home pretty much immediately – joined a Master’s program – for about thirty-five minutes – lost all – and when I say all, I mean, man, the whole fucking everything of it, the shebang, the kitchen sink, the absolute enormous entirety of it – regard and care and motivation for my job – and gone a bit weird in my head, and in my ‘relationship’, and in my life. I need to write; maybe that’ll get things back on track. And I need to write for other reasons too – possible full-on book deal involving a work of short stories; the ever present threat of my own silly travel-idea book, that it’s slowly dawning on me may be another silly, silly headspun story – but mostly just ‘cos if my fingers don’t move and I don’t go “blah blah blah” I’ll probably get stuck like a rubber in butter and slip slide down Marjory Lane in the style of a certain amateur Welsh rugby official who lived opposite me when I was a binman in Cairo during the Gypsy Wars of 2006, oh Arthur. If you catch my drift. And so…
    India, India, India – I’ve been before – in April 2000 – and maybe it was for this reason that it didn’t really do anything for me. Or maybe because it was Kerala, and Kerala’s not really India – hardly any poverty, no fingers-hanging-off lepers, no beggars pursuing you for hours through homeless city streets where bent-limbed children place their crooked arms in your hands and pitying eyes say, “white man, you can spare it, I want some money.” Or maybe because I’m done with travelling, and it all the seems the same to me now – it’s just people, and buildings, and elsewhere/here, and money and life and food – and that’s what I was mostly thinking, why the hell am I doing this, why am I going away alone, when I don’t really want to, when there’s no real reason to, when I don’t want adventure, aren’t inwardly compelled, aren’t seeking to learn anything? Why indeed? Out of habit, I guess. And because I’m just ever so slightly silly, I guess. I used to go away to learn things, to experience things – but, to be honest – and I’d love to be wrong in this – I really think I’ve played that gig now, way enough times to have got the drift, and to have mastered it, and graduated, and time to move onto something new, done done done.
    That’s what I was thinking the whole mildly inwardly whimpering first few days: why can’t I just be normal? Why can’t I just do things the normal way? This isn’t normal, this toin-cossing [sic], this doing out of mad habit, this lack of thought, this sign and psychic following, this unadventure adventure – why can’t I just be normal? And even now I’m saying it.
    Like I was saying it my third night there, when I thought to catch a two-day train North to Varanasi, but after six hour and sixty miles I was going nowhere fast in the sweaty Indian midnight night and even then thinking about hopping freight trains and lost in a minefield of indecision and unable to get anything straight that same crying out again – even after swearing to myself to be normal – lost there up and down on Kottayam station not knowing what to do, where to go, why why why? And tossing a million coins, and in the end giving it up, and writing possibilities on bits of paper, and praying to choose the right one, and when it said, “Go back to Amma’s ashram” – oh, happiness at doing the normal, sane and sensible thing – and then in that moment a Southbound freight train comes and I go racing down the station to jump aboard the second massive, massive engine – there being nowhere to sit on Indian freight wagons (perhaps wisely, as in England) – and in the black night I’m whooping it up once again atop seventy mile an hour noise and dim and fumes, the joy of it, the adrenaline, the madness, the worry (of getting arrested, again) and, when it slows down I jump off (remembrance of the last time) and hide in a bush and then think, hey ho, across these fields into the unknown Indian middle-of-nowhere night and who knows what we’ll find, tromp tromp through almost pitch dark what turns out to be paddy fields and then leaping across the path up to my waist in stinky water and everything’s soaked and this is me loving it, and this is me being normal. A dog barks and I wonder if someone’s coming, and I’m the only person there, a silly backpacked English happily skipping down roads suddenly remembering they have snakes in India, but not really thinking about it, and then laying once again under mosquito-ravaged sarong waiting for another train to chase, and pooing in the bushes, and photoing it, in silly-ness delight, and then tromp tromping down tracks and chasing another train, and clambering aboard with woe-begotten third class stood-up-all-day Indians in the two a.m. night and four hours later I’m back where I started, satisfied with the adventure, ready now to be normal, and in so many ways that was the best thing I did out there – the thing that gave me energy, and kicks, and joy – but also so much the thing that I wanted to – wanted to tell myself to – stop doing. But I want to do it! Well I did. But why?
