Nate Fitzgerald: One Man's Journey

Boo

2012-01-30T14:07:00.001Z

Boo!

Still alive (barely).

Stay well,
Nate

Holidays

2011-12-16T07:25:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Depression is so depressing. I feel like I am mired in the muck, unable to accomplish much. Of course I am only mildly down - blue perhaps - not perched atop the nearest tall building.

And you see, it leaves one with nothing interesting to say. I believe that's what I detest most about being in a depressed state: the tedium.

Of course another aspect is that everyone in the world appears to be having a fabulous time and progressing in their careers. Book contracts for punters such as myself are flying out the door while I waste away.

I did have some lovely white fish last night, however, with lemon butter. It could be the start of an upward trend in my karma. You really don't know what can kickstart your good luck after all. Look at Churchill: disgraced, boozy, loathed, ignored and one invasion of Poland later he's the saviour of the free world.

Granted, the total supression of free speech and a blistering propaganda machine helped his cause. There's no better boost for PR than a war.

If Germany invades Greece for being a complete pain in the arse, I wonder if the nation will turn to me... I shall do my best to be prepared.

Stay well,
Nate

Elderly Improv: Xmas Edition

2011-12-10T01:20:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, as some of you might know, last year I was rather heavily involved in my 79-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson's improv group, acting as a director/tea maker for the group.

Yesterday I was invited to their Xmas show, entitled Rudolph's Red Nose Day. I still haven't decided if the title is clever or not. Though I had expected the usual patchy improvised stabs at comedy (mixed with jarring moments of confession, usually about a dead husband or loneliness), I was happy to see that the group had gotten it together to write a play (of sorts).

The story involved an older couple lamenting the fact that the grandkids were far away and the magic of Christmas had been lost - no anticipation of the arrival of a gluttonous, milk and brandy-swilling elf hauling filthy lucre around the globe...

Of course, Santa did make a surprise visit, with Mrs Claus, because they were apparently quite old and having a thousand slaving elves wasn't the same as having a child around. Anyway, you could set your watch by it, but this quickly descended into a bedroom farce with lots of scurrying around and Santa adding Viagra to his candy cane mixture, saying it was 'the only way to get them firm' (or something).

Don't let the elderly fool you with their gentle smiles, soft hands and shuffling gait. They're as raunchy and debauched as the cider-swilling teenage boys who have taken to lingering on the corner by my abode. For some unknown reason, both groups are disturbingly amiable and eager to engage me in conversation, like I'm one of their own.

Anyways, after the play, we were invited to a small hall laid out in free grub made by the ladies - star-shaped and tree-shaped sandwiches, biscuits and fruitcake, mulled beverages... I ended up staying on with a table full of men who had worked hard all their lives and now saw no reason not to get completely bladdered at midday.

The conversation was cracking.

"You lot don't know austerity," said John. "After the war, we ate cabbage more cabbage than Peter Rabbit. Didn't have shops full of fresh fruit and salsa. I didn't eat a banana till my 20s."

He said salsa, as one might say, distressing bowel movement.

"I don't blame the immigrants," said Douglas. "I'd be over in a bolt from Eastern Europe if given the green light. You can't take umbrage with a lad doing his best to keep body and soul together."

"My daughter has a flat full of Romanians above her," said Ted. "At least 50 in there. Completely mess up the plumbing."

"Romanians, but... They've always been a terrible lot."

"Vlad the Impaler."

We basically put the world to right, deciding the current economic woes lay in the fact that as a nation, we no longer make anything. As one gent said, a service economy is fine, but it's difficult to export a haircut.

"Go to any port nowadays and you'll see more ducks than men working," said John. "Even worse in the north."

"No ducks?" I said.

This got a good laugh. I will certainly make an excellent elderly person in a few decades.

Anyway, I slept off the worst of my hangover in the afternoon, then was off to work for the nightshift. Silly season continues.

Stay well,
Nate

absence

2011-12-09T00:01:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

No, I have not given up the blog once again. Tis the silly season, and given that I work for a major supermarket chain in shipping, I have been literally run off my feet.

Yes, I fell down a small flight of stairs the other night, being both distracted by hunger, tired and overloaded with printed forms for the transport bunker - not to mention generally uncoordinated. I am fine, though the knees are always tender.

Topside roasts are flying out the door. They have become the bane of my existence.

I'm having my unemployed group over to the flat for a meal next week. I'm providing the nibbles and roast, but have asked everyone to bring a bottle. I'm certain they've all been cutting back in their lean times, so don't fancy six unemployed types attacking my meagre reserves like rabid piranhas. You know the out of work...

Can piranhas get rabies? I'm not sure my metaphor works.

Stay well,
Nate

The Cabbage Soup Diet

2011-11-29T06:47:00.002Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I'm off the garden vegetable train and back in the real world, and I must say I'm thankful.

The first two days of my cabbage soup experience were the most intense, as my body violently offloaded the contents of my bowels on day two. I shan't go into details, except to say my sprints to the WC were hourly and there was great cramping.

By day three, admittedly, the appeal of another bowl of turgid broth with limp green strands of cabbage lolling about was enough to make my stomach turn. So, bending the rules slightly, I added some lovely beef and rice to the mix. Still, technically a cabbage soup diet, but enhanced.

By day five, the cabbage and reintroduction of flesh seemed to confuse my system. Though the rice helped bring my mood levels back to a more level plain (I had been getting snappy due to no carbohydrates), my flatulance became concentrated.

I only got caught out once to my knowledge, in the work kitchen before shift. I often arrive an hour or two early to have a few cups, read a book and chat to passing traffic. It's an excellent system for me for three reasons:

1 - I live alone and this is often my only social interaction of the day.

2 - Most people are more than happy to waste company time by having a chat, as they're as anesthetised by the grind of regimented corporate life as the rest of us.

3 - Work is automatic common ground. I don't have to worry about being particularily interesting or coming up with fresh insights into the world. I can simply talk about work, gossip about the freaks, moan about management and spread false information about redundancies. And if that dries up, there's always the weather. Beyond that, I'm afraid I'm hopeless...

Anyway, on day five I was alone, perusing the biscuits, when I let out the most minute bit of wind. It really was a very small allotment, the kind of expulsion one routinely lets creep out from time to time. It didn't emit even a faint squeak. But my goodness, it was an eye-bleeder.

Think of cutting onions in a small room made from boiled eggs.

One of the girls from administration walked in and though we were both quite aware of the violation unleashed, she showed enough professionalism to make her chocolate-based beverage without comment. I wanted to say, 'it really was just a small one' but thought better of it and retreated to a table in the corner of the common area to hide behind a paperback.

From this point onward, I took my leave from each public place before passing wind, unless I was outside or near someone who had been rude. This only occurred once, when an older lady at the supermarket asked that I assist in getting her a packet of gravy from a high shelf then withheld thanks.

I don't believe in bestowing unlimited respect to someone simply due to age. One must earn it every day. And given her limited mobility, I suspect she lingered in my odour for far longer than a younger person might. Perhaps next time she'll think to say, ta.

At the conclusion of day seven, I indulged in a pork pie with chips and gravy, followed by ice cream. My stomach ached, but I had earned it. And I'm half a stone lighter, so there you go! Diets can work. I may try a week of apples and water next. I've heard good things about shifting the beef with that one.

Upwards and onwards to fighting fit.

Stay well,
Nate

Cabbage

2011-11-19T12:08:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I've started my cabbage soup diet. Now, a normal person would probably do some research into the scheme, perhaps join the official on-line 'Cabbage Soup Diet Program' and find a support group. I, on the other hand, haven't bothered to even do a Google search.

I'm simply going to eat nothing but large vats of cabbage soup for one week and see what eventuates. Part of this is about choice. I don't want to be told that I'm limited to cabbage, broth and garlic. I want to feel unincumbered and free to spice things up with a bit of tomato or a legume or two.

Frankly, I like a good soup, and last night's three bowls was more than satisfying. I feel lighter and more alert already.

My new initiative works nicely with an evolving plan in my celibate mind to 'put the moves' on a young lady who has been frequenting the library. She's part of an informal support group for jobseekers, which I sometimes advise.

Yes, during the Blair years of milk and honey, I was unemployed. Now in the dire times of coalition austerity, I am gainfully employed and making a few quid. So, I'm the shoulder to lean on and the voice of experience. You might call me the elder statesman, a Baron Birt to a young Tony Blair, or a trusted advisor, like Andy Coulson with scrupples and no hidden hooves and horns.

Anyway, my potential amour is ex of a government department, the recipient of a package to accept redundancy, and a redhead. Firey. Except that she's quite quiet. But you have to watch the quiet ones, I hear.

I haven't worked out the details of my approach. I'm very much in the planning stage. But you see, I believe in the past I rushed too quickly into love and mucked up each and every situation by not having a Plan B (or Plan C or realising that one individual was actually engaged - oh well).

So, another new phase. Upwards and onwards.

Stay well,
Nate

New lows

2011-11-15T05:52:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, just when you think Ol' Natesy can't sink much lower... Yes, I'm sorry to say, I have taken two actions for which my shame levels have risen.

First, I ate an entire roasted chicken in one sitting. With only a fork.

I hadn't intended to eat the entire bird. In fact, I had simply intended to have a jab at the juicy bits before putting together a sandwich with representative foodstuffs from the recommended food groups. This used to be found in a pyramid. Now it may be oblong and include chia seeds - I'm not certain.

But there were so many juicy bits, and my hunger seemed to rise up and take control. I attacked the roasted animal like a famished wood louse might when encountering a slow* and naive foal.

*speed, not developmental

It seems that my hunger urges are taking on a life of their own, which frightens me frankly. It's gone instinctual, animalistic, which clearly indicates I need to change my relationship with food. Which brings me to the second point of shame.

I ate ice cream. With a knife.

You see, sometimes my old refridgerator freezes items at too cold a temperature. The ice cream had hardened into the consistency of the Hope Diamond and I simply couldn't be bothered to leave the container out for a minor defrost. And besides, there was no guarantee it would have softened uniformly.

So I cut off small pieces with a carving knife, which I consumed by hand.

Well, I had to use my hand, obviously. I didn't want to risk slicing my face and ending up like that poor young chap who played The Joker in that Batman film a few years back. Cracking film, but not a look to which the ladies would come a'flocking.

I'm considering a diet. I've heard about the cabbage soup diet (I enjoy garden vegetables and soup, and the weather is right for it). I've also heard tell of a new diet in which the participant eats nothing but meat for two weeks and blasts the lot out with spoonfuls of wheat germ.

At least I haven't sunk that low.

Yet.

Stay well. Tell your friends to read the blog.

Nate

Traction

2011-11-10T07:49:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, my idea to dwell on the minutia of life in my missives seems to be paying off handsomely. I've had some nice traffic to the site and in discussion at the library had some positive reaction to both the new direction and my thoughts on shave cream.

You see, unlike politics, the minutia is never dull. And it's completely universal, like dieting and feeling that no one really likes you very much.

The shave cream 'tirade' gave way to some intense debate on flossing, which my recently unemployed acquaintance John believes is useless. In his words, "It's like running. They tell you it's good for you, but really you're simply damaging yourself."

John pointed out that the bleeding and smell produced was proof of his view.

I opined that flossing was a good thing, an enema for your teeth, and that that smell becomes known as 'halitosis' after a short time without it.

I'm not sure my metaphor won points with the others, but I did hit a solid backhander down the line with "It's the only real method for getting popcorn kernals from your teeth."

Of course you can wad up a bit of paper into a spike, which is cheap at half the price, but not as effective.

So, with an eye toward presenting life through a prism of 'the little things', I did the hoovering in a new direction yesterday. It was strangely satisfying and felt like I had cleaned the flat better than I had in a long time - I simply saw my surroundings in a new way. You should try it and let me know what you think!

Thoughts on flossing? Why not comment? Together I believe we can get hits on this blog up past the 10,000 mark!

Stay well,
Nate

From the WC

2011-11-09T07:04:00.002Z

Dear readers,

Well, no sooner did I boast about my cleared up veruca than I note a tendril lurking in the area this morning after bathing. Really, the phrase should be stubborn as a wart! Still, I'm fascinated by them. When I first noticed my afflicted area, my initial thought was 'Have I stepped on some small pieces of wire which have in turn become imbedded into my foot?'. They do cause quite a reaction for being such small tendrils.

In keeping with the health and ablution theme, I've been annoyed by my shave cream. For a long time I used only the traditional style of cream, which required lathering with water and a brush. But swayed by marketing and convenience, I recently purchased a tin of soothing gel. Frankly, the advertising made it appear as if shaving with this cool, aquatically coloured substance was akin to a short break in a snowy ski lodge in Switzerland.

The problem is not with the gel itself, which frankly is a revelation in marketing, namely that it is actually quite nice. The problem is that being a bearded man, I require but a small portion to tidy my neck and back of neck areas.

Unfortunately, the nozzle of the cylinder is incapable of dispensing a small dollop and instead ejaculates a hearty wad of greenish goop upon every press. Clearly it is a touch too excited to be involved in my morning routine.

Now, whether this is a cynical ploy on the manufacturer's part to force customers to use more and thus restock, or whether this is an accidental manufacturer's defect, or more, whether this is because of my fat fingers and lack of fine motor accuity is unknown. But I do like that I used three clauses before my verb in that sentence, as per the style of The New Yorker.

Anyway, in an effort to be environmental (and because I am naturally thrifty to the level of anal-retentiveness/in need of intervention therapy), I attempted to save the gel in the refrigerator. Unfortunately within an hour it had oxidised and turned into a half-cream, half-gel substance. Needless to say, I threw it in the bin.

On the plus side, this reduces the chances that I will mistake it for some sort of paste or jam during a late night forage weeks down the track when I've forgotten about my attempt to save the planet.

Why not add your comments and reflections about toilet-oriented habits and annoyances?

Good to be back. Keep reading!

Stay well,
Nate

Update from the mists of time

2011-11-07T07:11:00.001Z

Hello all,

Well, I'm still alive.

I'm still working for a major conglomerate in order shipping management engineering (my preferred job title).

I still have a cat. Linus has put on considerable weight since we last spoke. I still threaten to shave him when my allergies rise up, though I believe I am now able to function with optical content of 90 percent water and 10 percent hair/dander. Everything simply looks sepia and dated. It's wonderfully romantic, like being in a 1950s newsreel.

I'm deeply in love. I've taken to making pies and have fallen in love with several new recipes. I understand the gastro-pub idea now. Crust can get flakier!

I've also put on considerable weight since we last spoke.

On the plus side, I've almost managed to eradicate my verucas/foot-based warts. I'm now down to one after some hard work with these medicated patches. The other remains stubborn. Still...

So, life continues apace. Hope you're all well. I haven't written a word on the novel since being crushed by the suffocating wall of silence in my last postings. Mind you, I still expect to become a world-class novelist.

Stay well,
Ol' Fitzie

Update

2011-06-23T13:30:00.000+01:00

Hello all,

I take it from the deafening silence that readers aren't embracing the new novel. Too bad, as I believe it to be quite excellent. Well, I'll just hoard it until the Booker committee come calling...

I removed the top of my right index finger while cutting carrots. They say the majority of cuts in kitchens occur because of dull knives, so I've always been careful to keep mine incredibly sharp. I'd be interested in pursuing legal action against the idiot who coined the dull knife advice. Any assistance appreciated.

I was making soup.

Fingers bleed more than you'd expect. Luckily I had a nice shirt to soak up the excess. I may sell it as an artwork. Perhaps someone will wear it on the Fifth Plinth. Or is it the Fourth Plinth? I can never remember...

OK. I'm going now. Typing still hurts.

To the person who found my blog while looking for "the case of the missing sausages", I hope you enjoyed your time here and subsequently found your misplaced meat.

Stay well,
Nate

The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 6

2011-06-17T07:13:00.113+01:00

CHAPTER 6

He looked at the enormous photo of Spiv, bedecked with flowers and wreathed with black silk. It seemed more like an advertisement for a lounge singer in the piano bar than a solemn memorial image.

Shouldn't his kin have found a photo in which Spiv looked serious, pondering the larger questions of existence? He looked like he'd just come back from Ibiza.

At least they'd converted the photo to black and white. Monochrome added a semblance of distance from the event, like it had happened long ago, back when Michael Caine was doing Alfie perhaps.

Kenneth supposed the real Spiv would be a deep shade of purple now, as no one had found him for three days. The poor dear lad had hung like a forgotten Christmas ornament for 72 hours.

4320 minutes.

259,200 seconds.

Seconds just like this ONE. Or this ONE. Or this ONE.

Kenneth tried to imagine the initial drop. He wondered if Spiv had felt regret as his windpipe was restricted. Perhaps he had fought, realising that life on the dole wasn't actually that bad. At least you could see films during the day. And tellie could be a nice distraction.

"Did you know him well?" a woman asked.

Kenneth turned to see a pretty girl in a flowery dress and black hat. She was in her late 30s, had familiar eyes. "We worked together."

"I'm his sister, Beth."

"Ah, of course. Kenneth."

They shook hands and stood in silence looking at Spiv's eerie smile. They'd certainly photoshoped his teeth. No more tobacco stains. His skin looked smoother as well, buffed and cleansed of imperfections. He might have been selling aftershave.

"He took the redundancy hard," Kenneth said.

"He was working through a great number of issues," Beth said. "But I suppose you would have known that being his friend and all."

Kenneth didn't feel it appropriate to say they mostly mocked clients and talked football. He hadn't even known Spiv had a sister. He hadn't really ever thought of Spiv outside a two-block radius of the office.

"Were you close?" Kenneth asked.

"Very."

"I thought he had things locked down," Kenneth said.

"That's just the point. He pushed the pain deep until it erupted in this final call for help."

They lingered for a respectable amount of time.

"Shall we?"

She took Kenneth's arm like he was a gentleman leading her across the threshold into a grand ball. It wasn't the sort of thing one could protest. The room was deep and mostly empty, with black suits and dresses in the front two rows and a smattering of peripherals elsewhere.

Two men in Arsenal shirts sat on folding chairs near the door. Add Bovril and a pie and Kenneth would be tempted to ask the score.

They made their way toward the sanctum of family. Kenneth thought about politely disconnecting his arm and stepping into an aisle, but Beth's was clasped tight in grief. The spasms of her sobs vibrated against his skin.

Kenneth nodded to an older couple and sat down beside Beth, who erupted into wails of grief, like an Arab woman. He had never been a great believer in Keep Calm and Carry On - it seemed a recipe for subserviance - but raw agony was much worse. A quiet tear, a partial collapse onto a nearby shoulder, surely that was enough.

The older woman reached a hand across.

"I'm Helen, David's mother."

He'd forgotten his coworker had a proper name. Even management had called him Spiv, which was refreshing in these political correct times. Kenneth introduced himself. Her face brightened.

"Why of course. David spoke of you often. The football, lunches at the pub, the Christmas parties. And of course your witticisms. He said you brought real levity to the office."

He and Spiv had eaten lunch at the pub no more than three times in five years, and the only parties they had attended were tepid office affairs. He wondered if there was another Kenneth at JobsPlus.

"We appreciate the support you're giving Beth in this dreadful time," she continued. "Depression runs in the family."

"Helen," the gentleman said.

At this point the Middle Eastern wails gathered strength as Beth broke into another sob drawn deep from her larynx (which the ancients and Celine Dion might call their souls). It reminded Kenneth of the time he had stepped on Barry's tail while getting a glass of water in the night.

Spiv's father put a stiff hand on his wife's shoulder. She dabbed a small tear from her eye and looked forward, as if waiting stoically for her stop, leaving Beth careening in empty space. Kenneth realised people were looking at him in dismay. He put an arm around Beth.

She buried her face into his shirt.

"Thank you. Thank you, Kenneth."

He wished he'd had a proper bath and put on a clean shirt.

The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 5

2011-06-16T06:44:00.038+01:00

CHAPTER 5

He sat rubbing the joint between thumb and forefinger, wondering if there had ever been arthritis in the family. Such pain, and to what end? Despite a lovely young lady in varying states of undress propped before him, his John Thomas remained flaccid and ineffectual.

Kenneth knew from experience not to bothering pressing onwards Christian soldier when IT was in this sort of a mood, so he closed the computer window.

"Farewell, my coffee-coloured rose," he said.

Kenneth wasn't a pervert. He simply liked to indulge in a fantasy of sexuality and attractiveness that a weak chin and circumstance had robbed him of in the real world.

He had strict parametres on his habit. He liked women between 30 and 45, preferrably with almond eyes. Weight and height didn't matter, and frankly, variety was the spice of life.

He didn't go in for any "odd" behaviour - no cucumbers in the vagina, cricket bats up the anus or faux doctor's office. He took the medical world very seriously and didn't like its professionalism debased. Also, he feared spouting wood during his prostate exam (or worse, a tonsil exam or, say, a paediatry consultation).

No, Kenneth viewed himself a romantic. He imagined these physical interludes taking place with his femme amour after a lovely meal - with candles - and an enchanting walk by the seaside under a canopy of stars. There was always a pier, and a shy kiss. And then the grand unfolding...

He picked up the phone for the tenth or eleventh time. He'd had a few tins and didn't feel his heart pounding as badly as earlier.

"Better to get this out of the way," he said.

The cat pretended not to hear.

The line rang and Eleanor picked up.

"How's my girl?" Kenneth said, forcing gaiety.

"Yeah, hello, dad."

Not even able to answer the question asked. Did she have ADD? Anti-social Syndrome? But then, everyone wanted a syndrome these days, just like everyone wanted a colour television in the 1970s.

And an allergy. Everyone had to have one of those too. In days past you might know of one child who ballooned up like the Hindenburg when stung by a bee. Today everyone was lactose intolerant or wheat sensitive or couldn't come within a hundred metres of paint.

"Are you in tonight?" he asked.

"Seem so."

"Watching tellie?"

"No."

"Playing twenty questions?"

"Just busy."

Schools needed to teach teenagers the art of carrying on a conversation.

Silence.

He couldn't ask about the weather up there and cultural points of reference were naught. He knew about Lady Gaga, but wasn't sure she was 'in' with Eleanor's crowd. Eleanor wore a lot of black, she swore, he suspected she smoked, though with all the information on cancers, you had to wonder why.

"How are your studies?" Kenneth asked.

"Dunno. Fine."

"What are you studying?"

A long sigh.

"School's important, you know. Don't be like your old dad."

"You don't hear Cheryl bleeding Cole going on about her Chemistry," she muttered.

Kenneth doubted Cheryl Cole could spell Chemistry.

"There's more to life than being famous."

Eleanor laughed. "MUM!"

"You can't aspire to be a WAG."

But she was gone, just as that pretty little girl in the pink dress with the big smile was gone - sucked into the vortex of time passing and the muck of modern society. The phone dropped onto a hard surface. No doubt she'd be off to send tapes to Big Brother, praying to be abused by Gordon Ramsey, eager to go down on Simon Cowell's PA or his second cousin once removed.