    And back in the ashram, then, where I spent most of my two weeks – save my first night in Varkala, getting bored, and my last three nights in Trivandrum, seeing Amma there, and awaiting my plane – and back to eating curry three times a day, and napping lots, and wondering here and there, and reading spiritual books, and thinking lots, and writing in my diary (the diary I left on a train upon returning to England) and, all in all what I decided was this: well, first of all, that my spiritual life seemed to be dead, and that I should accept that, it’s over, finito, done; and then, that, wait a minute, what am I doing here anyway, aren’t I supposed to be with Mother Meera; and then, ho, hum, this all seems rather grand, I need to get serious about this – ‘cos, God look at Amma, and how great this all is, and the magic you can get into when you take it seriously, and what’s the point of anything in the world anyway, and, yes, as soon as I get back I’ll set myself up a little shrine and meditate everyday and say my prayers and, I can do this, I can do this, I can – yeah, just like people say with the gym, with healthy eating, with good habits. Have I? No. I’m good at procrastinating on a laptop though! Oh wireless! Oh broadband! Oh the amazing things you can download from bit torrent and how many movies there are that I haven’t watched – or have watched but want to watch again! How many albums, and how they need organising, and…I’m back, and nothing’s changed. Except I seem to have a little bit – oh, I don’t know anything about any of this any more! How I wish I’d never heard of spirituality and didn’t have this split down the middle me who’s a fool to himself and just not sure not sure not sure of which way to turn…
    I’m in bed; I’ve been here most of the last two days. The weather’s lovely and I’ve done nothing to take advantage of it – hell, I’ve just come back from 35 degrees; I’m hardly gonna rejoice at a bit of non-rain! – and…I’m disappointed in myself. I’m supposed to be writing – I’m supposed to be at work, too, but I don’t seem to be able to manage that – and, although I am writing, I know it’s not making any sense. Such is life; c’est la vie; I don’t even care because this is me moving my fingers and it’s been a long time and, anyway, do exercises in the gym look anything like football? Well, no. So that’s that. In India I thought I should get married, commit to one woman, stop flying about from place to place; in India I thought that might be possible – but back here it don’t seem so. In India I thought I could get my job back in track – one hour of the reality I was fleeing to the safety of the library and Internet Explorer. In India I thought I could balance worldly life and spirituality; thought I could give away all my money; thought I might make it up with my mum. In India, in India, in India – my head was a liar. Aaaaaagh! (Don’t worry, I’m not really aaaaaagh! I just wanted to say it). In India, in India, in India.
    I was a Master’s student for about thirty-five minutes last week; Wednesday I went down to Sheffield where I was due to begin an MA in Creative Writing; hand over £3000; do some classes and write some papers and books. I met the admin, I met one of the tutors; I found out what I’d missed by going on holiday in Week 1 – see! – and went to catch up on it; this week’s lesson was based on some book of poetry – oh, I love poetry! – and the author was going to be there and I guess we were going to discuss it. I went, and I read – and within about three seconds I was thinking, what a load of shite, I’m not spending my time and money and effort to read shit like this, and then have to talk about it, and pretend that I get something from it, and have it mean something to me; it was cack! And my stuff’s much better anyway! And why the hell would I want to read poetry! What a load of tit wank arse – bollocks to this, I’m off. I left Sheffield forthwith and, via a wholly unsatisfying stopoff in Meadowhall, came back satisfied with my daytrip and discovery and feeling rather smugly pleased with myself, thank you very much.
    I’ll tell you know what hit me about coming back to England from India: that this country is goddamned dirty! And – let me explain – I was as surprised by that as you might be, what with India obviously being rife with pollution, and how they just shit and piss everywhere – and still wipe their arses with their hands, despite now having t’internet and mobile phones and all the rest of it, technology not quite stretching to toilet paper as yet – and throw their rubbish all over, and how it stinks, like shit – but England, man, there’s a different kind of dirtiness here! It’s in the people, man; the people are filthy; I just thought, my God, they’re so vulgar, and crass, and loud, and obnoxious, and disrespectful, and tired-looking, and uncivilised, and stressed out, and tense, and drunk, and unintelligent – that’s the kind of dirty I mean. There’s no finer time than those first few hours off the plane to take a really good look at your own country, before it all seeps back in to you and you forget what it’s really like, lose your overseas-eyes, see that, yes, compared to the Chinese, for example, we really do have enormous noses, bulging out, 3D, Pinocchio-style those first few hours, oh we’re a big-nosed, messy and screwed-up bunch (you North Americans included). Oh England! Oh India! Oh cow shit and smart-shirted, hair-parted, white-toothed and polite Indian boys and dangling off trains and curries cheaper than air and mad old drunken England with your clean streets and everyone running tiredly at a thousand miles an hour, I know not why. Oh England!