Maybe a week or two on a coal face wasn't such a bad thing.

Christ, how far away was her mother?

He thought about hanging up.

The flat felt cold. Kenneth tried to calculate the last time he'd made himself a hot toddy. He'd had enough of cider's clowing sweetness and couldn't feel his feet.

"Your aunt's given you fifty quid for El's birthday. Why've you not deposited it?"

"Nice to speak with you too, Bern." Her voice was rough as wood shavings. "I've not received any money."

"Said she gave it to you."

"I've not seen her. Did you get my email?"

Breathing in his ear.

"I'll get round to it," Kenneth said. "The email..."

"Can't live on less than you give us," Bernice said. "Them designer shoes the kids wear is expensive. If you've got money problems, be like everyone else and find a PayDay UK. Man up, Kenneth. That's always been your problem."

"I may be facing more than a short term situation, Bern. The economy and all."

More breathing.

Kenneth put a hand into his trousers to check, but no brief pick-me-up appeared on the horizon.

They talked, but Bernice stonewalled him until they hung up.

He looked at the cat, the walls, the washing up that needed doing. He could go back to school, educate himself up, make more of an impact on the world. He could open WORD and start the novel.

He turned on the tellie. Midsomer Murders was on.

That'd do.

The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 4

2011-06-14T07:40:00.083+01:00

CHAPTER 4

He was in no shape to be on the street, but even more, no mood to be inside the flat. The day was a mottled navy grey, the rain clouds running around the periphery of the sky, sneaking a peek but not ready to converge on the meek and mild.

Kenneth prided himself on his ability to read the sky. He was like a young William Bligh. Or Captain Kidd. Or perhaps Seaman Stains, he thought with a laugh.

His guts were peppered beef and battery acid, with porridge floating atop the lot. He bleched quietly, wishing he'd had sausages in the flat and felt his sphincter moisten palpably. He did a mental GPS of his location and the distance home and reluctantly ducked into a public WC, dropping his coins into a copper dish.

Attendant on duty.

The floors were sopping wet and reeked of piss and bleach. He avoided these types of places like the plague, not enjoying the feel of wet at the sockline, but his colon had the fortitude of an excited two-year-old today.

Kenneth hiked his trousers with a thumb in the belt. He tended toward long trousers with cuffs to the back of the shoe - the proper length. When he gained a curry or two they'd rise. When he lost a few Cadburys they'd drop back down, like a barometre of willpower. He had been keeping off the sweets lately and was looking as trim as he had in years.

He wiped the seat thoroughly, depositing the thin paper into the cistern. He then did a second cleanse and wondered how a person might burn a toilet seat with a fag. Had they fallen asleep in the middle of expulsions? Or was this yet another act of vandalism with no purpose.

Kenneth didn't mind a bit of street art - Banksy had a point of view, but most tossers scribbled nonsense while their feet started running away. Real street artists did it right. They stayed until the job was done. That took some brass, which made the act alright in his books. The Government and corporate world needed to be kept honest in the public realm.

As his cheeks met the cold rim, Kenneth's rectum gave way like a road sluiced away by mudslides. As the water splashed up, he saw trees uprooted and swept down a Javanese hillside, cameras recording the reorder of landscape for viewers lingering over potato puffs and frozen salisbury steaks on the other side of the planet. He saw an arse on a sticky seat.

He wondered if there was good tellie on tonight.

He groaned as his entire torso clenched.

Mohammed Ali was throwing combinations at his hole, the reverberations rising up to his throat, which was twisting inside out. What if he shat his stomach out? Had that ever happened? What would his obituary say?

No one would know to feed the cat.

A hot sweat broke across his brow and he made a mental note to look up "shat out stomach" on Google. You could see loads of astonishing medical conditions on the internet. He'd seen men from WWI without jaws and watched the shellshocked unable to stop shaking years after crawling out of the trenches. He'd seen a fisherman in Indonesia whose arm had turned squid-like into a claw of scab and bone. He'd seen a Thai chap with a neck tumour the size of a football.

A fist banged on the door.

"Come on now, move along," a man said.

"I'm in the middle of something actually," Kenneth replied, clenching.

"None of that or I'll get the police."

The man wore worn brown athletic shoes. His feet were small, like short loaves of artisan bread, perhaps baked by monks.

"I'm not ..."

But the man was gone, no doubt to badger another poor soul with the runs. Perhaps the fat American tourist with his camera slung around his neck and his white socks pulled up.

Surely the attendent didn't take him for a dirty junkie.

What was the world coming to? Half the populace strung out and the other so angry a man couldn't enjoy a proper bowel movement outside the home.

Life hadn't always been a series of cold transactions. There had been dignity once. Maybe not as much as nostalgia suggested, but dignity all the same. It was a respect for order, a nod to the driver as you boarded the bus, helping the oldies as they shuffled along with their potatoes and bunions.

There had been butchers and fishmongers and fruit and veg markets. Everything hadn't come in plastic from a corporate warehouse. Perhaps the rise of plastic had been society's undoing. The world of waxed paper and newsprint had been better by half.

The fist hit the wood once more and sopping tendrils of a disintegrating mop swept beneath the door frame, sloshing Kenneth with grey water. He tasted breakfast in the back of his throat. Thankfully his body had ceased its War of the Roses. He performed a hurried and cursory wipe.

As he departed, Kenneth dipped his hand into the copper plate and pocketed the entire(if meagre) collection of coins.

Another transaction had been completed.

The rain began to fall.

The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 3

2011-06-13T06:21:00.004+01:00

CHAPTER 3

Kenneth weaved along the pavement, in and out of shoppers, teenagers and drunks. He himself wasn't intoxicated, simply inebriated on misery.

"Please God, no. Please God, no," he kept repeating.

For an agnostic boarding on atheism this was quite a feat. His rational self told him the act was pointless. At the same time, there wasn't exactly anything to lose.

Kenneth attempted not to cry. A babbling loon he might be, but tears would certainly push the tableau into that uncomfortable sphere of social faux pas that could get one questioned by the constabulatory.

When he could bear the weight no more, he stumbled into a pub. It wasn't his local or one frequented from time to time. In fact, he had purposely walked in a direction different from his usual route. He didn't want to be seen by anyone he knew.

He put a hand on the rich laquered wood of the bar and pulled himself onto a stool. He then placed another hand on the bar and centered himself in line with the pork scratchings. He then decided to give up completely and put his forehead against the cool, smooth wood. He moaned.

"Help you?"

He looked up to see a young barman eying him. The accent was Australian. He wondered how many work visas for barmen went to the antipodians. Did they have special training schools for pulling pints down there?

"Pint of cider," Kenneth said. "And keep them coming."

"I can only serve you two at a time. New regulations."

"One's enough... I simply meant..." He shook his head. "Pay the comment no mind, lad."

It occured to Kenneth that this young strapping kangaroo wrestler was gainfully employed, whereas he was redundant.

Redundant. Of no use. A spare prick at the orgy. You couldn't call a person looking for a job a "jobseeker", but you could tell someone going out the door that they were now useless.

"One of those days?" a lad nearby said.

He and his mate were in their 30s, well attired and looking jovial. Kenneth nodded and realised he hadn't even taken a glance around the place. It was a large pub, likely built in the 90s when publicans realised a drinking establishment could be larger than a WC without losing its charm. Must have saved them a bundle on people not losing their pints on the carpet trying to weave around tables tucked in together.

But the place hadn't been tarted up like those hideous later gastro-pubs, appealing to toffs in suits and everyone else chasing easy credit and Gordon Brown's promise of the end of recessions.

Mind you, Kenneth liked Gordon. He was an intelligent man caught in a world of social media and superficiality, ill-armed to cope with 24-7 news. Yes, he had kept them in Afganistan, but he was a Scot and thus victim to his national genes. The tartan brigade had never known when to give up a fight.

And yes, Gordon had buggered the economy by loosening the reigns too much, but he'd tried his best to be fair, unlike David Cameron and his shitsui lapdog Clegg.

He would have a drink with Mr Brown. They'd no doubt become fast friends, sharing a similar world view and hope for humanity.

"I've been made redundant," Kenneth said.

"Join the squad," the gent said. He and his mate lifted their glasses. "Got our marching orders last week."

"What are you planning to do now?" Kenneth asked.

"No fucking clue. Until then, bit of this."

He held up his pint. Kenneth took his from the barman and counted out his coins. He took a long swallow of cider, feeling the gentle bubbling in his throat and the sweet copper on his tongue. He thought of the sea. Blackpool.

Australia. Sharks.

Wellies made from surf material.

He got his pen and notebook out and jotted down the idea. A pair of boots made from wetsuit material, running just below the knee with firm soles. His father had made him go into the sea with his shoes on, to keep steady on the pebbles. This way you could feel the salty wet properly, stay warm and not look like a spastic.

Could be worth millions.

He looked around again. Efes. Turkish beer. For God's sake, why did so many pubs have that muck on tap. Who in their right mind would drink Turkish beer?

He felt bad for the Armenians.

He had once had a young lady from Armenia as a client. She had told him about the Armenian genocide by the Turks at the end of WWI. He hadn't known a wit about the event, even though hundreds of thousands of men, women and children had died. Old people too. Marched to their deaths.

He waved a finger for another pint.

No, he was lucky to live in the time and place he did. Imagine how much those thirsty travellers would have given to be able to raise a hand and get a refreshing high-caloric alcoholic beverage on the dusty road to Demascus (or wherever they were going).

Why did human beings do it to one another? Why couldn't David Cameron have just left well enough alone, let attrition trim the ranks, looked for areas to cut that didn't necessitate damaging the lives of people who knew nothing but their jobs?

Because he didn't understand.

For all the talk of a classless society, there was still a chasm larger than Mariana Trench (11,033 metres deep in the ocean - good trivia to know).

He jotted the name down and wrote: excellent name for a female protagonist in a crime novel!!! Now that he was redundant, perhaps he would turn his hand to a novel.

And yet he knew pursuing a life even more solitary than the one he was living would most certainly send him over the edge. Perhaps he was already over the edge. Perhaps that was why he had been chosen for culling at JobsfuckingPlus.

He drained a third of the pint in one go, belched like a champion and closed his eyes. He began to feel warm and happy.

JobsfuckingPlus.

He'd show them. He'd do something amazing and let it filter to Pickle and the other draconian thickos that getting made redundant was the best thing to ever happen to him.

He opened his eyes with a smile. The Australian was eying him warily.

What did the koala hugger care; he didn't have to take Kenneth home and put him to bed. No one did. No one. The bed was cold. Tea was never made in the morning. He didn't awake to the smell of toast and the sound of the knife spreading butter and jam across the jagged wheaty surface. It was just him and one ungrateful cat.

"Give us a vodka," Kenneth said. "And two for these lads."

His new mates toasted him.

Suddenly he was part of a society he had never wished to join. Still, it was better than drinking alone.

The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 2

2011-06-12T06:17:00.002+01:00

CHAPTER 2

The orange was a beautiful but frustrating mistress. Kenneth turned it in his hand, letting the faint afternoon sunlight dance across its mottled surface. The skin looked wet, inviting, like something you could slip into on a hot day.

And yet he knew how the engagement would end, with sticky hands and a wet chin, rinds to be deposited in the bin, eventually choking birds when dumped as dehydrated rusks. He'd read about the problem on the internet. It wasn't all porn, you know.

He began to peel, his thumb smarting as it dug beneath the thick skin. He should have packed a knife.

What the world needed was a pre-peeled orange enclosed in a water-tight bag.

Kenneth stopped. He grinned despite being in a public area surrounded by people in blue suits.

It made perfect sense.

Bagged peeled oranges would be healthy for little ones and convenient for business people. The technology had been unleased on boiled eggs. He'd seen them in the shops. But no one had thought about further applications.

"If there's a box, I am thinking outside of it," he murmured triumphantly.

Kenneth searched the pocket of his jacket for his pen and small notebook and jotted the idea down. Might be just the ticket. Salvation. Like Armageddon for Americans or unpasturised cheese for the French.

As he often did, Kenneth imagined himself rich, able to have a long lie-in, ordering takeaway Tikka Malasa every night, with garlic naan. He would get those fancy entrees, the mini chicken tikkas and bhaji, instead of rationalising the cost and the fact that one man shouldn't eat that much rich food.

If anything tasty were in the flat, he'd eat it. He could finish a roast chicken in his sleep. Fruit and Nut bars died in appaling numbers. Crisps didn't stand a chance of seeing daybreak.

If he were rich, he could share the extra entree bits with the butler. Or the pretty Asian maid, Moora. Or Maanika. Or Madhura. Something with an M.

Kenneth liked Asian women. They were exotic down to their DNA. He also liked how M sounded coming off the tongue.

He checked his pocket watch and embarked back to his desk, tumbling from Neverland with each footfall. Seven minutes and thirty-three seconds later, he arrived - more than two minutes off his best time.

He blamed poor lift efficiency. People didn't cram in when they had takeaway salads and coffees.

His in-tray was listing dangerously to starboard, threatening to capsize onto the floor and take all the hopeful yet discouraged jobseekers down forever.

He righted them as best he could, the top file sticking to remnants of citrus too devious to come off.

"Been wanking?" Spiv said.

"Eh?"

"You've got bits of tissue on your jacket."

Kenneth looked down, his face colouring. "Oh right. I ate an orange. You know what the world needs, don't you?"

"A good kick upside the bollocks."

"Yes, well... No..."

"This isn't one of your loopy inventions?"

"They're not all bad," Kenneth began.

"A kettle that makes gravy. A cat shaving kit."

"The kettle idea is quite good."

"Like I said, a bollocking. Looks like you might get yours. You've got a Pickle incoming."

Spiv darted away as Kenneth turned to see Maggie "Pickle" Johnson walking his way. She was like a turnip bi-ped, round and a revolting shade of yellow-white with bits of purple in all the wrong places.

Kenneth hated turnips. Most people did. They were simply too polite or indoctrinated by childhood nostalgia or cultural propaganda to admit the fact.

"Just getting back to it, Pickle," Kenneth said, preempting.

Maggie thought the moniker a term of endearment, but the lads had come up with it in the pub because she walked around like she had a gerkin shoved up her back passage.

"Not why I'm here," she replied.

She held out a manilla envelope. The skin around her eyes was creased in such a way as to look dangerously gleeful. Much more of this and the epidermis might crack and fall away.

"This my bonus?" Kenneth said.

"Even better."

He kept his hand back, like one does from an aggressive goose.

"Come on, take it." She smiled. "It's been nice."

"Sorry?"

"It's your redundancy, you idiot."

Kenneth's tongue went thick and he felt heat. For a second, he thought about hauling off and giving her one in the mouth. He wasn't that sort of man, but...

That's out of line, he thought. Out of line.

The walls metastisised to liquid - Kenneth's legs giving way to the vibrations.

West Ham United. Founded in 1895 by workers from the Thames Ironworks. FA Cup winners 1964, 1975 and 1980. Most goals in one match, six, achieved twice: Vic Watson, February 2, 1929 versus Leeds United; Geoff Hurst November 19, 1968 versus Sunderland in front of a young Kenneth Fleetwood and his soon to be deceased father, Archie Fleetwood.

The repetition of facts made difficult moments endearable.

The walls reformed into solid three-dimensional space. Telephones and voices washed through his auditory canals.

Kenneth was aware of citrus stickiness between his fingers. He looked up at Pickle.

"You know what the world needs?" he began.

Everything would be alright.

Surely, everything would turn out fine.

Surely.

The homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood

2011-06-10T01:49:00.003+01:00

Chapter 1

It was a typical day really. The tube was delayed by nesting birds shorting out a signal box. A light rain had found the minute hole is his left work shoe. Breakfast had been a bacon sandwich made on the run that had dripped mayonaise on to his plain black tie.

But somehow Kenneth Fleetwood made it to his office with body and soul together. He'd even managed to catch the lift as the doors were closing, giving a friendly nod to the new security lad, who'd put his hand in to hold it up.

Kenneth settled at his desk, fixing the position of his rubber plant. It had been a gift from a thankful Malay he had helped in obtaining a position in a kitchen. The man had begun on washing up duty, worked his way to kitchen hand and gone on to open his own small kiosk offering Laksa and Rendang.

The plant was a reminder of success. One needed such icons at Jobcentre Plus. It used to be the Department of Work and Pensions, but the government had paid an advertising agency several thousand pounds to jazz it up and come up with an energetic new "brand".

You can't fight change, Kenneth thought.

Cup of tea, two biscuits, faint sugar high and then first file of the day. He turned on his computer, a plodding PC that refused anything more modern than Microsoft's 95 Office suite. It refused to recognise his password on the first two attempts. Yes, the universe was in order.

PCs... Kenneth was an Apple man. Along with West Ham United, the odd sneaky wank and bacon, it was his sole vice. When a new product came on the market, he'd be first at the doorstep. He'd even taken two days off sick to camp outside the Apple Shop to get his hands on the first iPad.

Yes, if a new Apple computer was spied in the office, you could be fairly certain it was Kenneth Fleetwood's Mac.

"Watch the match?" asked Daniel "Spiv" McTierney, doing the cubicle lean, one arm propped on the top, the other leaning down with apparent palsy.

"Might the pope be a catholic?" Kenneth replied.

"Assume so," said Spiv. "As well as a Nazi and a paedo."

"Friend and protector of the paedo," Kenneth said. "There's no evidence he diddles himself, just covers it up for the bishops. I won't have slander in a government office."

"Goes without saying."

Spiv was a good man. Solid. Did everything he could for the people who came in down and out.

Kenneth's first client was an accounts person, pretty, tired looking, as if she had had a big night, perhaps with karaoke.

They used to be called jobseekers, but that was now said to be humiliating and belittling.

Isabelle ("Call me Izy")had chipped nail polish and wrinkled clothes that suggested she hadn't quite made it all the way home (though a lucky lad might have had that thrill). Kenneth imagined her having a go at "Heart of Glass", holding the microphone at a suggestive angle, slight slur in her voice.

She had the right dirty blonde hair for the part. But she was in her late-20s and probably wouldn't know Deb Harry from David Blunkett. No, she'd be on your Lady Gaga or Adele (Amy Winehouse without the crack).

Kenneth sighed.

"You alright?" Izy asked.

"Long week," he replied.

And I'm old, he thought. Too old to ever know the faint taste of nicotine on your kiss. He gripped his tea with a full hand around the porcelain, the painful heat bringing him out of his moment of unprofessional longing.

"Did you have a big night," Kenneth asked.

Her shoulders tensed. "Does that affect my dole?"

"No, of course not," Kenneth said.

The rest of the session was conducted in tense tones with minimal banter.

Izy was another castaway from downsizing Government departments, happy to take her redundancy, thinking it a chance to catch up on the party. The young didn't understand that the Blair years were an anomoly. Rarely in history did the banks line up to offer mortgages to punters without two quid to rub between their thumbs.

But it wasn't Kenneth's job to lecture. In his kind uncle voice, he had outlined programs that might help land a new job, but Izy was looking queasy and in need of a full English and the afternoon buried neck deep in a feather pillow. He wished her luck and told her to ring anytime.

And then she was gone, her stocking clad legs disappearing down the polyester carpetted corridor.

There were so many folders.

The in-box was practically overflowing.

"Get your finger out," Spiv said, walking by.

Scotland

2011-06-03T08:33:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, I've been ruminating about running away once again. As my Twitter followers will know, I briefly entertained a notion of uprooting myself and tramping up to Scotland a few months back.

The idea is grounded in both my desire to become a 'serious novelist' and dissatisfaction with my current place.

I work in transportation control for a food conglomerate. This means I spend many hours per day printing order and shipping forms in triplicate and putting them in the proper folders.

I live with a cat. I am single.

I am mildly pedantic.

And thus I envisioned a modern "The Good Life" with better clothes and a less annoying female partner in the wilds of Perth. The notion of taking care of a salmon ladder by day and writing by night seemed captivating.

I could practically feel the blustery cold on my cheek as I watched my golden protectorate struggle with the determination of Sisyphus to return to their home beds to spawn and die.

You must admit, it's a strong image. Gritty. Exactly the kind of imagery one needs to be a top-notch novelist. Also, I'm mental for smoked salmon.

I blame Orwell. After Animal Farm, he moved to the remote and windswept island of Jura, one of the most unappealing and inaccessible places in the British Isles. In complete isolation he penned 1984, a classic of dystopia and paranoia.

Modern life makes Winstons of us all.

Of course Orwell soon died of lung disease, drowning in a pool of his own blood.

What can one say, Scottish weather isn't good for the respiratory system, what with all the damp, changeability and perpetual sideways rain.

As I have bad knees, I fear I'd end up bedridden, causing my salmon to flail themselves to a pulpy death at the blocked basin of a neglected salmon ladder.

I couldn't take the guilt.

And yet still the dream persists. I do love tartan and shortbreads.

Stay well,
Nate

Still alive

2011-05-25T08:36:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers (both of you),

Yes, I am still alive. The last blog post title (Heaven) was not a cry for help or forewarning. I've considered sitting down to have a whirl on the old bacteria-laced keyboard on a number of occasions, but have backed away.

I wrote a number of notes of interesting events and thoughts. I then jotted down my shopping list on the back of the paper and threw it in the bin after unpacking my tuna, bread, yogurt and hemorroid cream.

Much better, thank you.

I do recall one note was about my idea to switch from fiction to non-fiction, as men apparently no longer buy novels. I considered some rugged war-based biography, perhaps of Randolf Churchill, the drunken, perhaps sociopathic spawn of the Bulldog who was sent to Croatia with Evelyn Waugh to serve out the war in a manor house drinking gin.

The Imperial War Museum has some top-notch archives.

I might yet.

Don't scoff. It's unbecoming.

And as a final note, I was guilted into writing this entry after reading Emma Simms' Moody Moo blog. See righthand column.

Tell your friends.

Stay well,
Nate

Heaven

2011-05-10T08:02:00.002+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, despite being mindful of the adage 'tell a dream, lose a reader', I feel the need to share my nocturnal travels.

I had a very vivid dream of being in Heaven last evening. I was surprised to discover that everyone in the place existed at the age they were when they perished. Yes, all were caught like honeybees in amber as young, obese, aged, demented and senile.

As you might have guessed, the mood in the place wasn't jovial. A lot of the elderly were banging their walking sticks and complaining (let's face it, that is what the old and infirm do most of the day).

Poor haggard St Peter was explaining that everything was in 'the manual', which they should have read.

I had the feeling he was talking about The Bible. Someone asked him to point out the section and he was surprised to find it missing. It hadn't been with the Lost Sea Scrolls afterall.

As I mentioned, the dream was vivid. I awoke wondering if I had been given a vision. Just my luck that I would pass from this mortal coil and be cursed to spend all eternity with bad knees.

Or perhaps I have been given this vision because I am the one choosen to write this missing book. Certainly, I'm desperate to get published. Perhaps this is my big break. The religious market globally is massive...

What do you think, dear readers?

OK. Time for tea and toast.

Stay well,
Saint Nate
author of The Book of Nate,
final chapter of The Bible
subtitle: Finally getting the nitty gritty on the afterlife

One wedding and no funerals

2011-05-01T12:24:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, there really is nothing like a large public spectacle to make you feel good about yourself. Yes, the Royal Nuptuals themselves were a jolly affair - mainly because it ended up being about two nice young people who seemed to quite like one another getting married, which even I have trouble being cynical about...

Beyond this, however, media talks with the crowd filled me with a sense of normalcy and dare I say confidence. Yes, when I compare my life to some poor sods out in the wild, wild world, I stack up better than suspected. My life even appears typical.

I appreciated the interview with the chap who made the 'facebook hat', which featured screenshots of Will and Kate's facebook pages as well as assorted photos, including one of 'a young lady who used to push his pram'. That ringing sound is alarm bells. I hope said young lady has changed her identity and moved to some small village with a poor transport link to London.

Sometimes public life is a tad too public...

God blessed the lonely and obsessed!

Stay well,
Nate

On the up

2011-04-29T07:38:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, aren't I spoiling you with riches. Blog posts on consecutive days. Next you'll like a kidney, I suspect. I wouldn't recommend my kidneys. They've been through quite a few ciders and are no doubt pale, flaccid and half-pickled.

Finally I seem to have emerged from my brief four-month well of depression, having finally found the meaning of life at the bottom of yet another cheese and onion crisp packet. Amazing how the gloom can suddenly lift.

My dip into the existential darkness has necessitated a revamp of the wardrobe, as my trousers all shrunk in the interim. I could no longer convince myself that the overstuffed sausage look was 'in' and traversed the charity shops for new threads.

I don't care what anyone says, the economic downturn is biting. During the Blair years the selection of 'previously utilised' menswear was breathtakingly exciting. Now it is slim pickings and most clearly well loved. But the trick is to pop into the shops with frequency and determination. After all, people are always passing from this mortal coil and their clothing must go somewhere.

On that note, I'm off to suck the marrow from life. I shall be weaving in and around the hoards of American tourists celebrating the nuptuals of Diana's spawn. Stay well and check in regularly. The blog may be mundane, but life is mundane, so there you go. Please tell your friends.*

*About the blog, not that life is mundane. I'm sure they're aware.

Stay well,
Nate

The squire hath returned to the manor

2011-04-28T06:32:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, despite rumours of my demise (or so I like to imagine), I appear to be back. Yes, the blog is not yet done. I've been doing some research and clearly my chances of getting published are greatly enhanced by having 'an on-line presence', even if it is tedious, filled with banality and sporatic. Who knew?

I am eating a bacon sandwich as I write this, in case the banality needs proving. I have cut the crusts off as I am feeling a wistful nostalgia for my childhood. Crustless sandwiches were about as good as it got.

I'm also encouraged that my lack of publishing experience plays to my advantage. One would think having a few tomes on the shelves would aid a novelist, but apparently with all the scanners, bells and whistles of modern technology, editors can easily check the sales numbers. Publishers would rather take a chance on an unknown who might trip the light fantastic than grow a known talent who the public have not embraced with Twilight-like zeal.

So, my obscurity and previous pedantic obsession with the minutia of my life as written in this blog are playing to my advantage. Perhaps rewearing socks because one is too lazy to launder them will turn out to be a plus in my life too, instead of simply making the flat smell like a high-end French cheese emporium.*

*A nice runny Brie would go nicely on this sandwich. I may have to go for a trek today and locate a round for tomorrow.

So, more to come. I shall endeavour to be more regular.

Stay well,
Nate

Flotsom

2011-04-04T11:29:00.000+01:00

I’ve been thinking lately.

I’ve been thinking about pulminary edema, drowning in my own blood.

I’ve been thinking of my heart exploding into darkness, like sudden light on a disco ball of madness and ecstacy.

I’ve been thinking of being hit by a bus while the driver takes a sneaky bite of pastry and wonders what might be good on television tonight.

Heaven isn’t pretty clouds and angels as the Reverend says. It will be angry pandas and hoards of extinct animals wanting answers.

I have lived so long in Milton Keynes New Town that I have become it - a human suburb where nothing changes and every façade appears the same day in and out. The hedges grow. They get trimmed. But I’m uncertain as to who does the caretaking.

When we were first married, my wife taught me how to make a salad. Never wash the mushrooms, she said. Rub them with a damp tissue. Tear lettuce into bite-sized pieces so no one has to use a knife – it’s bad form.

I have my own rules. Bacon must be crispy and the bread must be white and buttered on both sides. It must be eaten on Saturdays before 11am.

Structure prevents chaos.

I haven’t seen my wife in months. I’m living with a man named Anton. We’re holed up in his castle waiting for the Apocalypse.

The first horseman is Time.
The second is Boredom.
I can’t wait to see who shows up next.

Clarification

2011-03-17T21:05:00.000Z

Hello all,

I'm not sure that anyone is actually reading this blog anymore aside from an acquantance or two. I have been told to clarify my 'dim Australian' comment. I'm not saying the entire nation is as dull as a grey jumper on an overcast day. I'm simply saying I've had a few conversations with Antipodeans in London who made the impression.

For example, on two occasions I pontificated to chaps around the bar about the situation in Egypt. The first listened politely enough and said he didn't really know anything about 'all that' and didn't want to as he 'wasn't political'. Being a citizen of the world, I would think having an opinion about a major shift in the status quo of the Middle East might not be too big an ask. It's like asking someone about the Earthquake in Japan and having them say, 'I don't really know about it and don't care, as I'm not a seismologist'.

The other chap I attempted to engage made a few vague statements about wanting to see the pyramids as they are alleged to be pretty impressive. Yes, dear lad, wonders of the world. Just try not to get shot.

So, dear readers, please don't take my comments out of context. I wouldn't want an entire nation breathing hellfire in my direction. Though it might get reader numbers up.

I'm planning my Charlie Sheen clean-up phase. Though it clearly fuels the genius of my writing, I should cut back on my time at the pub. I may start posting some writing shortly. Surprisingly the all-new Bigtop Lowdown (new title!) is plodding along. I'm having some trouble remembering parts of the plot, but find leaving out these black patches helps speed up the flow of the narrative.*

*please don't email and insinuate I'm being racist with the use of that phrase... context, people.

New plan: I'm going to find a scriptwriter to adapt the novel as it is being rewritten. Selling the film rights will force a publishing company to take on the manuscript and shall act as wonderful publicity. If anyone knows of a keen young scribe with some industry contacts, please let me know.

Oh, and happy Irish day.

Stay well,
Nate

Update

2011-03-16T18:58:00.002Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, long time .. never seen. But then, that is the way I like our relationship. Frankly I live in fear of running into any of my Twitter/blog followers on the streets near my home, a terror that came back to me recently when I spied a Twitter follower in Angel. Luckily she was clearly three sheets to a northerly and didn't recognise me as I ducked into a bedding shop.

I believe the Australian barman at my local no longer likes me. Not only does he take an insufferable amount of time to take my order, but the banter is non-existent. I believe him to be a touch over-sensitive, as I made a somewhat disparaging comment about his homeland. You know the Antipodeans - over-sensitive to criticism. No, I did not remark on the current cricket situation (ha!) or the over-used convict past commentary. I simply remarked that 'in my experience' a great number of his fellow countrymen in London were 'a bit dim'. I believe it's a factual comment, no doubt backed up by statistics as well as subjective findings. I'm not saying all Australians have the IQ of a burnt bit of toast, just many. Germaine Greer for all her failings is a bright enough lady.

I listen to a fair number of conversations. I draw general conclusions. This is what a good novelist does, I believe. And since London is overrun with Australians, I happen to have an opinion. I don't have to justify anything.

Granted, familiarity breeds contempt, and I have been using up a rather large percentage of my savings drinking in my local on a daily basis. I have taken a hiatus from my place of employment to work on the novel, but find the stress of composition draining. I need the chatter of voices. I am like Prufrock upon the stairs. Isolation is no longer my muse.

This of course has not aided in my staunch determination to shift the beef. I have been considering Weight Watchers but fear I may fall into the 'decidely beyond help' category or may find myself labelled 'morbidly obese', which I fear would be the last proverbial straw. I am a fragile creature for all my outward confidence and air of elitism.

Beyond all of this, I must admit I'm finding it difficult to maintain my current level of self-pity and life regret in the face of the world's unrelenting natural disasters. Don't get me wrong, I know how lucky I am to live in a country where I can buy an egg and salad bap without fear of the building falling upon me or a slew of water sweeping me to sea.

Linus is uphappy with my irregular hours. Though not so unhappy as to show additional affection for his patron or put in any effort to seek alternative digs. Lazy sod.

Well, I hope that cheered everyone up. Frankly I don't know why you follow me anymore, dear reader. I would have desisted long ago... You're too kind. Far too kind...

Stay well,
Nate

Elite status

2011-03-08T12:17:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, someone should probably alert the Guinness World Record committee, as I received the fastest manuscript rejection in history last week. Due to volume they were unable to offering any feedback.

I've taken a leave of absence from my place of employment, claiming severe tooth pain. My teeth are perfectly fine, but even a dentist can't fully reject the vague notion of 'pain' so they'll have no cause to dismiss me should I really drag this episode out. Most of the paper cuts on my fingers have now healed. The hazards of working with copious envelop stuffing. I'm sure Dickens, Dawkins and Roddy Doyle have never suffered such humiliation.

Perhaps I should climb aboard the humiliation train and court celebrity attention, then use the public outrage to springboard my memoir. I could seek litigation against Toby Young for giving me genital warts or claim Kate Winslet abused me during my tenure as her children's nanny.

Bah!

Biscuit time...

Stay well,
Nate

Relationship advice

2011-02-23T06:47:00.000Z

Hello dear reader,

Well, the life of a solitary bachelor can become oppressive in the stark gloom of the long winter months. I have ceased all contact with my lobster-loving lady friend at work. At first, I pretended not to see her in the kitchen area. But then after several ‘not seeing’ encounters, it was obvious that I had either contracted severe cataracts or was ‘dissing her’ in the modern parlance (my Streets-loving co-worker defined it as such).

Now she greets me with clear malice, which is terribly distressing, as I never intended to make her feel like the insincere and duplicitous harlot some might believe her to be. Yes, she misled my affections. Yes, she willingly engaged in a gorgefest at my local Chinese and then gave me a high-five. Yes, she ate dinner in my home and brought her fiancé. But I bear no ill will.

In an attempt to end my bachelorhood and get some ‘hot action’, I asked my 79-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson to come round for advice. Not only has she lived long enough to accrue sage insight, but many readers seem strangely fascinated by her. Beyond this, though old, she was technically a woman once and thus can offer more help than my generally indifferent friend Piotr or my cat.

When I mentioned all of this, she informed me rather curtly that in her youth, I 'would never have made her dance card'. I’ve seen the photos and admittedly, she was a nice looking lady. Mind you, they are all black and white images, which have always struck me as disingenuous, like the action captured upon the paper may not have happened. I believe this is why more people are interested in WWII than the WWI – more colour footage. Also, Hitler made a better villain than the Kaiser and all his tubby generals.

Regardless, Mrs Donaldson's comment did very little for my confidence. Her lecture on my life did even less, as she pointed out that my home smelled of rotting books, dust, cat and relics of the dead (pointing to my favourite chair). I countered that my books were not rotting (but conceded paper does mildew). Beyond this, I detest dusting, can’t do much about Linus, and the chair is worn to the point of comfortably supporting my body.

She made some mention of me pulling myself up with strength of character and added there was no shame in ‘paying for it’. I then tuned her out and made tea, regretting the absurd notion that she could be of any assistance in my attempts to change my life.

I am mulling the idea of joining a dating website once again.

I have approached a new agent about my manuscript. Stay tuned.

Stay well,
Nate

Am writing

2011-02-20T06:36:00.000Z

When Albert Johnson set out to acquire higher education, he set himself the Sisyphean task of unmasking the false god of meritocracy. In this pursuit, he began two clubs, the first being The Society for the Restitution of the Science of Phrenology (and not just because his skull was his sole good feature, but because he was a True Believer).

His second gathering was a dramatic society, which launched with Waiting for Godot, staged in a manner suitable for his class heritage. Not only did Godot arrive, but he was punctual and impeccably attired.

Footlights did not come calling.

Albert regularly had erotic dreams involving Sir Anthony Eden, but told no one - partly because he had no close confidants, and partly because he did not approve of Sir Anthony's handling of the Suez Crisis.

Though he lived communally, he did not care to dine with his fellow students, often heard to remark 'the deliciousness of my prose fulfills even my bodily needs'. He was also known to lament quite loudly, 'If only Evelyn Waugh were alive' when his Literature professors uttered an opinion contrary to his beliefs. Acquaintances marvelled at his ability to avoid being thrashed.

A post

2011-02-19T10:37:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Albert Johnson was a formal man. When dining in an Indian restaurant he insisted on ordering a Rogan Joshua and Grandmother bread.

Am writing.

stay well,
Nate

Holby City Blues

2011-02-18T06:55:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, my 79-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson has been attempting to lift me from my malaise by encouraging me to re-join her elderly improv group as the assistant director. And by encouraging, I mean harassing and prodding.

She seems to think the promise of baked goods produced by septuagenarians with too much time and too few grandchildren is key to my return. I have pointed out that my weight continues its steady rise despite all efforts at slimming down. She dismisses this with a firm ‘Oh piddle’. The elderly are mangling the English language with their slang.

She has also been writing to various cast members of Holby City to be 'guest instructors'. I said I’d return if Helen Mirren agreed to attend. She looked confused and said Helen Mirren was not on Holby City. I said I was making a casual drama-program link. She looked quite confused, which struck me rather painfully, as she is normally sharp as a tack.

I take it for granted that Mrs Donaldson is caustic and clear headed. I’m not sure what I would do if this were no longer the case.

I’m not certain what I would do without her.

Stay well,
Nate

The writing life

2011-02-09T10:13:00.001Z

Hello dear reader,

Yes, tis true, my blog output has slowed down as of late, mostly due to a dose of the doldrums. Amazingly my ‘illness’ began with an uncharacteristic surge of optimism, when I decided to once again flog my novel Lowdown Big Top to publishers.

I sat down, determined to do a quick polish and soon discovered that the book was an unadulterated mess of rubbish. Wisely, I deleted every electronic copy in existence, convinced that I would be Hemingway-esque and rebuild Rome in a day (or minimum three weeks).

You see, as some readers may know, Hemingway lost all of his early work when his wife Hadley left a suitcase full of manuscripts at a Paris rail station. She intended to take his work to him in Switzerland, and was conscientious enough to pack all his duplicates and carbons as well. In Ernesto’s words, the only papers left were ‘three pencil drafts of a bum poem’.

So, our man of letters had to rewrite from memory, creating new and no doubt better versions of the originals. This rather romantic ‘Phoenix rising’ resurrection was my idea too. I would destroy the sub-par in order to create a more refined diamond. And then I realised how massive Lowdown Big Top had become and conceded I was a terribly lazy person.

I have some earlier drafts printed out… perhaps I can borrow a scanner.

Since then, while eating biscuits and feeling terribly sorry for myself, I have reread Graham Greene’s sublime The Quiet American, with an eye to discovering why such an outwardly simply story is so compelling. Yes, it has murder and an exotic setting. But the murder occurs in the first chapter and most of the novel is a straightforward love triangle. I can only chock it up to the author’s innate charisma. I may order some of my own on the internet.

Final note: disturbingly, having seen the film adaptation of The Quiet American a few years back, the voices of Michael Caine and Brendan Fraser lurked in my cranium throughout the entire book. I could not shake them. I felt the sensation was akin to demonic possession, and then came up with a cracking idea for a horror film script involving a desperately lonely man in his 40s who becomes possessed by a book about murder.

Where do I get my ideas?

Wouldn’t you like to know…

Might post a few pages. Stay tuned and stay well.

Nate

A rather haphazard and random update

2011-02-05T01:01:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

I cannot sleep.

I am once again the owner/guardian of a single feline. Natesy and his hyperactive manic destructiveness have been packed off to an elderly friend of Mrs Donaldson. Apparently cats are good company for the aged and infirm. I cautioned against sending 'a mental' of the animal kingdom to a person of advanced age, but Mrs Donaldson assures me that her friend can simply lock Natesy outside the bedroom at night and sleep soundly, as she is really quite deaf.

Linus is happy. He is back to more sustained and satisfied napping and doesn't appear to miss being physically assaulted by a hissing bag of psychotic fur and teeth on an hourly basis.

Tangent: Everything is becoming much more expensive, isn't it?

Second tangent: I have now officially lived longer than my father, a fact that would have bothered him to no end. He was a highly competitive man, especially with his only son. He was also hopeless with money and utterly convinced of his skill in finance, which is why I live in a desolate little flat. I believe his style would best be summed up as: 'Buy high, panic, sell low, blame others'.

No doubt I've brought sunshine into every reader's day. On the up side, I had a lovely curry for my supper and my knees feel fine today. The little things do matter. God is in the details. And the best things in life are free.*

*the curry cost roughly two quid, taking into account ingredients, but I believe this to be negligible in the wider philosophical context of wellbeing - and 'The best things in life are generally not terribly expensive' doesn't have the same ring... Sorry, being pedantic now.

Stay well,
Nate

Exercise and the new book

2011-01-23T04:51:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, admittedly I have been away from this blog for a few days now. The reasons are two-fold (or three-fold if you include my general state of ennui). Firstly, I fear my computer may be close to giving up the ghost, as it has taken to freezing at random intervals as well as simply refusing to load webpages. And secondly, my accelerated weight gain in the fourth quarter of 2010 has resulted in dramatic action. Yes, I am exercising fanatically again.

As walking appears to be the only recreation that I enjoy, I have drawn up a 'power-walking' schedule. If you've seen this sort of endeavour at the Olympics, it involves a crisp pace and a fair bit of bottom jiggling, but is excellent for cardiovascular health without the physical stress of jogging. As long-time readers know, I have the knees of a 90-year-old Ukrainian great-grandmother.

But, before you say, 'Nate, surely some walking isn't going to shift the amazing amount of lard you've stored in the past six months', I'll let you in on my training secret. To increase resistance and accelerate the burning of calories, I hold two tins of Baxter's Carrot & Butterbean in my hands as I walk and have a tin of the more pedestrian (and flavourless) garden vegetable in my coat pocket. I did have two tins in my pockets originally, but I rewarded myself for my hard work by consuming the spicy parsnip on Wednesday.

I love soup weather.

The new book reference in the title is simply a rather brilliant opening line, which I awoke with fully formed upon my lips the other morning:

Her name was Briony Pickle. She danced for men and she danced for money, though admittedly not for many and not for much.

I imagine a Chandler-esque film noir novel. Amazing the power of the subconscious. I hadn't been reading any sort of crime fiction or watching films of that nature. Must have been my muse dropping by with a late package. My muse is somewhat more unreliable than the Royal Mail. Though the way the country's going, Cameron and the Conservatives will probably privitise and subcontract out to my muse and all her lax forest friends. And don't even get me started on the Conservatives selling off the forests...

Stay well,
Nate

Reading II

2011-01-18T11:51:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, my reading post didn't exactly melt down my blog counter due to excessive hits. And frankly, after visiting a chain shop yesterday afternoon (simply to browse and research the market), I can see why. Most of the titles on the recommended tables or in heavy promotion had one or more of the following traits: a) they were written by a celebrity, even one as vacuous and annoying as Russell Brand; b) they were about a celebrity; or c) they were tied in with a television program or popular film featuring a well-known celebrity. My blog post had none of these key factors, hence the relative silence...

It would seem book shops are now purveyors of pop culture, not protectors of cerebral ideas. And I can't help but wonder how many of these titles when purchased actually get read. I noted some years ago that only 20 percent or so of Richard and Judy's choices did more than gather dust.

I know, modern life leaves us so little time for thought and reflection. I am not fighting the tide, simply noting its ascendancy, like an illegal Chinese cockle fisherman in Morecambe Bay noting that his ankles seem a tad moist and he's a long run from the shoreline. I realise the world at large does not care about books. And as books mean as much to me as air and H20, I fear the world cares not a wit for me either.

To top it off, a chap at the pub told me to 'move the caboose' as he was attempting to get past me with his arms full of pints last night. I could only surmise that he felt the size of my posterior hampered pedestrian traffic across the well-worn carpets. This gave me pause and led to two conclusions: a) my 2011 crisp and biscuit diet is not working out as well as hoped (shock); and, b) perhaps I should consider moving to a slightly more upscale pub. I do have a regular if meagre income after all...

Stay well,
Nate

Reading

2011-01-17T12:06:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, yes, I am still alive. Admittedly I have been hibernating, mostly reading books and enjoying my own company. Someone has to after all. Ha ha. I have not felt like socialising and have kept to myself. As the kids say, 'I is keeping it real'.*

*apparently keeping it real leaves precious little time to study the basic rules of grammar

Of the books I have consumed: Michael Caine's new autobiography (light but good fun); The Laments by George Hagen (light but a good read); some stories by Bukowski (soul-bleaching and good fun); and the latest Man Booker Prize winner, The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson.

Now Finkler caused a few fluffy feathers when it was announced as the winner in 2010 - though really, it wouldn't be the Bookers without indignation (see Pi, The Life of - a light but decent enough read). Some defended the choice as brave and 'about time' that a comedic book took the prize.

Now, I suppose the book is comedy in the same way that The Merchant of Venice is comedy: not funny, but not ending in a stage filled with bloody corpses or old Jews missing large chunks of flesh. The book no doubt appeals to those literary types desperate to be seen as being erudite and above the crowd - their wire-frame glasses perched precipitously at the end of their upward-angled noses - the kind who hear an amusing anecdote and force a stiff smile, saying, 'I recognise that as humour. Well done.'

Though I often defend the Booker jury for picking a pleasant/delightful if not overwhelmingly impressive tome, this year, I must join the mob and say, really, you could have done better. Now, I didn't rush into this opinion. I have dug my dusty copy of Graham Swift's Last Orders from the fiction section of the flat and had a reread. The verdict: heartfelt and nostalgic, excellent vernacular, well-paced. Oh, and surprisingly witty.

Now back to my regularly scheduled scone with jam...

Have an opinion on books or the Man Booker Prize? Why not post a comment?

Stay well,
Nate

Cats

2011-01-13T13:00:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

I continue to pressure Piotr and Yulia to adopt Natesy, as he is driving me out of my mind. They took care of him and Linus while I was away, but unfortunately their young daughter 'hates' Natesy and developed a deep affection for Linus only. She calls him baby Linus. I corrected her by saying he was at least 18 in cat years and thus not even a feline child - though I stumbled somewhat in my explanation, as I was unsure how many cat years constituted a human year. Luckily she quickly lost interest and wandered away.