    I had a lovely Christmas, thanks for asking; the best ever. I was ever so close to Perlilly; I think I really felt something there. I think, too, I got cured of some of those silly old mum issues – ha! and there’s a tale for you, if I ever get around to telling it! – and cried one or two letting-it-out tears and it was all rather wonderful and good and great. But, boy, it seems like a real long time ago. And, boy, why is it I feel like I’m splitting apart, and can’t make any sense of anything, when not too very long ago it seemed like everything was being just fine and dandy, and in so many ways even more’s been cleared up since then? I guess I’m cyclical fish monkey wardrobe man, coming round like once a year February flu, the old is jettisoned and the new appears and nothing can last forever, expression ceases and rises and falls and these skins are shed and underneath it all the onion’s tears shine silver bright in the clown’s white night while baby teeth and hair and eyes tinkle tinkle to the deck and those new ones emerge in the aftermath; one day you’re young and bright-eyed, the next…lo! a wrinkle – where did this face come from in the mirror, I hardly recognise myself, all the skins I’ve shed I’m dying now – slowly, slowly – and I never did get to the end or figure anything out – and all that time I spend just thinking the answer was around the corner; it never was. The corner’s around the corner; everybody knows that but who can actually live it? The corner’s around the corner. The fruit corner? Nutella? Oh, if only I could eat chocolate I could make myself sick and then I’d have something else to think/worry/abscess about! The fruit corner, you say? Now there’s a fine idea.
    I went round to my brother’s/my old house after Christmas, to pick up some stuff, and there was this not there from my mum (I’ll quote it verbatim, ‘cos it’s that good, it really is): “RORY CAN YOU MAKE SURE YOU LEAVE YOUR KEYS FOR WELBECK STREET BEHIND. YOU CHOSE TO LEAVE AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO COME INTO THE HOUSE WITHOUT STEVENS PERMISSION. IF YOU WANT ME TO GET LEGAL ABOUT IT, I WILL. ALSO, MAKE SOME REASONABLE ARRANGEMENTS WITH STEVEN RE YOUR THINGS. I AM GETTING A SKIP SOON – NEED I EXPLAIN FURTHER. MUM.”
    Well that’s a doozy! Naturally, I went into a rage, stomping about a bit and saying, “bitch! what a bitch!” and having an urge to smash things – which I didn’t follow, just observed within my head – and – in that head – how could she be like that, what kind of a family have I got, if she wants the keys, wants me to move my stuff, why doesn’t she just ask me instead of threatening to “get legal about it”, chuck it all away, why why why? What’s the point in these people – what can I possibly get out of it except headache and heartache and mad mad bullshit? Who’s got a mum like this? Why are people so insane? Where’s love and caring and being nice and don’t they treat the dogs in the street better than this – and don’t the dogs in the street treat me better than this? Well my brother’s a goofy fuck and no mistake and he’s devoid of feelings and you can’t really blame him, he can’t see anything clearly, he’s so much under her apron-stringed thumb – but why is he okay to inhabit this half-built three bedroomed home with three unused rooms all to himself despite working not and just fannying around the last seven years doing nothing and being miserable and weird and pissing everybody off and I can’t even leave two boxes in a dusty corner despite all those empty words about, “you’ll always have this place” and – sorry, Ma, but you’ve done this before, and I’ve forgiven you, and surely this is the last time, not even a Merry Christmas, never mind a Christmas invite, there’s something wrong with you – you’ve got a slightly twisted nature, it’s not you’re fault – but I don’t need it anymore, goodbye. Some people bring good things into your life and that’s okay; some people just look to rub shit in your eyes and mouth, and hope you’ll take it – and some people do. I have done – but I’ll take it no more. I’m a nice guy; there’s nothing wrong with me; I live my life well; I don’t even say boo to a goose without feeling instantly pained; I can’t take the blame for this. “It’s in your nature,” I hear the wise words say; your nature’s yours, not mine – please keep it. And so long.
    All my things are here with me now; I’ll be beholden to this woman no more. Some people are just mad.
    I wanted to tell you about this astrologer I saw in India – I wanted to, but I don’t think I will – but, needless to say, he said some interesting and, yeah, sure, relevant things, and gave me stuff to think about, which may be a good thing, or may be a bad thing, I just don’t know. I also wanted to tell you about the way my feelings have changed – but I don’t think I’ll do that either; I’m making no sense tonight – and not that I care about that, but I’m reaching the end of my patience with this. I also wanted to tell you about my magnificent arse, and the way it shines in the dappled moonlight, and the trumpet’s worth of foreskins that I sold to my mad uncle Viktor last Tuesday (later finding out they were worth about a billion, billion dollars) and about how he came to see me and planting a bilberry bush inside my left little nostril and watered it twice a day for the next seventy-four years until it sprouted magic onions that bring us right back to the beginning of this tale being as they smelled of fish.