In other news, I still hate my job. I asked my manager June about extra training in order to advance in the company, but she simply laughed. I could report her to HR for callous indifference and blocking my career path, but I fear making waves would be far too stressful for the winter months when I am emotionally on edge due to lack of sunlight and accute vitamin D deficiency. Also, I do not wish to be labelled 'that guy'.

I have spent most of my life being 'that guy' and would like dearly to change my designation in 2011.

Stay well,
Nate

Life lessons

2011-01-09T00:59:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Don't use the grill when you're very tired.

As determined as you are that they shan't get you down, the bastards still do occasionally.

A bird in hand is never as 'in hand' as you believe.

A cold sausage eaten at the sink is not a proper supper.

There is no time more silent than 3.46am.

Most of your dreams may in fact be ridiculous; but this does not mean holding them is folly.

Apologies on not blogging more.

Stay well,
Nate

The Trip (part 2)

2011-01-04T14:14:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Now, some of you may expect my account of the coach journey to involve a very public panic attack or act of indiscretion, such as immediately removing my shoes or unwrapping a Stilton and cress sandwich to enchant the nasal cavities of my fellow passengers. Well, though I may not travel much, I am no animal.

I sat quite quietly and put on the I-Pod given to me by my good friend Piotr for use over the holiday. And yes, it was a real I-Pod, not some sort of Polish knock-off, called an I-Pol, with only one earphone and the capacity for one and a half songs. He is in IT and very savvy about technology. He even loaded the contraption up with some of my favourites, which I believe he may have pirated from the internet, the first of which was 'If I Can't Have You' by the Bee Gees, which was apt given I recently spent so much time, emotional currency and physical currency on a futile pursuit of my lady friend from work. Truthfully, my heart ached.

Yet, I resolved not to cede my spirit to despondency. I also resolved to be mindful of my breathing exercises and take no notice of my fellow passengers, even those who felt compelled to speak at volumes high enough to drown out the velvety harmonising of the brothers Gibb while providing a well-detailed, blow-by-blow account of some bint's naked escapades.

The first 90 minutes was fraught with anxiety and frankly I had doubts as to my ability to stay seated and silent. Thankfully the late hour cast the coach and its human cargo into a contemplative lull by the time we were shot of the city's gravity. At this point Mrs Donaldson removed our near-odourless sharp cheddar and pickle sandwiches from their wrappings and I removed my earphones.

We chatted about our possible itinerary over the next four days, agreeing to do some of the typical tourist activities - the Roman baths, the Jane Austin Centre and the city walk. I inquired as to jaunts to Stonehenge, which thankfully she dismissed as ridiculous, and Stow on the Wold, which elicited a snort of disgust.

'The countryside is reputed to be rather stunning,' I ventured.

'I've no need for countryside. I'm not a farmer.'

Now, I have long known of Mrs Donaldson's aversion to rural life. Her evacuation from London as a child during The Blitz was a defining experience in her life, yet one she has long refused to discuss in any detail, despite my many subtle inquiries. The odd scrap of detail has emerged, of course, such as that she was told very little by her parents about what was happening and was physically labelled like a parcel before being shunted onto a train. I know she has a soft spot for orphans and the like...

'What can you learn from a bleedin' tree,' she continued.

As our relationship is largely founded on aimless debate and being contrary for the sake of conversation, I argued that the entire canon of Romantic poetry had been based on the pastoral.

'A complete waste of time. And to think they cut all those beautiful trees to print their poems.'

I replied to this by reciting the first two stanzas of Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind', which was forced into my brain in secondary school by a Literature teacher fond of heartfelt poetry and throwing chairs at his students.* Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to remove Shelley, Keats or several passages of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar from my grey matter. Mind you, my keen mind kept me from ever being struck by a chair.

'What good has a poet ever done anyone?' Mrs Donaldson asked.

'They have sustained me in many a dark hour.'

She then went on a rather long monologue about how people needed to work, not think so much. Apparently the solution to death, disease, depression, heartache and hair loss can all be found by picking up a broom or spade and rolling up one's sleeves. As I've mentioned before, despite her advanced age, Mrs Donaldson is forever doing work with the church or coercing other ancient types into inappropriate social activities (see past posts re: elderly improv).

'No starving man ever chose a book of poetry over a hot supper.'

'I would,' I replied. 'I spend my wages on books. What's left over I waste on food and drink.'**

'Turn away your food tomorrow and I'll buy you a lovely meal or any book you like in the shop the following day. I suspect you won't be dining on DH Lawrence.'

I pointed out that most book shops on the high street were dead or dying, so there were no guarantees she could fulfill her part of the wager. We lingered in silence as the darkness hung outside our window. I then inquired what the Blitz was like, in case our proximity to countryside had stirred the faintest hint of melancholic nostalgia.

'You're the flippin' writer,' she said. 'Use your imagination.'

She then closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

Stay well,
Nate

*I know the first five stanzas
**I believe I may have stolen this line from someone... I can't recall from whom

All conversation approximated from notes. NF

The Trip (part 1)

2011-01-02T13:46:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Yes, I have borrowed my title from Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's spectacularly uneven series about their adventures driving through the north of England eating in swish restaurants. Of course, the difference in my and Mrs Donaldson's tale of exploration is: a) we are more erudite and sophisticated b) Mrs Donaldson does not do excessive Al Pacino impersonations and mug for the camera c) we have fewer BAFTA nominations and d) most of our meals are budget.

Still, we did leave our local area in search of adventure and a pleasant way of celebrating my dear neighbour's 79th birthday on the tab of her only son, who 'does something with numbers with the government' and has been doing so for long enough not to fear the swath of forced redundancies sweeping the nation. So may I begin by first saying, Happy Birthday, Mrs Donaldson. You look younger than your years and are as spry as a 60-year-old with mild arthritis, an ambitious hair colourist and a King's capacity for sweet sherry.

Now the plan to leave London began in jest, a remark on my part in relation to my desire to write a Bill Bryson-style travel book. Being carbonated with vim and vigour, and feeling somewhat low about the turning of another page on the ever-shortening calender of life, my dear neighbour practically goaded me into action, making the arrangements herself and doing everything short of packing my bag. I suspect she would have pressed and folded my pants and socks if given the chance, which would have left me terribly uncomfortable.

The bare facts:

Mrs Donaldson arranged for us to travel via National Express coach, leaving from Victoria Station at precisely 7pm (give or take a cup of tea and the last bit of pastry being consumed by the driver) for the princely sum of £13.50 (one-way). Apparently she paid the same rate, due I would suppose to our late booking, proving rather emphatically there really is no good reason to get old anymore in our ruthless modern society. Because of her languid joints and our desire not to be separated for the journey, we also paid the £1 surcharge for priority seating. When did this blatant money grab come about? You tell me, ruthless modern society. You tell me...

Now, for international readers, to get from Islington to Victoria Station we had two options. The first was to take one of our city's famous black cabs, helmed by a well-trained and regulated driver who would have had to have passed a rigid exam. These chaps possess an intimate knowledge of both the intricate geography of the city, as well as its vibrant soul, and are tremendously professional (as long as you do not vomit or act like a prat/lunatic/French Prime Minister).

Instead we opted for a mini-cab, because frankly, they are considerably less expensive and I have an aversion to people driving and speaking, which black cab drivers are also famous for... It seems like a potentially deadly distraction. I get a tad nervous and nauseous.

Now, the key is to pre-book a mini-cab, as basically any rapist-cum-serial killer can plaster some signage on an automobile and agree to drive you to Luton. The other rather disagreeable problem with mini-cabs has largely been solved by GPS, but a decade or so ago (when I travelled more) one had a 70-30 chance of the driver either asking you to give him street by street directions or hurling an A-Z into your lap. To be fair, this only happened if you were going somewhere atypical he didn't know, like for example, your home. Drivers were more adept at locating major landmarks and airports, or a shop selling rugs owned by his uncle.

Anyway, the advent of GPS has changed the game completely. Our driver was a pleasant enough chap, and after Mrs Donaldson had thoroughly inspected his license, we settled into the back of the vehicle and had a fine 20-minute ride to our destination.

Being a dedicated walker, I admit having been somewhat agitated by the rapid acceleration and braking, tooting and hand gestures of the city's vehicular life clattering around me, but was calmed by Mrs Donaldson's firm suggestion that I 'buck up and stop moaning'. To an outsider this might sound harsh, but what my dear neighbour was actually saying was, 'It's all fine, Nate.' Communication is a generational thing...

And so, we arrived with body and soul intact for our journey to Bath, Somerset - an outpost of the Roman Empire established around 60AD as a temple to Minerva - sister city to Shower, Loofa and Bidet - home to the most remarkable natural hot springs in Britain.

Now if only I could keep my supper down on the three-hour journey...

Stay well,
Nate

Greetings from Bath!

2010-12-31T09:31:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, might miracles never cease, I have left the cosy confines of my beloved London and arrived with my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson in Bath, Somerset. The journey was stressful, as one might imagine, and I have spent the past several days in a fascinating state of recovery, anxiety and dare I say excitement.

It is another world. I spent much of yesterday afternoon drinking warm tea while watching street performers in the main square. First there was a young man who did a number of cover versions of John Lennon and Beatle songs. He was stupendous, a dead ringer (no pun intended). He was later followed by two young blond men from Scandinavia who looked cold and were bloody awful, completely lacking in confidence and off-tune.

As I dropped 50p into their basically empty hat on the stones, one gave an embarrassed shrug and explained they didn't know how to play any instruments but were in need of finances for a big New Years Eve drinking session. I noted the northern European economies were much stronger than that of the UK, hinting that perhaps a little 'shoulder to the grindstone' back home might offer a more fulfilling, beggary-free getaway in future. They thanked me again for the donation and subtly asked me to move, as I was blocking the view for their 'audience' (mostly indifference pedestrians hurriedly seeking indoor warmth).

So, yes, I am compiling notes to write a few sample chapters for my new Bill Bryson-style book about travelling around Britain. I would like to share more, but there is a queue waiting impatiently for the Guest House's sole 'Guest PC' (with unlimited internet access!). The rooms have free wi-fi, so if these VIP types are that desperate to get on-line they should have brought or purchased a laptop computer.

And yet, I shall be the better man and relent to their sighing.

So long from Bath, or as the Romans called it, Aquae Sulis! I shall endeavour to update again shortly.

Stay well (and Happy New Year),
Nate

Lowdown Big Top Christmas

2010-12-24T07:00:00.001Z

Mancunian Monkey Boy and Dave the Circus Midget were escorted through the large wooden door, which was adorned with the largest, most intricately woven wreath either had ever seen. The room was blue with pipe smoke, making the walls of classic hardback books appear hazy and dreamlike. A muscular man with short black hair sat behind an imposing oak desk, his head down over a printout of papers. His suit was well-tailored, Savile Row. The gold nametag said: Santa – the sleigh stops here. Behind him stood a block of meat with knuckles as big as brass bells and a look as blank as a field of new fallen snow.

“I thought you were supposed to be fat and jolly and wearing a red suit,” Monkey said, flopping down on a red leather chair and slouching back.

Santa looked up, his eyes dark and distant. Long nights and not enough sun this high in the Arctic. He put his gold pen down.

“I thought man would shave his knuckles when they get so furry,” he replied, looking at Monkey’s hands on the armrests. “Stereotypes, monkey person. Red suit is Coca-Cola marketing campaign from 1920s. You should know history, or be bound to repeat it. Like cheap shampoo.”

Ukrainian accent, Monkey though, surprised. He had clocked it within two words. Monkey had dealt with Kiev types before. They were unpredictable and notoriously tight-lipped. He wondered how the world had been so misinformed about a man at the centre of the biggest holiday of the year. Fucking Rupert Murdoch.

Santa looked down at Dave and cocked an eye.

“You work for me in past, little man?”

“No, Santa. I’ve only ever worked in the circus and as a roadie with The Happy Mondays before they made it big. But it’s a right pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah... Step On. Very good song.” He motioned to the slab of meat at his shoulder. “This is body guard, Vasily.”

“Is he?” Monkey said.

Santa looked confused. “Vhat?”

“Monkey…” Dave moaned.

“Silly?” Monkey continued.

Santa picked up his pen and silently flipped through his stack of papers. He made a dramatic slash. “You just lose one present for terrible pun.”

“I don’t need new socks or a bicycle anyway. What we need is information, Santa.”

“Everybody want something,” the big man replied. “I want two penises and vaginas on palms, but life not always work in way we wish.”

“What do you know about April Mills?”

“Model, mono-ped, fleeced a Beatle. Now very rich but hated by world.”

“That’s Heather Mills. We're after April Mills, barmaid in the Elephant and Lettuce pub. Pretty face but unfortunate tight perm. She's Polish, so she has an excuse. Been missing since last weekend.”

Santa’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe she give bad service to someone.”

“Highly probable. She was a shit server, but if spilling your pint was a reason for someone to disappear half the staff in England would be MIA.”

Monkey had a feeling Santa was holding back. Ukrainians…

“Why should I know information?” Santa asked.

“Because the word is you know everything – naughty, nice, the whole ball of wax. You’re like Wikileaks, but less arrogant and further out of reach of US black Ops. I know you’re a smart man and have no reason to play dumb.” Monkey looked up at Vasily. “Unlike him. Can you ask him to stop staring?”

“He is body guard. He watches everyone.”

“I thought that was your job.”

Santa got up from his desk. He looked like the type who went to the gym at least five times a week. He walked to the window and looked out on the dark snow drifts.

“There was a time. But accountant convinced me to outsource. Now I am glorified manager. I feel out of loop of my own operation.”

Monkey leaned forward. He hadn’t expected melancholy from the legendary elf-man.

“But you can get us the information,” Monkey said.

“If I share rumour little bird whispers in ear, I need … compensation.”

“Milk and cookies?”

Santa turned around.

“I want be acrobat. On high-wire. Maybe I grab pretty girl on swinging bar. And later I shoot tiger from cannon. I have enough of toys for children and dealing with elf union.”

“What would happen to Christmas?”

“I appoint new CEO. Nigel Claus, nephew. Branding stays same but I get to live my dream.”

Monkey smiled. “Everyone deserves to follow their dreams, Santa.”

Interesting developments

2010-12-23T13:00:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, some interesting developments have arisen in the life of Nate Fitzgerald. I'm sure you gathered this fact from the title of this blog post, but I have repeated it for dramatic effect. And tension. Make your readers wait, all the writing gurus say. Linger. Draw out the drama. Until they can't stand it.

First of all, I skipped the office Xmas party, partly because I am exhausted and slightly emotionally unhinged from lack of sleep. Natesy has been getting the boot earlier and earlier. He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, I believe he has been out to provoke an eviction so that he can hunt and kill innocent peace-loving beings smaller and more defenseless than him. He's sort of a feline Dexter.

I missed the party also out of sheer embarrassment, as I have become the subject of gossip and random ridicule. It's amazing that no matter where I go, eventually this happens. I am a magnet for abuse. But on the puzzling side, I received a lovely card from my lady friend at work last evening. It was sitting on my computer keyboard (which I share with a bloke who frankly I've never met, as he's the 7am-2pm shift). It was a lovely reindeer themed card with the following highly personal not-for-anyone's-eyes inscription:

To a lovely man with a big heart and a wonderful mind. You're a dear. Merry Christmas!!!

Frankly, I'm not sure how to take these words, as they appear to go beyond mere co-worker greetings and push the envelop of friendship in my eyes. Big heart. You're a dear. Perhaps she really is unsatisfied in her current relationship and is looking for another option. This may be my opportunity to swoop in and be a taste of something new.

Or perhaps I am so sleep deprived that clerks wishing me well will end in marriage proposals within days. Still, I'm weighing a plan to send her an e-card confessing my true feelings. I realise Hugh Grant showed up at doorways in the pouring rain to do this, but I'm better in writing... And if she declines my outpouring of affection, perhaps I'll find a new job. I'm a touch tired of collating order forms.

And on a completely unrelated note, though earth-shattering in its own small and personal way, Mrs Donaldson is surprisingly keen to accompany me on a short trip to a nearby city so that I may write up a few sample chapters for my travel book proposal. She thinks me getting out of the flat is a wonderful way for me to 'buck up' and would coincide with her 79th birthday. So, if we can get accommodation, we may be 'on the road' in one week's time like Kerouac and Neil Cassady, had Neil Cassady been an opinionated pensioner.

I plan to publish a Christmas treat tomorrow. But if I get waylaid or lazy, please accept my best of the season. Here is to 2011 being the best year yet.

Stay well,
Nate

The housekeeping edition

2010-12-21T13:11:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I have done my family duty and met up with Cousin Douglas. Because of his protests, we agreed not to dine together, as he's disgusted with my Chinese local and I abhor his various wanky pseudo upscale establishments that believe a few prints of New York landmarks and adjective phrases on the dishes such as 'Manhattan-style cockles' justify a 40% mark-up of prices.

So we had drinks in a pub, which you'd think would be a simple affair, except that my choice of a bracing mulled wine was apparently a sign to all comers that we were Sir Elton John and his Canadian husband out for the night. It is mulled wine. The Vikings invented it - tough butch men.* But the fact that the rich brew was served in a wine glass was too much for my enlightened cousin.

*mind you, they were sailors

Mind you, I did question the barman as to why a glass of mulled wine - essentially Italian petrol-style vino, a cinnamon stick and some fruit cost £3. He replied 'labour' and then added that electricity weren't cheap. Still, the drink was warm on the hands, which goes far in my books given present meteorological conditions.

Douglas rambled on about his Thai girlfriend, whose student visa is set to expire shortly. She is pressing him to come to Bangkok with her, but Douglas finds Brighton in June hot and draining, so I can't see him relocating. And he made mention of not being ready to commit to keep her in England. I told him that being a balding, paunchy man of meagre means of a certain age, he didn't have as much to lose if she fleeced him in an immigration scam as he might suspect.

I then told him of my latest book idea, which is to 're-imagine' Bill Bryson's fabulously successful Notes from a Small Island, in which he travelled around England getting overly sentimental and nostalgic about seaside holidays in Blackpool that he never had to suffer through as a child while getting riotously pissed in pubs by night and writing down snatches of overheard conversations. Clearly, I am a natural. And I did enjoy his book.

It's been a few years since Bill's tome, so I can update it with some caustic comments about the GFC, the brief revival and then shattering of Liverpool's hopes and dreams and some running commentary about the continuing failure of the English side in FIFA. I have all the material.

Douglas pointed out that I have been on public transportation exactly once in seven years. I said this book was incentive to finally overcome my phobias and reservations. I then regaled him with my reflections about having missed the romantic age of ships, pointing out the salient features of elegant cross-Atlantic travel: dining with the Captain; string quartets and cigars on deck under the stars; serious talk of world political matters with the diverse cross-section of travellers out of Bournemouth - politicians, doctors, Hollywood moguls, communists. He said I'd get seasick. I replied an aversion to water had never established.

Besides, if Bill Bryson can wax lyrical about a time he never knew, so too can I. That's future bestseller material - coming in 2011!

Stay well,
Nate

Alpha male

2010-12-19T08:02:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I may skip the Xmas party at my place of employment. A rumour has begun to spread that I am madly in love with a certain female in administration and have been attempting to steal her away from a member of the warehouse staff. Really, I don't know where this sort of embarrassing and debilitating hearsay begins.

As such, I shan't be giving my lady friend the poem I wrote for her or the Roly's Cherry Bakewell fudge I ordered on-line. No, instead I shall consume the lot in one sitting and go off in search of a new, larger belt in the Boxing Day sales. Yes, in 2011 I may stop trying to keep my ballooning weight under control and simply eat until I explode.*

*re-reading that paragraph, please rest assured that I shall NOT be eating the poem

Now, there has been a question about the hierarchy in the flat since the new cat arrived. And indeed, it is fascinating to watch. Linus has been curious if standoffish since the start, watching the lunatic hyperactivity of Natesy from the safety of the terraces, as the young lad jumped at fluff, chased his tail, pulled paperclips from a bowl on my writing desk, etcetera. Initially I thought perhaps Linus was taking notes so as to how real cats behave. But now I see he was simply wary. And with good cause.

For his part, Natesy was a good guest for the first week. No doubt he expected his owners to arrive and escort him back to his well-marked territory in Hackney, where he fancied himself King of Shaftsbury Street. But lo, his exhausted former owners did not arrive and at some point a realisation impinged on his grey matter that the carpet had been pulled from beneath his pads and a new, slightly dingier carpet inserted in its place.

Metaphors really are the bane of my existence.

Anyway, Natesy is now the dominant male. No surprise there, as Linus has been introverted and without ambition since I had his baubles removed. Just to assert the new order, Natesy has taken to regularly racing across the room at speed and running over Linus, despite being lighter and smaller in size. Sometimes Linus fights back with a yowl and they roll about thumping one another upside the head, but mostly he just takes his beatings and skulks off to mask his shame with some fur licking. These brawls are particularly enjoyable at 3am. My one fear is that Natesy will attempt to displace me as head of the household next. My only saving grace may be his lack of a thumb and inability to open a tin of soft food. Phew.

OK, must go. The weather is wreaking havoc with our deliveries, so our hours have extended even more. The truck drivers look like shelling victims, staring glassy eyed into the skies while clutching their steaming tea and muttering about congestion on the arterial roads. I may get into the Christmas spirit and take them some jaffa cakes tomorrow.

Stay well,
Nate

Tyranny of the new cat

2010-12-17T08:18:00.002Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, the new cat is driving me crazy. Seems Natesy shares my late father’s philosophy that a respectable life requires one to rise early, so each morning at approximately 4am he meows incessantly, scratches at the base of the front door or if that fails climbs onto my head and begins to march.

Now, the marching is bad enough, especially as he does it even if I pull the blanket over top of my head. But for some incomprehensible reason as he really gets into his kneading he begins to drool like a spigot as well.

Needless to say, despite my reservations, I have been throwing him out to freedom hours prior to sunrise and despite the cold temperatures. This hampers my sleep, however, as I am wracked with guilt and can’t drift off for the litany of bloody mental images of the poor long-haired and under-thin lad being set upon by deranged rats. Honestly, the city is crawling with rodents, and I would wager not all are fond of the offerings from the bins of the local pub or Pizza Express. A taste of lean feline tartar might make a delectable change.

Four am wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t get to sleep at 2am on most nights… the life of a shift worker. It’s everything I’ve ever aspired to… Amazing how one wakes up from life from time to time perplexed as to how existence has come to this…

Stay well,
Nate

Simply can't catch a break

2010-12-13T12:24:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, once again love appears to have eluded me, despite noble efforts. And as always, it would seem that fate and bad luck are to blame. As planned, I sent an e-vite to my lady friend at work, offering to make her a hearty Sunday roast, including the famed Fitzgerald Yorkshire Puddings. She took a few days to reply, which caused some tension and consternation on the cat-acquisition front, as I didn't wish to commit to picking the to-be-gifted animal up from its owners until certain she would grace my abode.

But my lady friend did email back accepting my offer with one request, that her 'friend' could join us. Seeing as our first date wasn't a date but was a Chinese dinner that I feigned winning, I thought perhaps this friend was her way of going slow. So, with the prospect of having a second date/not a date, I rang the people offering the feline, bought a nice roast of beef from my butcher and purchased several bottles of cider, not wishing to get jinxed by the purchase of red wine once again.

Well, the cat certainly was ... more energetic than I had expected. I had thought his name was Faust, which I took as an auger of good luck being a literary type, but in fact it was Feist, which apparently is both the name of a singer and short form for feisty. I immediately renamed him Natesy. He's quite an odd little fellow - small for being four years old, ginger and with a look of dishevelment despite being hygienic. That's a long-hair cat for you ... They look like old hippies.

Anyway, I made a stellar meal. I had all my prep done for my lady friend's arrival, which I'm happy to say was promptly at 12.30pm. I'm less happy to say that she arrived with - wait for it - one of the short-haired gents who toil/idle away company time mocking fellow co-workers in the bunker. Yes, as I live and breath 'Mutt' was standing in my doorway.

You see, dear readers, it seems my lady friend is engaged. To a Neanderthal. And no, you cannot blame this situation on me, as she has yet to receive a ring from the mouth-breather, despite having been engaged for four months. Mind you, outside of the gang mentality of the bunker, Mutt seems like a decent enough chap. He did rankle me once quite soundly, however, by saying that The Ashes had rung and were looking for their balls back in regards to my Yorkshire Puddings - which ironically, had fallen much like my spirits. He also made a few mentions of my walls of books and firmly pronounced himself a non-reader, as if it were an admirable trait known to only a few noble figures.

My lady friend made a few comments about Feist, who spent half the afternoon racing through the stacks, knocking books about and the other half leaping up at the curtains. I half-heartedly said he was hers for the keeping, but she simply laughed and said the last thing she needed was a pet, nodding to Mutt and saying especially when I have to look after this one. He made a comment about being taken out for a walk. By that time my mind had wandered and I was attempting to imagine who would be at my funeral. I believe I am destined to end up like Jay Gatsby and have two people graveside, one probably only there for the drink.

And no, I can't bring myself to take Feist/Natesy back. It simply seems too mercenary. So I am one warm body closer to officially being The Crazy Cat Bachelor. Mind you, my lady friend gave me a very nice peck on the cheek and a look that may have been genuine affection when she and her betrothed departed, no doubt sensing my aura of lonely despair.

Or - and this may be desperate speculation of an overly solitary mind - is there a chance yet? I mean, she did refer to him as her 'friend' prior to the lunch. And not once has she mentioned engagement, wedding plans or even a boyfriend, not even during our extended seafood gorgefest.

And as she is witty and intelligent, she couldn't possibly be happy at the prospect of spending all eternity with someone who allows himself to be called Mutt.

Hmm, perhaps the iron is still in the fire.

Stay well,
Nate

Very tired

2010-12-10T12:26:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Yes, I expect that my high blog traffic will hit the stratosphere with a title such as 'very tired'. But honestly I am very tired. You see, the festive season is now in full swing, which results in everyone in the nation stocking up as if Doomsday were December 26. As such, our orders at my place of employment have gone through the roof and once again - even with two people - we are putting in dreadful overtime hours.

Ho, ho, bloody ho... Another reason to dislike the season.

When not dragging my weary bones about the place, I have been doing some research into what makes a really successful blog, as I would like to 'go to the next level in 2011'. According to my research, I should: overcome a trying illness; fail to overcome a trying illness, but linger long enough to get some good posts in; become an anonymous prostitute; or live in a war zone and reveal the real face of conflict to the world. Other than these options, you're generally scuppered.

So, since hemorrhoids and indigestion are my only recurrent ailments and the city is generally peaceful aside from a few thousand police battering innocent-enough looking students hoping to afford an education, I would appear destined to remain obscure and under-read. Unless someone wished to purchase my services for intercourse... I accept PayPal!

Ha!

Stay well,
Nate

Meow meow

2010-12-08T13:02:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, my plan to present my lady friend from work with a feline as a gesture of my affection has met with mixed reviews at best. If I were honest, the response was really quite negative, which I find perplexing, as I gave the matter quite a lot of thought and it struck me as precisely the sort of thing Hugh Grant might do in one of his early films.

You know, floppy-haired Hugh shows up in the rain with a small kitten tucked under his jacket and reveals it with an awkward smile and stuttered confession/apology to his generally uncharismatic bint co-star, whose face transforms into what the audience is expected to believe is forgiveness/love but in actual fact looks like sudden joy at the unexpected warmth of a weak bladder.

Now don't get me wrong, I quite like Hugh Grant's early films, though the objects of his affection were always weakly cast. The only female who held her own was Toni Collette in the excellent About A Boy, even though she played an outlandish outsider. You know the type: suspect social skills, poor fashion sense, often depressed, few friends, lover of music, reader... Yes, everything popular culture abhors apparently.

Perhaps I should send Toni Collette a cat, as we may be soul mates.

Anyway, back to my plan. I did get some positive feedback, including one reader/Twitter follower with exceptionally nice hair who claimed she would 'jump' her partner if he showed up with a furry little creature in tow. Seeing as that is exactly the outcome I'm pursuing, I have decided to press onwards.

Mind you, I'm not blithely marching as to war and ignoring those who warned caution. No, I shall first invite my lady friend for a splendid home-cooked Sunday roast* and introduce her to the little fellow. If she utters a gasp of pleasure and pulls him into her ample bosom, I shall announce that he is hers. If she sneezes and claims an allergy or pets the animal with her foot, I shall whisper not a peep and return the feline back to his current owners.

*including the famous Fitzgerald Yorkshire Puds

And yes, I have found a suitable animal. I have yet to meet the young lad, but am happy to report he is four years old, snipped, chipped and ... dual hipped (sorry, couldn't think of a decent rhyme). Oh, and apparently quite rambunctious as well.

Final note of concern: this isn't the ideal time to invite a potential amour to my flat, as I have developed a rather distressing blocked pore on my upper lip, which though harmless, does appear vaguely syphilitic. Even with my facial hair, the red distortion is visible. My Streets-loving colleague reassures me that I am being ridiculous, but I can't help but think everyone with whom I converse is staring at the sore and wondering if I frequent Soho brothels.

Actually, what I am saying. No one would think that... I am far too poor for Soho.

Stay well,
Nate

An inspired decision

2010-12-06T08:35:00.001Z

Hello dear readers,

First of all, thank you to all of the readers who posted advice on the blog or via Twitter. Although given with sincerity and good intentions, I have decided to do the opposite of what most of you have suggested. You see, doing nothing and not contacting my amour de jour is precisely the kind of inaction that has led me to my current frigidly asexual existence.

In the past I have taken certain hints and given space to the objects of my affections only to be found on a park bench eating a cheese and pickle sandwich as strange young men from suspect fringe religions offer to pray for me.

No, this time I am seizing the bull by the horns. I am going out on a limb. I am pulling together the dynamism of a thousand cliches and taking action. I have decided to buy my lady friend a cat.

Frankly, I think it ingenious. Though Linus is often surly and anti-social, he is also my best friend and a loyal companion whom I think of when I'm out. 'I wager Linus would like some chicken livers' or 'That rubber bug would get a good battering from my feline friend'. So, when I give her an adorable little kitten, my lady friend will get both the warm joy of companionship and will no doubt think of me when her warm ball of fur is nestled on her lap on a cold winter's afternoon. Perhaps she will pick up the telephone and say, 'Darling Natesy, why don't you come round for a roast and a hot toddy, if you know what I mean.'

I may give the animal to her at the staff X-mas party.

Stay well,
Nate

Lady Friend

2010-12-04T10:09:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I finally tracked down my lady friend. She was in the kitchen area slurping down her tea and eating shortbreads. I noted that she had gotten her hair styled - shorter and with a rather disconcerting streak of purple through the bang. The cut looked nice enough.

'Spill the paint?' I said wittily, sitting down.

Now, typically, this sort of banter is our trademark, but the remark was met with what could best be described as a wince. I attempted another bit of comic relief.

'Very Bohemian. Or perhaps Upper Silesian.'

A bon-mot to be sure, but met with an equal helping of stony body language. Ah yes, I thought, the hairstyle gone wrong. I have emerged from many a trim wondering who I had become, wondering if the barber believed I was one of a number of persons: a) lager lout (era of the Caesar fringe); b) banker (firm and severe parting of hair); or insane (mangled top, Forrest Gump sides, that sort of thing...) It's the reason I gave up having my hair cut more often than on an annual basis.

Frankly, it was difficult to recover from my pied dans la bouche comments.*

*foot in mouth - my translation might not be 100% correct, but please don't email me. A French person would understand, I am quite certain. Remember: you may have superior language skills, but I make a formidable Beef Wellington.

Anyway, I mentioned our 'next outing' - being sure to use romance-neutral language - but she was non-committal and finished up her last biscuit and said he had to get back. And no, she didn't even mention our supper. I'm trying not to take it personally. I've decided that something must be wrong with her mother. I have no proof, evidence or indication, aside from her determination to visit the old dear post-Chinese gorgefest, but it's better than believing one meal with me has scarred her for life. And you never really know what is happening in another person's life. Half the time I have no clue what's happening in my own.

Stay well,
Nate

Am I being served?

2010-12-01T10:04:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, it’s been very close to one week since my blow-out seafood gorgefest with my lady friend from work and I’m trying very hard not to be upset that she hasn’t sent a thank-you email. I also have had no success in ‘accidentally’ bumping into her, despite arriving more than an hour early for my shift on each day of work.

I’m placating my sense of humiliation by telling myself that her relaxed demeanour and casual style is one of the personality traits I admire most about her person. Also, she’s got a figure that makes me sweat. No doubt when we next meet, she shall punch me affectionately upon the arm and say, ‘Ta for the loveerly supper, Natesy darling'.*

*even though she’s never actually called me Natesy darling

I expressed my concerns to my Polish friend Piotr over a couple of ciders last evening, but he proved useless as an agony aunt. He looked faintly confused and then said, 'So ring her'. How is that for completely missing the emotional zeitgeist? Yes, he’s been married for quite a few years and has obviously forgotten the terror of budding romances.

Or perhaps he was betrothed at a young age to Yulia for a dowry of several hundred cabbages and an East-German produced Trabant automobile...

Piotr suggested that perhaps I try to relax more, saying he and Yulia were worried about me. I informed him that I had never been better. Though this is a complete lie, I did have some convincing arguments: I have a job (I dislike it, but it is tangible employment); my blog is experiencing a Renaissance, with November garnering the most hits per month since July; and I’m in love.

Not being a blog reader, Piotr couldn’t argue against my points, so I won. And yes, you did read that correctly. Despite being one of my closest (read: only) friends, he cannot bring himself to read about my life on this forum. Am I upset? Initially I found his lack of interest in my weekly missives mildly insulting, but now enjoy the fact that when we meet up I have quite a lot of new news. I simply have a quick read over my blog to refresh my memory about my recent adventures and amours and head to the pub.

So yes, it was a bit of an off night. I think Piotr was tired. Also, I know he’s worried about the current economic situation in England and the Continent. Immigrants do make excellent targets for bigotry, abuse and accusations of stealing jobs during downturns, so his fears are grounded. He mentioned being ‘worried about the zloty’ as well. I asked if he had ‘considered Viagara’, but the joke sailed well over his head. Another pitfall of being an immigrant with a different first language.

Alas, had I been born in a different era, I might have become a writer for Are You Being Served?

GENTLEMAN

Excuse me, I’m looking for a pomade.

MR HUMPHRIES

Well, we don’t sell those sorts of magazines here, sir. Might I suggest a quick stroll through the lingerie department?

GENTLEMAN

(confused) For my hair. I would like a styling pomade for my hair.

MR HUMPHRIES

(tightly pursed lips) My mistake.

That’s copyrighted by the way.

Stay well,

Nate

S. Claus is coming to town

2010-11-29T10:15:00.004Z

Hello dear readers,

Clearly my most loathed holiday is on its way, as a memo was posted on the wall of the office yesterday for the X-mas party. The bash must have gotten out of hand last year as it was augmented with a small disclaimer: NO missle toe [sic] or offensive gifts.

You know when they capitalise and underline, HR are very serious. Too bad they're too overworked to use spellcheck.

As for the party, apparently we draw names and give small, token gifts anonymously. I may opt out. I dislike most of my coworkers, and since I can't give them what they really deserve (herpes), would just as soon save the money. I am running slightly in the red since my splashout seafood dinner.

Another annoying sign of the season is Cousin Douglas, who has contacted me about our annual Christmas supper and drink. With any luck the way the weather has been he'll get snowed in somewhere to the north for several months. See, there could be benefits to global warming yet.

Sorry that this post is rather dull. I promise spicier missives in future.

Stay well,
Nate

A retraction of sorts

2010-11-27T07:54:00.006Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, after a week of strong blog traffic, fuelled by interest into my romantic life (sputtering as it might be), I shall now alienate a large proportion of readers by talking about other matters, namely work.

I shall start with a retraction of sorts. I can't help but feel that I was a tad unfair to my generally mute young protege/coworker. Yes, she did use Facebook, handle papers destined for branch managers with cheddar flavouring on her fingers and grunt in response to almost every piece of advice I gave. But after working together for the past few weeks, I have to say she's alright.

I'm not sure why I rush to judge. I am emotional and clearly not accepting enough. Mind you, I believe this comes from being on the fringes of society and often facing mockery and misunderstanding myself. I suppose I lash out first so to take the sting out of people I expect to reject and belittle me. No, this isn't healthy, but it is textbook human nature.

I have come to understand that my coworker is a fringe dweller, as misunderstood as me. She doesn't know many people in the city and keeps to herself. I asked her why she left Manchester. The first few times she simply said 'dunno' or 'I wanted to see the world'. But last night she opened up a bit about her family life, which isn't ideal. She's never known her father and her mother sounds a touch rough. Mainly though she dislikes her mother's new boyfriend, explaining that he is 'a right bell-end'. That's basically all I got. She clammed up.

I explained that my family were all 'bell-ends', especially the barristers, which comprises a number of cousins. She seemed fascinated and surprised, though the conversation didn't go much further. We got another influx of email orders and had to get down to work.

Anyway, the long and the short of it: my co-worker has agreed not to fold papers intended for external third parties while consuming crisps. I have agreed that The Streets are not horrendous. In fact, at times they are quite entertaining, if a bit samey (a new word for me, and Oxford Dictionary incidentally). My favourite song is the one about the young lad who goes to a night club and takes too many ecstasy tablets and feels a palpable mix of both euphoria and paranoia. It's quite a ride dramatically. If you haven't heard it, I recommend you check it out. It's what all we young people are listening to these days...

Stay well,
Nate

The date/not a date

2010-11-25T13:56:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, as is my way, I have spent the past several hours strenuously avoiding writing a blog post. I have even cleaned the oven! But the flood of Twitter inquiries as to my date/not a date - the numerous questions, queries and comments - have worn me down. So in response to your enthusiasm and excitement, interest and glee, hope and faith in romance, may I simply say: it went fairly well. I think.

Ah, I can hear the collective exhalation of anti-climax, as half of you file away your imaginings of Nate having a romantic evening and the other half curse under your breath to hear that it didn't completely blow up in my face, thus providing superficial entertainment from afar.

Mind you, I have discovered a major flaw in my ingenious 'won supper' idea. We were seated by the owner's daughter, a pleasant enough girl who sounds about as Chinese as Lord Snowdon. I asked for a cider; my lady friend ordered the same - snap, good start - and then my lady friend asked how we were to order. The owner's daughter informed her to order anything she liked. Oh my, what a nice and generous prize.

As our ciders were being poured, my lady friend gave a rather wicked smile (which granted, left me feeling mildly aroused) and informed me we were 'going for it'. Seeking clarification, she began to construct a rather impressive list of dishes for us to enjoy, including a dozen steamed scallops as our starter at £3 per scallop!!! I kid you not. I felt my esophagus drop into my pancreas.

And yet I was powerless to contain her enthusiastic assault on the menu, other than to make the point that it was a small family restaurant and perhaps we shouldn't take advantage of the prize. She dismissed my timorousness and explained that excess was the cost of good word of mouth. She made a rather convincing argument that the restaurant would want us to go away happy and rave to our friends. The unrestrained happiness of our waitress when placing our order simply affirmed this point of view.

So the feast for which I shall be paying for over many weeks to come: baked lobster with ginger and spring onion (my favourite), Szechuan prawns, black cod, sizzling squid in black bean sauce, spring rolls, rice, sweet and sour pork (no, not seafood, but apparently included in the 'free' prize) and of course our prawn crackers.

As longtime readers will know, I view the prawn cracker as the ultimate test of compatibility. If a potential mate eats these savoury marvels, I have a chance for romance. If she refuses, we are doomed to fail. It's as exact a science as my life knows... Well, I'm pleased to say my lady friend tucked in.

As for communication and bonding, overall my Q&A format went well, though I was disappointed that she didn’t understand one of my more interesting questions: do you think you’ll make a good old person? Frankly, it caused a moment of awkward silence.

I explained that I thought I would be quite a good old person, as the tension and anxiety that defines my life will lessen with age and I shall mellow into a happy old gentleman. As I have come to expect so little from life, the slowing of ambition and gradual closing of doors won't send me into an egotistical fire of resentment as it does to so many old men. She was rather non-committal and changed the subject to Piers Morgan.

Oh, you don't want to hear the details... Basically, she talked quite a lot, we had a few good laughs and at the end of the night she offered her hand at the door and explained she had promised to 'drop by' at her mother's before returning home. So, the small light in my flat did not factor into the endgame of the evening and I ended up drinking an entire bottle of Chilean wine by myself while surfing the Internet and watching a pirated copy of The Trip with Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. Despite my growing haze, I can safely say they have run dry of fresh ideas.

Needless to say, I feel slightly poisoned today, which is the main reason this blog post is so late. Oh, and I'm slightly depressed at being poor and perpetually celibate. Sorry to disappoint. Mind you, if you intend to frequent this blog, you had better get used to it.

Stay well,

Nate

More preparation

2010-11-24T12:21:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, time continues to surge forward, propelling me toward my date with my lady friend from work. Yes, I feel completely overwhelmed, which I'm countering with careful preparation.

After yesterday's post, I continued my web-based research, finally unearthing a sensational idea that utilises my love of Sir Michael Parkinson and the emotional weapon which has helped me survive 48 years, my dear companion Denial. Yes, I am approaching my date/not a date by constructing an elaborate 'Back Story', designed to diffuse my nerves.

When I sit across from my lusty companion this evening, looking deeply into her eyes while consuming enormous deep-fried honey prawns, I shall have slipped into my persona as an elite BBC journalist conducting an interview with an up-and-coming (though still unknown) visual artist and sometimes social activist. I have written a series of questions to pose at key intervals and have even perfected my listening face.*

*intense, interested, intelligent - the three i's

Of course I am memorising the questions, and I shall offer my own views when the moment arises, but this should reduce the overwhelming heart-palpitating pressure I feel to impress her. I'm doing my job. She is the one expected to speak most often. I'm quietly confident.

Frankly, I'm very excited about my Back Story. I've published several moderately successful novels, have got a film script in option and shall be going to Cannes next year. Beat that, reality!

The whole method acting dating concept is genius really, and there it was just sitting on someone's blog. What did we all do before we decided to pour our hearts, minds and souls onto the Internet for no renumeration?

Stay well,
Nate

Your mission should you choose to accept it

2010-11-23T12:56:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, after harassment via Twitter and messages of encouragement on this blog, I have bitten the proverbial bullet. I'm in. Wednesday, locked and loaded, ready to roll, come what may. Chinese dinner with my lady friend.

And yes, it would seem my burst of bravery has left me afflicted with the painful and regressive disease known as Chronic Male Pattern Cliche.

Preparations:

1 - I've purchased a 'sport' body spray. If one cannot play a sport, and found PE as a child a draconian nightmare on par with any abuse in the works of Charles Dickens, one can at least create the smell-based illusion that he has recently taken intensive team-oriented physical exercise. I've been doing extensive research on pheromones and the role of scent in attraction. Apparently, despite our Tommy Hilfiger denim, red bull and vodkas and dating rituals, we're all animals rutting about in each others' armpits in the end.

2 - I've acquired a bottle of Concha y Toro wine, which I shall leave on my kitchen table in anticipation of my lady friend coming back for a night cap. Long time readers will note the wine is from Chile and not Australia. Despite enjoying the Hardy's Stamp Shiraz (which granted I drank alone), I shall always associate it with my American ex-girlfriend, Madeline. So, sorry Australia. I hate to punish an entire nation for one woman's folly, but emotions are emotions.

3 - I shall leave a small lamp on so as to dispel any hesitation when she gets to my door. Total darkness is a turn-off, apparently. I've been doing some research about enticing females to cross the threshold of my swinging bachelor pad on the Internet. This tip was on a gent's blog from Miami. He had several photos of attractive women on his arm. He seemed to know his stuff and looked trustworthy.

Granted, if my lady friend is a staunch environmentalist, me leaving an electric bulb burning for an entire evening in an empty flat while out gorging on seafood may be a turn-off. Still, role of the dice... It's not like I'm clubbing baby seals.*

*I can say this as I have very few Canadian readers - the blog still breaks down roughly 35% UK, 35% USA, 25% Australia and then 5% mixed

So, there we go. Wednesday night. Chinese. Lady friend. Fake free seafood. Several more days of intense nausea... Wish me luck.

Stay well,
Nate

It's my method

2010-11-21T08:07:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I'm no longer so certain about this romance palaver. Frankly, it's making me physically ill, which is why I'm debating throwing in the proverbial towel.* I've been off my food, can't focus on my reading and pace endlessly, augmenting each lap of the flat with a hand full of crisps or a biscuit or two. So I may in fact be the only person in the world ever to feel nauseous, yet force-feed himself in an attempt to feel better.

*Did Arthur Dent ever throw in the literal towel? That could have been quite funny.

My lady friend can meet for Chinese next Wednesday. But now I'm thinking my idea to pretend to have won a free meal was foolish. I'm sure the owner or his daughter will slip up and present me with the cheque - or they'll be watching or sniggering or say something about my secret. There's no pressure in being rejected if the woman thinks you've won a meal, but if my ruse becomes exposed I shall never be able to show my face at my place of employment again. I am the recipient of enough mockery from the lads in the bunker with their short-cropped hair and blue-ink tattoos of long-departed slappers named Margy...

Oh god, I've completely ruined my life. What was I thinking? People like me don't find love and happiness. We find cats and spend Friday evenings listening to BBC3 and cleaning long matted hairs from the bath drain.

Frankly, as I've paced and stared out the window and idly peeled potatoes (it relaxes me) I've attempted to put my finger on the quirk in my personality that has hampered my luck with the ladies. I am highly intelligent, outrageously funny (though not with people I don't feel comfortable around or groups of more than two people) and was once somewhat decent to look at. And yet I've so seldom been the participant of passionate emotional entanglements of the heart. Is there a trick I've missed? A secret? A defective gene? Or has destiny decreed that I must suffer for some greater good, like Ezra Pound.*

*without the Fascism

I believe I need a catchphrase. Michael Caine always did well with the ladies after his 'What's it all about, Alfie?' as catchphrases are disarming and amusing. A good saying is an emotional icebreaker. It's unfortunate 'That's how I roll' has been taken and is now part of the common vernacular, as it sums up so much of my life. I am a perpetual outsider, rolling in my own way, unshackled by the mores of the common person.

So, dear readers, I need to come up with a catchphrase along the lines of 'That's how I roll'. Already rejected:

'It's my method' (too stiff)

'I'm a lone wolf' (tremendously cliche)

'I'm one side of the coin; life is the other' (too long, and a catchphrase with a colon simply is not 'cool')

...???

Help. I need it in more ways than one.

Stay well,
Nate

Movember, the Irish, Chinese food

2010-11-18T23:13:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

I've been reading about this Movember phenomenon, where men grow a 70s style pornography mustache and collect money for charity. Frankly, it seems rather odd and unregulated. I mean, are these people registered? Do I receive a receipt? How do I know that the scruffy ragamuffin isn't simply pocketing my 3 pounds and using it for an extra pint at the public house?

My bigger concern is the exclusivity. As a man with a full beard, I am unable to take part. I have a mustache. Does this men I can collect money whenever I please?

Frankly, it reeks of discrimination.

Once again I've been posting on the Independent. As Auden said, all evil needs to thrive is for good men to remain silent. In these turbulent time, I feel the need to lend my voice. A posting on Ireland that I'm quite proud of:

Yes, time to bring down the labourers a notch or two!

As a highly successful banker with multiple estates and a deep, rich tan, I would like to say I'm GLAD the crooked trade unions are finally being called to account. When renovating my summer house on the west coast of Ireland - to install the automatic toll bird bath - I found the rate of wages I was being forced to pay unbearable.

With my bank losing 7 trillion euros in 2009 (when we flipped a coin on taking on Fanny Mae loans from our US brethren - bad luck, but no one's fault), my subsequent bonus for good work was slashed to an absurd and unlivable 18 million euro. Well, I don't have to tell you my blood boiled at the prospect of paying a pack of Irish layabouts to slap together some brick, mortar, tile and carcinogen-laced sealant (which I had obtained through back channels thanks to chums brokering excellent import deals with Sudan - I can get you some).

Here, here to all the politicians helping bring the rabble to their knees!!

Housekeeping: the date/not a date didn't happen. She was available Tuesday, but I'd rather wait until she is free on a Wednesday, as that is Chinese night and I don't like to break with routine. I simply wouldn't be comfortable.

Well, I'm quite intoxicated and may go to bed now.

Stay well,
Nate

Readers questions

2010-11-14T09:07:00.006Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I thought I would start today's post off by answering the slew of reader mail in my Google account. Or more aptly, the reader question:

Q: Dude, why are you such a dick?

A: Thank you. I'm not sure, Mr WilliamLwCheung - not that I believe this to be your real name. I shall endeavour to get back to you with a logical breakdown at the earliest convenience.

Honestly, some people think that just because the Internet is free and highly accessible, they can do as they wish. I have no problem with constructive criticism, but random insults are simply evidence of a debased nature. Here I am offering free, high-quality writing and a window into the daily life of a man on the cusp of history in one of the world's great cities, and I receive abuse.

Some people truly have very little to do with their time.

Housekeeping: I am back on the fitness train. I had a wheezing fit while lacing up my boots yesterday morning. Admittedly, I'm currently packing more beef than a Texan cowboy.*

*metaphor for the American readers - who are still the majority. Tell your friends to hop on board the Fitzgerald train! The more the merrier.

Stay well,
Nate

The sweet smell of success

2010-11-12T08:33:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I have finally found a way to extract my indolent and mostly silent co-worker from her chair: black bean soup.

As some of my Twitter followers will know, I had a rather extreme intestinal reaction to my first encounter with black bean soup last week. Though it looks harmless, the concoction is both disgusting and hard on the digestive system. Given that anything in black bean sauce at my local Chinese is sublime, you would expect the opposite. Live and learn.

I had toyed with the idea of trying black bean soup for quite some time, ever since seeing it consumed with abandon on a BBC documentary about Brazil. The Rio-ites also ate a type of stew made in a pressure cooker from pigs trotters, ears, snout and black beans, which caused all sorts of gushing in Portuguese. I didn't catch that name. Brazilians speak very quickly.

Anyway, I purchased a tin of black bean soup.

Frankly, it tasted like something very poor people in South American might eat.

And then my intestines swelled with gas. And I don’t mean a few pop-offs. My stomach ached and I could not stop the almost continuous expulsion of extremely foul air emanating from my bottom. In the end, I took to the pavements for a long walk so as not to asphyxiate myself and my loyal feline companion, Linus.

And yet, being a thrifty fellow used to stretching a budget, I could not bring myself to throw the remaining soup away. Instead, I did some Internet research and decided to add sour cream and coriander. It did make the taste more palatable, but apparently my body did not adapt.

Which leads to the plus side, as my co-worker was more than happy to take the print-outs down to the bunker, saving me a task I loathe. Unfortunately, doing a job that typically takes me ten minutes*, she was absent from her duties for 20, 25 and 40 minutes. Mind you, we still finished on time.

*unless they play silly buggers and refuse to let me out until I answer ‘these questions three’ – typically humiliating inquiries about my lovelife and background.

I had other updates, but frankly can not remember them. I have emailed my lady friend about next Wednesday night’s Chinese extravaganza. No response as of yet. Romance is in the air!

And no, I shan't eat black bean soup before the 'date/not a date'.

Stay well,
Nate

A stellar idea

2010-11-09T08:56:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, once again the days have slipped by and my blog has grown as cold as my boudoir. Mind you, I am aiming to change that in my new one-year plan. Seeing as this ‘internet-based tidal pool for reflection on life’ has now passed the 12-month mark, I should adjust my goals. Yes, 'find amorous partner' was on last year’s list, but it has moved up.

And no, unlike usual, I have actually made some progress. Seeing as I no longer have the need to avoid June, I recommenced friendly workplace stalking of my lady friend in the kitchen area late last week. I had no luck until Monday, when I walked into the eating area at 4pm to a hearty, ‘It’s alive!’ as she sat having an extremely large muffin.*

*when did afters get so enormous? No wonder some people need two seats on aeroplanes.

We made the prerequisite small talk and I casually mentioned that I had ‘won a free seafood dinner at my local Chinese’.

She asked who would be sharing the booty. Like Gielgud at Stratford, I gave pause, as if I hadn’t considered, then said, ‘I’m not sure. Don’t suppose you like lobster?’

She said, ‘I’d hate to see a crustacean go to waste’* and we laughed heartily for upwards of 20 seconds.

*adorable

Now, in truth, I had been saving up for another blow-out solo glutton fest, the sequel to my indigestion-inducing birthday supper, but gorging alone can be so depressing. Oh sure, it starts out fine, but by the third course, when the thrill has gone out of the Szechuan beef and the honey chicken has lost its crispness, one can’t help but look around at the families spinning their communal dishes around the table like a culinary centrifuge and feel a slight spiritual desolation.

Yes, I am overcoming my fears, one at a time. It is a big list, so I’m not about to claim complete transformation. I stoked the fires of my bravery with a simple truth: asking someone to share in a won meal is not a ‘date’ and therefore is not humiliating if they decline. Ingenious, wouldn’t you say?

The lesson: though I have espoused complete honesty on this blog, lying can be healthy.

Anyway, my lady friend gave me her email and I very calmly said I’d arrange a time. I then walked from the room feeling as if I had a steel rod up my bottom, got around the corner and began to breathe again.

Stay well,

Nate

Hail fellow, not so well met

2010-11-05T07:56:00.002Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, I had an interesting experience while reconnoitering nourishment yesterday. As I was testing the freshness of some rolls via the squeeze and release method, I happened to glance upon a familiar face. It was much more lined, bloated and aged than last seen, but as that was more than a decade ago, that was not a surprise.

This once merry face was laced with the hallmarks of despondency – a look all too common in men of a certain age, past their due with their testosterone spoiling like old cream. When last I had seen him, his mug was pertpetually obscured by a pint glass or bellowing in laughter or chewing on an anecdote about some mad night when he had gotten bladdered and someone had shagged a duck or gotten locked in a post box or had their nipples pierced by travellers…

Yes, once upon a time I frequented a spirited little pub with a cast of characters. Among the regulars was a group of men who had known one another from birth and who had progressed from short pants to football to apprenticeships, wives, large guts, football and frequent fumbles at the lunacy of youth. There were several brothers, some honest tradesmen, some dodgy tradesmen and some out and out criminals in no way ashamed of their dealings. It was an interesting place.

As with any group bonded by location and background, they were a mixed bunch. I quite liked a few of the chaps and would engage in conversations about life, liberty and libations. Others seemed incapable of what one would define as conversation, unable to follow a train of thought without grunting and scratching their private bits. One once threw a glass at my person as I sat slumped at the bar, barking that it was my round, even though I wasn’t actually part of their session.

So this familiar face … Frankly, I had never cared for him or his anecdotes about having his wife wear a long shirt with a belt around her waist and no knickers. She would pretend to be a French maid dusting his hotel room. He would drop some clothes on the floor and she would bend and pick them up. Yes, he spoke quite loudly.

Rather than be offended, I was confounded, as his wife was in no way domestic. She was small and rough and had atrocious hair. She wore overbearing polyester outfits in gawdy lime green and orange. I couldn’t help but feel that role-playing as a maid was all wrong, an incongruous pairing of reality and fantasy. Surely he couldn't maintain an erection with such a ludicrous set-up. Also, she wouldn’t have known two words of French.

Anyway, I didn’t see his wife or her spring-tight perm in the shop, and from look on this familiar face and slump of those once strong shoulders, I couldn’t help but think life had not treated him well. As he considered the white bread selection, I slipped by and had a look into his basket – baked beans, frozen pre-made dinners, crisps, frozen veg, pies – the sundries of the lonely man.

The old pub is gone.

Sometimes we all get lost.

Stay well,

Nate

June's revenge

2010-11-04T08:12:00.000Z

Hello dear readers,

Well, long time, no see. I have sat down at the computer and composed a few updates, but they were so weak and listless that I discarded them and consoled my wounded soul with Dairy Milk.

I suppose life at the moment is a validation of the age-old adage, 'Be careful what ye wish for'. I had been groaning about the company’s need to hire a young, pliable (and preferably intelligent and nubile) assistant to aid my nightly duties. Lo and behold, they have…

Yes, I arrived at my place of employment Monday evening exactly on 6pm to discover the desk adjacent to mine filled with a slovenly creature in a hoody engrossed in an iphone. Thinking her a cleaner arrived early, I set down my attaché and commenced log-on, depressed to see a large number of orders for the evening.

After approximately 20 minutes of sorting and alphabetical ordering of shipments, I began to grow quite agitated at my silent companion. I made several throat-clearing noises, glanced around as if a supervisor might be on the prowl and finally reached down and rattled my half-filled bin.

She then asked, 'You the one gonna train me up like?'

Yes, the company in its infinite wisdom – despite large numbers of qualified and motivated job seekers done asunder by Cameron cuts – decided to employ a slug-like 20-something lumpen Mancunian to assist my toil.

I believe this may be my manager June’s way of punishing me for avoiding our ‘chat’. Frankly, it isn’t going to help anyone. Yes, I did finish the night’s work early for the first time in weeks – and no we didn’t get notice of subsequent shipment errors – but surely a tsunami of complaints lurks on the horizon.

Frankly, her order folding is atrocious. We print three copies of each order: one for our internal records, one for the driver and one in a branded envelop for each outlet. Knowing that the appearance of those folded letters represents our attitude to our store managers, I am extremely careful to achieve a pleasant symmetry. The manager’s name is always perfectly aligned in the window of the envelope.

My sloppy friend’s technique was completely rank and file. On half the missives one could not even clearly read the manager’s name! And she refolded letters, crumpled envelope edges and even prepared a number while eating cheese and onions crisps! As I walked in the door she was licking her fat digits and shovelling a clean white paper into its sheath!

As with many young people, she became visibly agitated when I attempted to correct her technique. She then took a rather long break to 'Facebook'. I mumbled that Facebook was not a verb…

We have now completed two shifts together. Despite my hopes, she is not keen to take our papers down to the bunker – not because of abuse from the chaps who work in that room, but because it’s ‘too far’. I cannot even begin to relate the comments those burly trogladytes have been making about my ‘new boss’ and finally having ‘someone with their thumb out’.

I give up. I am dead depressed. I could have been an engineer and contributed to this world. I could have been respected by my peers and society at large. Instead, I spend my evening with someone who thinks 'Cry Your Eyes Mate' by The Streets is the greatest song ever written.

Thomas Hobbes was correct. Life is nasty, brutish and short.

Stay well,

Nate

Politics, death and the annoyance that is Ricky Gervais

2010-10-30T13:19:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Apologies for my extended absence. I have been feeling rather detached this week for various reasons. I may have to stop reading the newspapers, as the doom, gloom and wretched state of political discourse is dragging my spirits asunder. Nick Clegg has sunk to a new low by insinuating a comment about cleansing London's inner areas of poor residents via the new restrictions on welfare funding was in some way inappropriate because of its connotations to ethnic cleansing.

Now, I know that Mr Clegg is desperate to a) regain any scrap of credibility b) appear to be in control, and c) get on as many media channels as possible with his latest fashionable tie, but this is too much. Next we shan't be able to buy cleanser for our bathtubs for fear of ripping open the emotional scars of Bosnian widows. Frankly, it's an insult to those who have been though tragic racial violence to wrench a phrase from its context for political points. And yet this is the current state of British politics.

On a more personal note, Gerard Kelly has passed away. For American readers, you will probably know him best as Bunny in Ricky Gervais's Extras. Mind you, he has been around the comedy world for ages. I have found his parting disconcerting, as he was only 51. Given that he was a great comic actor, I can't help but wonder if my positive and eternally optimistic outlook is really any defence against an early grave. Look at Douglas Adams, planted at 49.

Oddly enough, just the other day I was thinking about how annoying Ricky Gervais has become. I happened across a photo of him jogging and could only think, he was much funnier as a pudgy loser. But now he's gone all Hollywood and is as much a part of the mediocre machine as anyone he deigns to mock. His barbs used to be quite amusing when he was an outsider. Now he's simply ridiculous.

And is there really anyone in the world who finds Karl Pilkington funny? I don't understand the appeal of him as a dim-witted prognosticator. He doesn't ring true and his allegedly hilarious musings are quite see-through and banal, earmarked as funny to the punters by the over-the-top canned laughter of Gervais.

Pilkington: "I thought aliens built Big Ben" (cue Gervais) HA HA HA HA HA That's mental! HA HA HA HA

Pilkington: "I think all Spaniards smell like Chirizo sausage" (cue Gervais) WHA?!! HA HA HA HA You can't say that! You CAN'T!! HA HA HA HA You're mental!

Pilkington: "I'm having an allergic reaction" (cue Gervais) HA HA HA HA HA HA! What? Where are you from? HA HA HA HA HA

Pilkington: "No, really, can you find my epi-pen?" (cue Gervais) HA HA HA HA Insanity! I can't believe you! You don't REALLY THINK THAT, do you? HA HA HA HA HA

(Pilkington collapses)

So yes, I'm afraid my admiration for Mr Gervais has ebbed into general annoyance. But that shouldn't take away from Gerard Kelly's wonderful turns in Extras. And yet now he's gone. Dead. Final. Finished. Never to return to make us break a smile.

There's simply something wrong with this system of existence.

Stay well,
Nate

Pushing onwards

2010-10-26T11:50:00.008+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, my avoidance of going to work is not as relaxing or therapeutic as I had hoped. No, despite my bravado, I pace the flat wracked with guilt and fearful for the future. I am simply a small and insignificant person attempting to perform his employment duties in peace, yet I feel as though I have been thrown under the boot-heel of the modern corporate establishment.

I know the issue is my continuing inability to complete my orders on time. I average 7 hours of overtime per week, which given the fifteen or so staff who stay around for final loading, does calculate to some rather confronting extra wages. The clear solution is for the company to find me a helper, a young protege who can pitch in and give assistance from under my protective wing, but this appears to be too simple and straightforward.

Not only would a sidekick save the company money, it would prevent me from EVER having to walk into the bunker again and smile through witticisms about my impending 'cheese baby' or the latest ruminations on my 'porn star name'. Ha ha, yes, Sir Reginald Flabby-Cock is extremely nuanced humour - now please take your bleedin' shipping documents and allow me back out the door...

But no, instead I must 'chat' with management so they may reestablish the master-servant relationship and put me soundly in my place.

But fear not, as I've decided to be Napoleonic about the situation. The Little Emperor used to refuse to open any correspondence for two weeks, believing that by that time, the vast majority of problems being laid upon his desk would have resolved themselves, leaving only the vital matters to be dealt with.

Though it will mean curtailing my clandestine pursuit of my new lady friend in the kitchen area, I shall be going back to work for exactly 6pm each shift for the coming weeks. If June is desperate to converse, she will wait around; though I highly doubt this outcome given her loathing of our workplace, sour demeanor at the prospect of delays or problems and tendency to flee to get lost in a misty netherworld of Scotch promptly at 5pm.

By taking this path, I am not 'avoiding' a discussion, but simply doing my bit for the company and nothing more. I can't lose this job. There simply aren't any others anywhere in the country anymore since the Tories declared war on the common man and woman.

If it's not one thing, it's another in my life. I look back over last year's blog posts and can't help but pine for the days when my biggest complaint was slow service in a shop or a surly young person with their Walkman playing too loudly. Oh simple days!

Stay well,
Nate

More Frustration

2010-10-25T08:08:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, this has been a week for avoidance. On Thursday my manager, June, rang to request my presence for a 'short chat' on Friday at 2pm. I informed her this was not convenient, as Fridays have long been my day to linger in the pub aimlessly drinking cider, doing crosswords and listening to inane comments from people who believe TGIF celebrations rightfully begin at 11am.

Apparently, the pub was not a sufficient reason for absenting our 'chat'. Fearing this casual terminology was intended to preclude payment of wages, I asked about renumeration. June sighed pointedly, as if I were being completely selfish in expecting compensation for my time, and said I would receive payment for three hours, even if the chat were short.

I asked about meal money. She flatly said, 'no'. Inquiring about the purpose of the chat, I was told we were going to look at how to 'resolve some ongoing issues'. I jovially intoned I would see her at 2pm sharp, Friday, and was very much looking forward to having a chin-wag.

Not being a fool, and having become accustomed to my meagre though steady wage, I ruminated on how to never be cornered into 'chatting' about my state of employment. Thankfully, I am highly intelligent. On Friday at 1.55pm I emailed June to say I was experiencing a recurrence of my stomach ailment (a known and documented illness), was barely in control of my bowels and was going straight to bed. I then logged off, disconnected the phone and went to the pub.

I believe I shall be under the weather for the next two shifts, after which, hopefully the whole situation shall have blown over.

So, looks as if I am on holiday!

Stay well,
Nate

Romance v2

2010-10-20T11:50:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Yes, romance has once again arrived upon my doorstep (looking dishevelled, undernourished and out of breath as usual, but here nonetheless).

After an interminable time attempting to once again accidentally bump into my new lady friend at work, I finally shuffled into the kitchen area yesterday afternoon to see her angelic face at one of the tables. She was divinely shovelling what turned out to be chickpea curry into her heavenly gob. A vision of vegetarian vivaciousness!

Frankly, as you'd expect, I had to fight the urge to stop, turn and race away. But being debonair and completely relaxed (with all oxygen suddenly gone from my lungs), I strolled to the hot water contraption to make a lovely cup of tea.

The nice thing about obsessively planning to spontaneously run into someone is the rehearsal time. I quite casually looked her way (she was reading a tawdry gossip magazine) and said, ‘Working hard for the company, I see’.

Instead of ignoring me, getting up and fleeing or ‘dissing’ me with a scowl, she smiled and replied, ‘Looks like you’re making up for my shortcomings quite nicely’. Yes, I was 90 minutes early for my shift, and the fact that she knew my clocking-on time was startling. Mind you, I had brought a book so lingering about the place wouldn't look demented. Again, planning.

At this point, I giggled like a school girl and proceeded to calmly make my tea.

Edison said genius was one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. If he was right, I should be cracking String Theory by week’s end, as my glands were flowing like Victoria Falls after a monsoon. Mind you, I would add preparation to the mix, as my writing out of potential questions for my lady friend came in handy.

Seeing as she had inquired as to my position in the company on our previous meeting, I reciprocated. Turns out she is in some sort of administrative support role (I did glaze over slightly) and has been at the warehouse for one year. Previously she had worked at one of our retail outlets as a 'Product Maintenance Engineer'* (stock person).

*her words - not sure this is the official job title - must check

Readers, I feel a nervous tickle in my stomach as I recall the 20 minutes of our conversation. She is SO chatty that I only had to sit back and sip my hot beverage as she told tales of human oddity. She listed the various products she had found stuffed away on the shelves, including: nappies (plural!); dairy products put in non-refrigerated areas; bloody plasters; and even a single shoe!

I found her razor-sharp societal views fascinating. She also informed me of the chronic theft of meat which goes on, with the most common means of thievery being prams (!) and long overcoats with deep pockets. Would you believe it! I remarked that this behaviour could only increase given Mr Cameron’s desire to annihilate public service jobs and programs. She agreed passionately.

And thus a sweat grew upon my brow. As I have said before, she is quite Rrrrr. Coupled with a political outlook… I am hot under the collar, dear readers.

Of course, as the minutes passed and the reality of her inefficiency and disregard for company time grew heavier, I found my unease growing. I simply didn’t wish that she get made redundant, especially in these trying economic times. She seemed to sense this and finally gathered her rubbish and magazine and departed.

No, I did not ask her on a date.

But I shall be working on a script for that eventuality.

And no, I didn’t even mention this blog – not after the Madeline fiasco.

Stay well,
Nate

You'll never be younger than you are today

2010-10-19T12:44:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, despite not having strong religious beliefs or affiliations, I have found myself as of late praying to an unknown God that I may 'overcome death'. Frankly, I believe if one is going to ask an omniscient super being for something, one might as well go the whole length of the pitch.

My request may sound antiquated, but I've done some reading which posits immortality might someday be possible by loading our neural nets (ie, brain waves) into cyberspace, where we might roam in a way akin to that of Keanu Reeves in The Matrix.* I would certainly like to volunteer my services as one of the first test subjects should any genius IT/philosophers be reading my blog.

*Like the first two films, not so sure about the third

Beyond this, you may have gleaned that I am attempting to wean myself from compulsively updating this website, as I'm finding the desire to detail the minute details of my underwhelming life to be restrictive. I have not done my pitch proposal for Penguin (despite a kind reader pointing out that I had the deadline wrong) and have completely neglected my fiction pursuits. Beyond these reasons, this URL doesn't make me two pence and likely never will unless The Matthew Drudge Report links to me again and floods my site with curious onlookers.

Donations welcome. My ankles are looking thin.*

*The only part of me! I do still have dead nice legs

Stay well,
Nate

Issues of health

2010-10-15T10:11:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, after watching a chap on the high street with his John Thomas halfway out of his trousers, I have come up with an existential conclusion: we are all one adverse drug reaction away from being mentaloids.

He was one of those slightly too ruddy, vacant-eyed types who 'wasn't all there' as we used to say. Can one still use this expression? I'm unsure about his ultimate intentions. He appeared to be wandering amongst the oblivious passersby on the pavement rather aimlessly, as if looking for someone. I didn't linger to watch, as these sorts of situations never end well.

As for me, I am still recovering from my food poisoning. After a day of no bowel activity, I was summoned to the porcelain court on three occasions yesterday. Rather shockingly, the final expulsion appeared to contain sesame seeds, which was puzzling seeing as I am no fan of sesame and haven't consumed sesame seeds since being offered complimentary prawn toasts at my local Chinese roughly six months ago.

I can only conclude the severity of my recent exploding bottom dislodged deposits on my intestinal lining, which speaks of my trauma; yet my ordeal probably wasn't such a bad thing if it is cleaning out my system. Such a filtering might keep cancer at bay. Like a butterfly beating its wings, that bad cheese might end up saving my life.

Either that, or they were peanut fragments.

Speaking of death, I had a moment of clarity this morning as I was shaving my neck. As I attempted to achieve beard symmetry, I paused, seeing myself as if from a third-person perspective. Frankly, I marvelled at how grotesque my naked body has become - so lumpy, odd and amorphous in its imperfection. If you had passed my mirror, dear reader, you would have sworn a new Lucian Freud exhibition had opened. And it's not likely to EVER get any better, is it?

Think about that... Another boat has sailed from the harbour that is my life.

Still, chin up. Shoulders back. Onwards and upwards.

Stay well,
Nate

Recovery

2010-10-14T10:17:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, long time … As mentioned previously, I have been convalescing, which is tiring and involves quite a lot of television and being too weary to rise from the good chair. I did go to the pub the other morning with the intention of getting completely bladdered, but one pint left me quite dizzy and in need of horizontal orientation. I had intended to celebrate a small gain in the investment portfolio after years of income draining from my fingers. Alas…

Being ill, I didn’t get around to mentioning last week's shenanigans from the bunker at work, which occurred on the night of the now infamous ‘not properly mouldy cheese incident’. On occasions past I have ventured into this windowless den of iniquity to find the four to six lads engaged in darts and endless faintly edged mockery of one another, other employees, the company and anyone ‘daft with big jugs’. But they hit a new professional high last week.

Bottom darts.

That is the name they had given their game, which involved players competing to see who could most frequently drop a 50p coin* from the clenched cheeks of his bottom into a small cup.

*ten shillings for Americans wondering about exchange rates

There is room of improved efficiency within the organisation.

I declined to take a turn, as I am widely known as the company wet blanket. Also, I work so tirelessly that I can barely drag my weary bones home to the grave each night.

I may have to find a new occupation shortly.

Well, another upbeat and happy missive from love-of-turnips. Remember, tell your friends, as I desperately need readers. I promise to make my life more exciting in the near future. Perhaps I shall take up a new hobby... Ohh, exciting. Anything could happen!

Stay well,
Nate

Unwell

2010-10-11T10:06:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, despite being perilously close to death, I have sat down to pen a missive for your enlightenment. Yes, that is how important I view my blog to be to the world at large. Not that you’re large. Actually, you look like you’ve lost a touch of weight. Been to the gym?

Forgive me, I’m weak and lightheaded and now likely only 73 percent water. Yes, I have been sick as the proverbial canine, with high-pressure expulsions from both ends. My arse feels like Vesuvius after a Vindaloo and my esophagus could power an AA battery with its acidity.

Well, now that I’ve stretched my metaphors as far as humanly possible, let me simply say this is as ill as I’ve been in quite some time. At one point in my feverous delirium I could not for the life of me remember my date of birth. I considered a hospital visit, but could not drag myself from the bed, mired as I was in endless chills and sweats. Only when my bucket threatened to overflow did I propel myself to the WC. And then, just in time.

At my worst, I begged Linus to retrieve one of those new-fangled sport-related hydration drinks, thinking my electrolytes were near extinguished. Instead, he napped. I then fell into yet another maddening and mocking dream in which I forget all of my passwords – bank, email, Twitter, various other websites, this blog, combination lock…

I never use the same password twice for security reasons and fear a loss of recall will leave me helpless and dependent on the kindness of strangers. Granted, even at the best of times, I have a devil of a time with those passwords that require capitals, numbers, letters and nothing you’ll find in a dictionary. I find their ‘password strength’ ratings quite emasculating. Alas, I simply cannot remember something along the lines of N8tefIT’Sger0Ld no matter how great the chance that Ukrainian hackers will steal my considerable wealth.*

*Speaking of a life of luxury, riches and decadence, I no longer feel like lobster, despite accumulating the required funds

Thankfully, as quickly as my illness descended, it has lifted. I still feel very weary, but my H2O is staying down and I have even had some soup. My hearty constitution and semi-vegetarian dietary regime are proving their mettle. No, I shall not yet be checking out at 48. And, I believe I may have lost a belt-loop!

I knew that cheese mould didn’t look right…

Stay well,
Nate

Cupid, dispath thy quiver

2010-10-08T12:20:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, my torrid love life continues apace... I met the most intriguing woman the other day at my place of employment. I was in early, as is my way, proving my loyalty to the company (and frankly having little to do in the day). She works in an administrative support function in the main office (not our office, which is more of a storage outlet for castoffs and cretins of lower earning potential) and was in the kitchen area eating some sort of reheated vegetarian shepherd's pie cum casserole.

Apparently I murmured 'hmm, lentils', though if asked, I would swear the thought was spoken only in my head. Sign of mental degeneration, you say? No, simply a sign of someone who lives with a cat and has taken to explaining various nuances of human behaviour and life as if he could comprehend or cared.

Anyway, she explained that yes, they were lentils, and that she had made the rather tragic-looking mess the previous night and was being frugal. I made some mention of the economy and she inquired as to my status within the hierarchy of the company. When I explained my role, she smiled and said, 'Ah, you're the one'. Her tone was amused and slightly mysterious, so I decided to ignore the comment, fairly certain my reputation as an enabler of overtime had spread through the employee grapevine.

So, the long and short of it is: I may in fact be in love. I shall be going in even earlier now to subtly 'stakeout' the kitchen area using various techniques learned from The Bill. Hopefully she is a habitual late luncher. And no, I do not intend on commenting on her appearance on this blog, having learned from my disastrous Madeline experience not to make unflattering comparisons of women with Meg Ryan.

Mind you, she is really quite Rrrrrrrrr....

Wish me luck!

Nate

Norman, we hardly knew you

2010-10-05T13:38:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Goodness, Norman Wisdom has passed away. Yes, I know he was 95 and not exactly snatched from the bloom of youth, but it's still somewhat heart-wrenching, like hearing the home you lived in as a child from ages 8-11 has been torn down to make way for a Virgin mobile shop, or God help us, Starbucks.

And so Romania mourns... Norman was very big in Rumania, even during the Cold War.

Is it Rumania or Romania? I can never remember. Really, to attract visitors, they should rename it Ru-Mania. That would get the young people out with their ecstasy and rave dancing and Skins DVDs.

Not much happening in NateWorld. Despite the many motivational posters around the workplace, I've begun to sense that the company does not in fact care about me or my career ambitions (or my dental health, for that matter...) No, I get the feeling that were I to meet the company in a swish bar, it would pretend not to see me and walk quickly to the roped-off VIP section.

I have no specifics for this suspicion, of course, aside from a few overheard comments about OT payments and the office being in a disorderly state in the mornings. Really, neither of these complaints are my fault, as I am doing a job that rationally requires at least two people working at full capacity. The fact that I complete our shipment orders only 60 to 90 minutes over schedule is Herculean. And I'm not about to pick up lost, crumpled or discarded papers on the floor, as my knees are shot by shift's end. Nor am I able to fix the printer when it decides to jam itself with five to seven sheets of paper in every nook, cranny and orifice of its body.*

*I leave it and use the other printer on the other side of the room - a longer walk to get my print-outs but I retain my sanity

Housekeeping: Despite knowing better, I went to elderly improv yesterday, as I rarely have any pressing appointments on a Monday and am desperately lonely. A small crowd, which might explain why I leapt into the tag game. I know, completely out of my character, but I got caught up in the moment. Two old chaps were pretending to be inebriated while stealing Billy Connolly's material. As one weaved toward the imaginary bar, inspiration struck and I tapped in, seamlessly segueing into a young person on the pavement attempting to walk and text message at the same time. Impossible, I know! I was weaving and texting and waiting for the guffaws of recognition...

But the elderly don't text message apparently.

And when they see young people moving erratically on the street, they cross to the other side, clutch their handbags firmly to their person and shuffle home at speed.

Took forever for one of the oldies to tap me out, the bastards.

I am NEVER going back. Mark my words.

Stay well,
Nate

Blog block

2010-10-03T11:18:00.001+01:00

Blessed is the man, who having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact.
GEORGE ELIOT

Hello dear readers,

Yes, one year into this blog and I have finally contracted blog block. I've sat down at my computer for the past few days, stared at the screen, searched my mind for one interesting tidbit about which to enlighten the world and come up with nowt.

No, I do not wish to write about my eating habits, as indulging this topic has led to all of my trousers being tighter than a Scot on a budget.

No, I do not wish to write about my love life. My bed is where the magic goes to die. It is like the Chinese Water Torture chamber than claimed dear Houdini. It is the white tiger that mauled that chap in Las Vegas a few years back - Roy, of Siegfried and Roy.* You'd think the animal would have opted for the German, but clearly tigers have no mind for history.

*God bless the Internet

No, I do not wish to write about my phobias, work failings or misunderstandings with humanity. Though I should say I recently suggested that three young lads in the park stop harassing the birds. They got quite stropy, like I was violating their right to terrorise innocent wildlife and showing coordinated symmetry worthy of Olympic synchronised swimmers showered me with abuse. One said he would 'batter me like cod' which struck me as an impressive turn of phrase later, after I had safely bolted from the vicinity.

So yes, I have grown silent now. Could this spell the end of my erudite and at times fascinating glimpse into one man's journey?

I hope not, as I have few other hobbies.

And yes, I have missed the open submission deadline for presenting my action-comedy novel Lowdown Bigtop to Penguin (but as you can see, I have tweaked the title). And so ends two months of dread, avoidance and paralysis. I still feel it worthy of publication, but dealing with its rejection has become terribly draining.

Hopefully this missive has brought some sunshine to your day. I am aware that many people feel validated by others failings, so I do serve a general good.

And please tell anyone you know to read the blog. I am getting quite desperate for readers.

Stay well,
Nate

The case of the missing sausages

2010-09-30T13:12:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, some good news today. I’ve made a 33 percent improvement on reducing overtime costs, completing my collations only 60 minutes late last evening. I believe everyone was surprised and generally pleased. One chap in the bunker even offered the encouragement, 'There is hope yet'.

Feedback on my first solo shift was also generally positive, with only one outlet in Finsbury Park complaining they didn’t get any Cumberland sausages.* Granted, this means my perfect accuracy record is no more, but in all the confusion and incredible stress, the situation could have ended in greater disaster. At least I didn't send 7000 ox tails to Dagenham in a non-refrigerated lorry or misplace our entire caper inventory.

*easy to remedy: feign ignorance, issue credit

This still doesn’t mean my occupation isn’t slowly killing my spirit. In fact, my soul has been so crushed over the past several months that it has begun to leak from my body, thus far ruining two perfectly good pairs of socks. I believe this is the purpose of employment, so I mustn’t complain. Instead I shall trudge wearily as a wage slave and salve my wounds with the balm of lobster when funds reach target levels.

Oh goodness, target levels. Corporate life has infiltrated my vernacular. Next I'll be referring to you as stakeholders and not readers. Rue the day...

Housekeeping: On the way to my humble abode last night, I had a sudden and quite crystallised thought: we shall all simply disappear one day, never to be seen or heard from again. I have kept a lid on my intense fears of death for quite a few blog posts now, but mortality came a stalking.

I saw a photo of Baroness Thatcher in one of the newspapers a few days back and couldn’t help but marvel at how doughy and bloated she has become. Surely the end is nigh and the Iron one shall soon burst from her human cacoon, emerging fully formed as a winged black lizard, unfolding her great scaly limbs and flying into the sun (hopefully not before devouring her offspring).*

*Philippa Stroud, you may wish to stay indoors and under cover until the great solar flare.

Stay well,
Nate

Toil and more improv

2010-09-28T11:22:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Hmm, work isn’t going well, so please don’t ask. I’ve finally been cut loose from my protective mentoring by Aadesh, who was nearly in tears as he pleaded with June to reduce his hours. Poor lad does juggle a full schedule. He’s worn down and looks terrible – as close to pale as someone with coffee-coloured skin can be, I would think.* I certainly hope a return to part-time nights rejuvenates his lusty Hindu zest for life.

*mauve?

Mind you, my first night alone was harrowing. Quite honestly, printing and collating orders alone felt like more than twice the workload – more like three or four times. I got rather confused at one point and fear I may have sent a rather large number of packaged Cumberland sausages to an outlet in North Finchley. Oh well, everyone loves a sausage.

Unfortunately, I have made more enemies on the job, as my delays kept everyone from their beds for an additional 90 minutes. Half the lads were grumbling and muttering under their garlic halitosis breath, while the feckless other half were happy to gouge the company for a few extra quid. You can’t win. Like Gordon Brown, I have split the populace with my mediocrity.

As I said a few paragraphs back, please don’t ask about work.

Not that my Monday afternoon was much better. After enthusiastic goading by readers, I returned to the elderly improv afternoon, once again lending my expertise as Assistant Director (AD). I am a popular choice for this role, as I am the only one in the ensemble who can carry more than one cup of tea without shaking half the contents onto the linoleum.

Frankly, dear readers, I wished to bash my skull against a wall within about fifteen minutes of the production’s kick-off. If nations recycled as much as this crew, we wouldn’t have to worry about landfills or turning a blind eye to dumping our rubbish into the Atlantic from sludge boats. The only exception to the bawdy jokes/Carry On antics was a pepperpot called Margaret who inserted the most inappropriate monologues about starving children, emotional abuse and ‘the floods’.

Picture, if you will, a gaggle of flabby-armed oldies playing a sort of tag game, where an actor may enter at any moment, touch one of the people on stage and take over the scene. The idea was that the interloper would relate the change/entry to something just said. It’s difficult to explain, so let me illustrate:

Sir Jeffery Liverspot: “I don’t know whether to go or stay.”

(He is then tagged by Alfred Where Did I Leave My Glasses, who takes over)

Alfred “Yes, the weather in Bournemouth can be very changeable. Look is that a ship?”

(a truly uninspired entry, but you get the point)

(Image this fascinating discussion on the weather continuing for a several minutes, reaching such a point of excruciating boredom that onlookers begin to look around at the WCs and performers on stage begin to get visibly antsy, wondering if they might in fact literally die on the stage)

Alfred: “I’d hate to get caught out in the cold”

(Margaret tags in, which one might interpret as an act of mercy – the audience’s spirits lift)

(before plunging)

(As Margaret launches into a lengthy and overly dramatic monologue about sleeping rough with her starving child – lifting copious details from Frank McCourt’s very over-rated Angela's Ashes, hitting all the high points: abusive parents, cooking by wood fire, cruel religious figures beating the innocent senseless.)

And it just got worse, as Margaret later engaged a shell-shocked gentlemen in a tweed blazer* whose name escapes me in a bitter Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf-style argument while partaking of copious strong libations from an imaginary drinks cart. Frankly, it was like someone had set up a Big Brother-style CCTV camera on my childhood.

*stereotypes – they really do come from somewhere

So, disaster, disaster, disaster… Haven’t yet prepared my stunning new novel proposal for Penguin. Two days left before the deadline... Still fat... No romantic interest…. But, one more week saving my meal money and I should have sufficient funds for another gluttonous Chinese lobster feast. So, all's not lost.

Stay well,
Nate

Yes well...

2010-09-25T10:13:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

As you can see, after almost a year of blogging, I have run completely dry in the title department. I suppose the logical approach would be to write the missive then go back over it carefully looking for the key points. I hope you can live with uninspiring titles.

Like my round about way of saying I'm a lazy sod?

But at least I show up and keep this on-line diary rolling along. Mind you, I fear that I shall have to 'man up' and lace my reflections with some testosterone, as I have had not one, but two readers compare me to Adrian Mole this week. Perhaps I should go back to detailing my daily workout regime, as I did last December - the problem with this being: a) I haven't taken any physical exercise since last January, and b) I believe it drove several followers to read one of the 571,000 sites devoted to troll collecting.*

*Do the Google search if you don't believe me

So what have I learned this week, apart from the fact everyone at my place of employment believes me a giant ball of stress in need of meditation?

1 - No one can discuss Scotch drinking in a pub without sounding like a complete wanker. (overheard conversation)

2 - Foodstuffs long-abandoned in the back of the freezer were likely done so for a reason. (disappointing Wednesday lunch)

3 - Cats dislike their fur being petted from tail to head. (Linus)

4 - Sometimes they deserve to be annoyed. (Granted, I'm not about to put Linus in a bin)

But I suppose I had already known these lessons. So in a way, the week was a complete waste. And I fear I haven't gone nearly butch enough in this post.

Go Arsenal! Get me a lager! Who wishes to fight?

Stay well,
Nate

I thought I had been doing well enough...

2010-09-23T15:32:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, worried about my mental state, my esteemed colleague Aadesh has given me a thin book on meditation. Frankly I was surprised, as pamphleteering for pseudo religious causes clearly violates our workplace harassment statutes - and I believed he looked up to me as a sage level-headed mentor. But no, apparently I'm in need of intervention from someone younger than half my trousers.

Aadesh believes I have not learned to properly accept and love myself, which is a load of tosh. I came to terms with my heavily flawed Self ages ago. I am perfectly resigned to my mediocrity. Ego and Id even sup together these days, and Super-ego moved out with a former Latvian prostitute sometime in 2004. He still writes occasionally, though I've not seen a photograph in some time.

Aadesh also believes I should curtail my blog, as it feeds my negative self image as a hapless socially awkward misanthrope crippled by intense shyness. Not his exact words, but that was the general idea. I informed him that you, my dear readers, have come to depend on me for insight into a life of honesty and poignancy.

I don't need to meditate. I sleep perfectly well.

Yes, perhaps I'm feeling defensive. Ach...

I'm sorry if his blog post is terrible.

It is, isn't it...

Bah! I'm off to bury my troubles in bacon sandwiches.

Stay well,
Nate

Oh my!

2010-09-21T13:59:00.002+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, I'm sure you're expecting some fantastic tale of how I became the star of the elderly improv afternoon. But no, it was simply a few hours of old people jabbering. Of course, I have achieved another feather in my CV cap, as I was appointed assistant director for the day. As this is improv, my duties ran to: a) saying things such as 'Agnes, you're in this one'; and b) making cups of tea.

Halfway through the afternoon, I had the thought that, yes, I should find a younger crowd to associate with, as septuagenarians can be a bit of a drag.* They complain quite a lot, repeat themselves endlessly and most are quite conservative. Sadly, more than one old chap with a bum hip believes David Cameron is just the man to 'sort this nation out' - which is ironic considering how much the Conservatives hate old people for being inefficient, unproductive and a never-ending drain on the NHS.

*This was around the time that one of the sketches diverged into an almost word-for-word copyright infringement of Fawlty Towers' 'The Germans' episode, as two ancient codgers did the whole 'don't mention the war' spiel - like most television, it was terribly derivative and immensely popular with the audience.

The long and short, I shan't be lending my expertise to my dear neighbour Mrs Donaldson's troupe.

Oh, and I made a couple more discoveries yesterday: the name Aadesh means message; and the young lad I work with by that name reads my blog. At his request, I must admit he didn't rant about my mistake with his name, but simply made a firm clarification. Mind you, he reiterated that I 'eat like someone who has never seen food before' or a 'rutting pig' but said this was his issue, not mine.

So there you go. Life certainly is interesting in a dull sort of way.

Stay well,
Nate

Oops!

2010-09-20T13:15:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, I've done it again, it would seem. I'm horrified to say that I've broken through my Indian co-worker's Hindu calm and sent him into a very uncharacteristic (and blessedly short) rant. Apparently somewhere in the early days of my employement - when frankly I was bewildered and unsure of even the basics, like the locations of the loos - I began to convivially call him Aanesh. This is unfortunate as his name is actually Aadesh.

Looking back, I even wrote his name correctly in the blog... Egg salad on my face.

All understandable given my nerves, and not completely my fault, as he had many opportunities to articulate a correction. Apparently he was leaving small clues, such as papers with his name clearly typed, but I was too focussed on maintaining my unblemished accuracy percentage to notice.

He also said a few things about the volume at which I eat my sandwiches, but I chose to let that go. I do have a habit of getting zoo-like on my food - comes from eating so many meals alone.

Mind you, I'm not sure my erroneous utterances are all that is bothering the young lad. He is studying and working quite a lot and is showing clear signs of strain and stress. I know, as I see the same lines and mottled skin every time I glimpse a mirror.

On the plus side of the ledger, I'm once again going to my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson's elderly improv performance - and they've asked me to lend a hand, as they're eager to get a bit of youth into their outfit. I suppose I may be called on to stage manage or direct. No, I'm not a thespian. Having to articulate an order at a mid-scale restaurant makes me nervous and sweaty.

Speaking of which, it might be time for another lobster soon.

Stay well,
Nate

Taking stock

2010-09-16T14:28:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, here we are yet again, staring at one another through a pixelated computer screen.

Oh, what’s left to say?

I don’t wish to push the blog into Bridget Jones territory, but my weight gain is now getting distressing. Working nights and eating at odd hours is no way to stay trim. And as I am exhausted all the time now, I am walking far less.

Yes, I spend most of my time reading and sleeping when not toiling for the man. And granted, the job is not going well. The thrill of printing and collating shipping orders and taking them to the bunker – with its testosterone, casual abuse and barely contained thievery – has well and truly worn off.

Even worse, my manager June has begun to question why my one-week probation/training period is now stretching into its second month. I feel quite guilt-ridden and anxious about this and its consequences, as my mentor Aanesh has lost his bon vivant Hindu positivity and has become somewhat listless. He is studying and working more nights than he would like due to my speed issues and obviously feels that he's failed somehow in his teaching.

Apparently I work at a 40 percent capacity according to the company’s scientifically calculated efficiency expectations. Mind you, I have 100 percent accuracy. Still, June has asked me to pick up the pace, her tone and expression indicating I may be back among the millions of unemployed should I fail. When I pointed out my accuracy and questioned whether the time lost rectifying mistakes would cause my acceleration to be counterproductive, she looked at me blankly, shrugged and then wandered outside to spark up yet another fag.

Really, the last vestiges of smoking are costing the company at least as much as I am in terms of efficiency.

So yes, almost a year into this blog and I have begun to wonder if I’ve succeeded in my stated goals for October 2010. Twelve short months ago I set out to reconnect with society, laying out several specific ambitions:

GOAL: Find suitable employment to stop the dissipation of my bank funds and investments.

RESULT: I have succeeded in finding a part-time night job that has exacerbated my weight gain, disrupted my sleep patterns and mildly damaged my soul. Mind you, I get meal money, so it’s a wash.

GOAL: Get published or sell my novel Low Down Bigtop.

RESULT: I have received several very kind rejections. And no, I haven’t redone my pitch proposal for Penguin. Their open submission period ends in two weeks, so I still have time.

GOAL: Establish a close network of interesting, intelligent and dear friends.

RESULT: I have put my relationship with my Polish friends in jeopardy with a very public and admittedly odd crying jag. But I now have 340 followers on Twitter and a cat. So this is also a wash.

GOAL: Become entangled in a lusty and personally edifying romantic relationship with a real life woman.

RESULT: I had a few dates, some nice wine and a lot of pizza with an American lass who has since threatened to obtain a ‘restraining order’ should I arrive intoxicated at her flat again. She’s a non-drinker. I’m fairly certain this one can't be counted as an outright success.

But I am reemerging into society, which is something – though I still avoid the tube and find coping with reality difficult. And by reality, I mean life and obligations and awkward conversations with co-workers who call me Paunch despite being asked several times not to…

The journey continues.

Stay well,

Nate

Update

2010-09-13T14:00:00.002+01:00

Hello dear readers,

I've decided to stop watching television and return to books. I currently have six on the go, which you would think might be confusing, but is working quite well. I simply find that television points out what I lack, whereas books open my mind to what we are as humans, if that makes any sense. Probably not. It makes perfect sense in my brain, however, so if you're really confused, feel free to pop into my cranium. Just don't go down those dark stairs.

The Pope arrives on our shores later in the week. I'd like to say, 'Now there's an ex-Hitler youth member come good - they all weren't so bad', but obviously I cannot, as he is the world's most successful protector of paedos. His imminent arrival feels much like Christmas when you knew your creepy uncle would be turning up and you would have to smile despite his palpable aura of musty evil.

Speaking of which, we're only three months until Xmas. I'm dreading it already, even though those childhood days are gone. It will be my second yuletide season with Linus, and I believe this year he'll finally be old enough to enjoy it. I may get him one of those cat Santa hats. That should make him love me.

I've been thinking lately that I would like to have a child. Though my knees aren't in good enough shape to kick a football around, I would be quite good at giving cautionary advice. I have learned quite a lot by enduring life. Charlie Chaplain was in his 70s when he had his last child, so I suppose I have lots of time left to find a mate and plant my hallowed seed.

With that frightening image, I shall leave off.

Yes, still somewhat low.

Stay well,
Nate

Life

2010-09-10T14:32:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Yes, I suppose I'm in a bit of a rut. I have nothing terribly exciting to report. The roof is on and appears to fit. Linus is doing well with the naps. I'm still fat. Business as usual, I would say.

Did have an interesting experience in the bunker the other night - the windowless room off the main warehouse where beefy English gents with short hair do something. Frankly, I'm not 100 percent sure why so many are working in the bunker, as most of the time when I pop my head in with my printouts they are playing darts or laughing mockingly at one another. Yes, they have a dart board. They work nights, so it's not like management is likely to arrive unexpectedly.

I do know that the bunker houses the security equipment, as one of the blokes, a large fellow by the name of Reg, very eagerly showed me footage of the outer camera where I make my approach.* He explained that though there are dozens of cameras, they aren't actually much use besides deterrence, as they lack enough resolution to adequately identify intruders. Surprisingly for its size, our company is too cheap to upgrade.

He then went on to relate an incident not long ago when a car drove through the wire fencing and into one of the doorways of the warehouse, near the refrigerator section. Three men swarmed and were off with several boxes of expensive steaks and other assorted meats that had been stacked near where the break-in occurred.

One of the others said 'the sly bastards', but the subsequent comradely laughter gave me the eerie feeling that I had stepped into the cracking good film Goodfellas.

I wonder if they're testing me - evaluating my potential to be flipped against the company and pulled into acts of criminality. Or am I simply extremely paranoid from decades-long sleeping patterns that are now completely decimated by shift work? You decide...

*being called Reg is actually quite rare, as most of this 'team' have nicknames like Toby, Ratarse and Paunch (actually, that is my moniker) - As you may have assumed, Reg is the Alpha-male. Life is sometimes even more absurd and cliche than fiction.

Stay well,
Nate

Tip-top

2010-09-08T14:06:00.003+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Yes, I am perfectly fine, thank you very much. I've simply been working and am somewhere between 'tired' and 'so exhausted I may begin to drool on myself'. Seeing as I spend an inordinate amount of time with the elderly these days, no one would be likely to notice.

The good news is the roof is finally being fixed - right now for that matter. Yes, the workmen showed up at the crack of early this morning and began dropping various tools of the trade outside my window as loudly as possible. I suppose they resent anyone who sleeps past four, just on principle. Unfortunately, I now work nights and had managed about three and a half hours of idyllic, health-enhancing slumber. Still, if it means the tarpaulin disappears and solid roof matter goes in, I shall dance a jig in the nude while beating a drum on the high street. Wouldn't be the first time ...*

*a lie - I'm not that far gone

Apparently the delay wasn't due to the labourers' poor scheduling abilities as I was told, but was more a nuanced and rather vague matter of them not receiving any of the agreed deposit from the Phallus in the Palace, aka my landlord, who resides in the property's main house. I believe this lie gives me grounds to ask for restitution for inconvenience, suffering and the lose of several premium ales paid to a local urchin who climbed up to fix the tarp. No, the Phallus doesn't need to know the ales were expired. Replacement value is the issue.

I had something else to say, but it has slipped into the fuzzy haze that is my waking consciousness. I may have to start injecting tea straight into my veins. Now where are the toothpicks?

Stay well,
Nate

Friday night humiliation

2010-09-06T12:52:00.000+01:00

If regrets were coins in my pocket, I'd never get my trousers up - Dave the Circus Midget, Lowdown Big Top

Hello dear readers,

Well, hope you had an excellent weekend. Mine was interesting, Friday in particular. After doing generally pointless activities for the morning - Sisyphusian chores such as making the bed and dusting the cat - I went to the pub for a cider and crossword or two. This is my routine, and as we’re all aware, deviating from a routine always ends in tears or death.*

*Tears of Death - cracking name for a novel

Now, Friday afternoons are the highlight of my week. Wednesday night Chinese is a close second, but still laps behind. Unfortunately, at the pub I was drawn into conversation with an older gentleman while waiting for the lackadaisical new Australian barman to pour my pint. In his defence, there were upwards of seven people in the building and he was ‘hungover to buggery’.

I say unfortunately because though outwardly well-mannered and nattily dressed in tweed jacket and proper trousers, he was a raving frothy mouthed bigot. Now, I’m perfectly aware that the world was different way back when, and that octogenarians must be bewildered by computers, the modern Labour Party, ipods, Jordan, fusion cuisine, T-shirts that fall apart after six months and multiculturalism, but this does not mean one can call an Oriental person a monkey. No, not even if one fought in the war - though thank you for your valour.

Of course being a) incredibly polite and b) utterly lacking in backbone, I simply nodded, wondering as to the best way to extricate my person without appearing rude. Ultimately this involved me drinking my cider in a rapid, cirrhosis-inducing manner, glancing at my watch and saying ‘Dear me, time to get back’. I then fled.

I had only intended on the one, so it was a disappointing, though not devastating occurrence. I wandered about for an hour and then made my way to Piotr and Yulia’s for a delightful supper. For once they did not mangle an English traditional dish, instead wreaking havoc upon a lasagne.

We dined with another couple from Poland. As usual, I was too self-conscious to add much to the conversation, no doubt looking to these immigrants like the stereotypically icy English gentleman from Remains of the Day or A Passage to India. Yet, I am simply afflicted with acute and incurable shyness. It’s as if my mind is too slow for social interaction, always coming up with a clever response or insightful point five seconds after the conversation has moved on. This is my curse. Some men go bald. I dither.

The endless rounds of vodka did not help. In fact, the petrol taste and small pieces of garlic in the bottle were even more distracting, hampering my ability to even follow the conversation at various times. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was being plied with contraband alcohol made by farmers and risking rotted garlic-fuelled botulism.

Yulia did attempt to get me involved by having me repeat phrases in Polish to everyone’s mirth and unabashed amusement. I believe some of them were quite bawdy. Unfortunately, this led to the most humiliating point in the night – and the event that may have jeopardised my relationship with my only two friends from the former Communist Bloc.

We drank to ‘old friends gone or far away’, going around the table, person by person. Put on the spot and really quite intoxicated, I raised my glass to … 'Mrs Donaldson, my 78-year-old neighbour' … at which point I burst into the most unexpected but intense fit of weeping.

No, dear readers, I don’t even understand it myself. The emotion simply welled up from some deeply repressed cavity, drawn out by the excessively maudlin atmosphere and deep Polish nostalgia. Have I finally completely lost my marbles? Perhaps. After all, Mrs Donaldson is not gone – in fact she is in staggeringly good condition mentally and passable shape for her age physically. Neither is she far away, being only a short two-minute stroll from Piotr and Yulia’s front door.

So what is behind my moment of crushing weakness?

No clue.

Still, at least I didn’t offer a toast to Linus and bawl like a Big Girl’s Blouse.

I am humiliated.

Stay well,

Nate

Making amends

2010-09-03T14:07:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Right, let me state right here for all to read: From this point forward, I shall be a better man.

I have written Madeline a sincere letter of apology and have purchased When Harry Met Sally on DVD as a gesture of goodwill.

Stay well,
Nate

Let's be honest

2010-09-03T08:56:00.002+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, I would say that my relationship with Madeline is definitely on the outs, as she has emailed me with the modern version of the Dear John letter. I’m not terribly surprised, though it is nice to have closure.

Mind you, asking that I not show up at her door like a ‘drunken crazed lunatic’ is pure hyperbole, as I was making a gentlemanly offer of a restaurant excursion for my birthday – a free meal, might I add. And aside from a light bit of cajoling and mild pleading, I was perfectly respectful. I did not even step foot past her threshold.

She ended the missive by saying I was ‘no Tom Hanks’, which left me perplexed until I recalled a distant blog post in which I may have referred to her as no Meg Ryan while alluding to When Harry Met Sally, one of my all time favourite films. But this had never been intended for her eyes and I certainly wouldn't have written the slight in email form.

With that said, clearly her film knowledge and fact-checking skills are lacking, as Billy Crystal played the male lead in When Harry Met Sally. Tom Hanks played opposite Meg in You’ve Got Mail and that cloying film with the small child whose title I’ve blocked out.

But yes, she must have found the blog and taken offence, which I feel bad about. I had intended to keep it well out of view until such time as we were established. And it had been my plan to purge that particular comment. I really can't be blamed for her snooping around my private affairs.

And no, I probably shouldn’t have written my true thoughts on the Internet. Yet this venture has always been about complete and brutal honest, so to gloss over my real views would be a betrayal of core principles. What would be the point of this site? It would simply be a place of ego preening fuelled by self-serving fallacy, no different from The Telegraph or A Journey.

I am more than willing to admit my faults – I am an intensely flawed person – but the only way to move forward is to face our demons and call a spade a spade. I expect the same level of openness from others. After all, if we begin to censor ourselves and our opinions in cyberspace – the last bastion of free expression – society is surely doomed.

Stay well,
Nate

The results and a roof update

2010-09-02T15:04:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, we still have 30 minutes or so to go, but I'm going to call the poll. As expected, the majority have confirmed that I am 'perfectly normal' and not 'narcissistic' as suggested by a reader. So upwards and onwards. Mind you, I can't help but wonder why those who were inclined to suggest my self-obsession is extreme believed themselves to possess better judgment than a trained therapist who didn't feel qualified to make that assessment. Who is self-important now?

On an equally positive note, I have finally divested myself of my heavily discounted ale, while also getting the tarpaulin that serves as half of my roof refastened. Seeing as the winds had blown the corner of the sheet loose - and faced with another week of Tent City living stretching before me - I got proactive and approached a young lad at the deli counter of Tesco who owed me a favour.*

*he neglected to deliver an Easter card to a co-worker as asked

Basically, I reminded him of his shortcomings and when he was sufficiently guilted up, bribed him with the offer of four bottles of premium ale. As cream on the milk, I informed him they were 6.4% in strength, more than enough to get him bladdered with his American baseball cap-wearing friends. And seeing as the ale is bottle fermented and well out of date, they could have a brew even more potent.

And yes, he is legal drinking age, so I'm not being morally or legally remiss. If anything, I'm saving his system a night of Red Bull-induced heart palpitations and mild hypertoxia.

Anyway, to make a long story short, he arrived yesterday morning, shimmied up the platinus hispanica next to my abode and slithered onto the roof. Using the rope provided, he fastened the flapping tarpaulin and safely returned to solid ground. Easy peasy for someone so young; likely to end with me in a full body plaster if I were to undertake the venture. He then trotted off with his alcohol and I could rest easy knowing steams of rainwater wouldn't be pooling in my collection of seldom-used cookbooks, including my favourites The Two Fat Ladies and The Two Fat Ladies Ride Again.**

**Rest in Peace Jennifer Patterson, you beautiful dear

As a final note, the cretin in the main house has returned from Crete looking all tanned and self-satisfied and has assured me the workmen will be back early next week to finish the roof. He dismissed my attempts at protest for the delays, opining that I was 'being dramatic yet again' before saying 'it's not like your village were swept away by the flood'. At the time this argument gave me pause, as I thought, 'he does have a point there'. By the time I had come to grips with the flaws in his relativism he had scampered away and the door was closing shut. As I've said before, I'm much better in written form than verbal exchanges.

Anyway, if my roof is indeed fixed by earlier in the working week all shall be forgotten. Mind you, there is still the matter of the front gate...

Glad you've all (mostly) decided I'm not crackers. Now I can get on with making this blog interesting and insightful. I may also post another excerpt from Lowdown Big Top. And yes, I realise I should be working on my proposal for Penguin. But life is busy!

Stay well,
Perfectly Normal Nate

Elderly improv

2010-08-31T14:59:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Yes, the exciting fever pitch of my life refuses to abate. Yesterday, after several weeks of harassment, I joined my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson for an afternoon with her theatre group. I know, it sounds horrid, evoking images of a sad pantomime being painfully unfolded in the sterile lounge room of an elderly care facility. In reality, Mrs Donaldson has recently joined a rather active enclave of pensioners, who see no reason why age should prevent them from embarrassing themselves like the young at activities ranging from snooker to karaoke.

A month or so ago they decided to start up a Monday afternoon theatre club, proving absolutely everyone on the planet thinks they're Robert bleeding Redford. Admittedly, I enjoyed myself, despite some moments of anxiety. Part of the appeal of live theatre is the danger element, the 'anything can happen' tension. This is doubly strong when the thespians look about to pitch over while scampering across the polished boards.

They were a spry lot, big on physical comedy, and put on a full improvisational show (or 'improv' as people in the business say). They had a full range of premises and games, though most pieces quickly devolved into a mishmash shamelessly pinched from On the Buses, Are You Being Served and the Carry On Gang. Yes, the double-entendres came thick and fast.*

*sorry

Still, the classics never die. And the bawdy tone enabled one enterprising old chap - a widower, me thinks - to touch not one, but three of his fellow performers' bottoms. Yes, I was counting. So, no, people don't change as they get older. They just get bolder and covered in liver spots.

Stay well,
Nate

The Sandwich

2010-08-30T13:57:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, it has begun. Last night one of the older Ukrainians approached me quite unexpectedly outside the warehouse as I was bringing my first batch of printouts to the bunker. He had a smile on his ruddy face and thrust a sandwich my way with the words 'You have'. Now, I'm fairly certain handing out bread-based comestibles to virtual strangers isn't a typical custom in Kiev, so naturally my guard went up.

I had been expecting some sort of retribution for inadvertently siding with June, my manager, not long ago. No doubt your typical man* would have forgotten the incident by now, but I'm much more cautious than the average person. It comes from living alone (always dangerous) and a lifetime of ridicule. Overall, I've found it to be a useful way to avoid getting robbed and beaten, though I fear writing this sentence may jinx my long-running streak.

*or woman, as let's be fair, these sorts of ethnic hatred issues know no gender

I tried to explain my semi-vegetarian stance, but he kept offering the sandwich with a rather loopy smile on his flushed face. Perhaps he was intoxicated. The sandwich appeared to be roast beef, though I could be wrong, having never seen roasted squirrel or grilled dachshund. All I could think was, 'how many of those chaps in the warehouse have spit upon that beef, or worse, augmented the mayonnaise with faecal matter?'

Still, when communication of dietary issues proved futile, I accepted the meal with a grateful smile, binning it as soon as I returned to the office. Aside from regular indigestion, I have a cast-iron stomach and rarely suffer food poisoning, but why take the chance. I did attempt to look progressively more cramped and ill with each drop off to the bunker, hoping this might be the end of my comeuppance.

Again, I had forgotten the stress of office politics.

Stay well,
Nate

Therapy

2010-08-28T14:32:00.003+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Yes, I have been to see my therapist in an effort to keep body and mind ticking along happily. No, this was not a knee-jerk reaction to my abysmal birthday night, but rather an appointment made a while back as a preventative measure in case of birthday blues. Also, as many long-time readers will know, I have been obsessing quite a lot about being called narcissistic and wanted to get an unbiased, objective and professional opinion on the matter.

After a few basic catch-up questions, I explained my anxiety at being called narcissistic, outlining the stress this revelation had brought. I set up a rather strategic, textbook debating stance of the opinion that I was simply a) introspective b) highly artistic, and c) curious about human nature, especially my own.

My therapist sat rather blankly and objectively and then asked why I felt the issue important. I replied that it undermined my carefully constructed and quite fragile self image. She wondered why I took the opinion of one anonymous commentator on board with such fervour. I relied that my readers were the first step toward literary greatness and I wanted them all to like me.

This comment may have been several leaps of logic too many, as she sat quietly for a minute and then made some file notes. She told me my obsession with the idea of narcissism was something I should explore more deeply. I asked her to give me a yes or no answer so that I could move on, as I'm not especially good at ambiguity and didn't have a lot of time to devote to therapy due to my new job, this blog and various writing projects, including the new Titanic book. I asked her to weigh the facts and confirm or deny I was a narcissist.

She said she wasn't qualified to give a definitive answer. When my gaze moved to her framed education certificates hanging prominently on the wall, she rephrased, saying labels often acted as self-fulfilling prophesies and that mental health was about identifying issues and formulating strategies for coping and resolution. Blah, blah, blah psychobabble. I commented that the profession had come a long way since practitioners drilled holes in patients' heads to let the evil spirits out, and she expressed the opinion that this wasn't helpful.

Following a short silence, I spoke about my roof and segued into my bleeding bottom, opening up about my profound job stress, my apparent lack of speed despite training, June and the fact that a warehouse full of Ukrainians hated me. My therapist said doubt was natural in a new work environment. She confirmed that stress could cause my physical problems, as hemorrhoids flair up due to increases in certain hormones, but that my hypothesis about eating too many peanuts could also be valid. She again said she wasn't qualified to give a definite diagnosis and suggested I see a physician. I told her that though cursed with mild hypochondria, I didn't like doctors, suppressing the urge to recount my attempts to burn off the verrucas on my foot.

To make a long story short, I booked another appointment, as I left feeling less certain about my state of mind than when I arrived. I can live with being an eccentric, but now wonder if I'm not quite as normal as I hoped. Granted, highly artistic people often carry a more complex burden of personality.

Stay well,
Nate

Let's hope the year gets better

2010-08-26T14:21:00.002+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Firstly, thank you for your kind wishes on my birthday and for inquiries as to the day's success. Frankly, it was a mild disaster. I saw mild because all of my limbs are intact and my home - though still roofless - was not swept away in a flood or tornado. This is the sort of sunny optimism I've vowed to exude in my 48th year, so get used to it...

The morning went well enough, with a lovely breakfast with my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson, who despite being ancient, is still sharp as a tack. Yes, she remembered my traditional birthday menu of bacon sandwich, sans crusts and well buttered, and acted as my own personal char-wallah. Mind you, Mrs D's body is clearly in decline, a sad fact that came to me as I waited for bloody ages for her to shuffle to the door, her small slippered feet scraping audibly along the linoleum. It did make me feel better about only being 48.

Anyway, I returned to my humble abode and lingered about for a short while, fishing for birthday wishes on Twitter and updating the blog. I then went to the pub, accepted a wealth of borderline offensive ribbing about my age and diminishing erectile capacity and with great effort coerced the barman into shouting me a drink, informing him that it has long been the custom of the house. He's new. An Australian, would you believe? Yes, in London. I know, outrageous... I then made my way to the corner and alternated between crosswords and making notes for my new novel.

Yes, another one. But unlike the rest, this story is captivating, commercial and a sure-fire bestseller: Imagine the Titanic didn't really hit an iceberg, but was instead sunk via an act of German terrorism! Not only is this concept plausible, but movie producers are guaranteed to beat their mothers with large mallets to acquire the rights!

Yes, this was shaping up to be a wonderful birthday, much better than my 47th, when I refused to get out of bed except to reconnoiter nourishment and cider and relieve my sensitive bladder as I watched two full seasons of Peep Show and wept pitifully. Have I mentioned my dislike of birthdays previously?

Feeling quite good, I suppose I may have over-indulged. And then I became quite maudlin, realising that though not nearly as pathetic as a year earlier, my plan for the evening was to consume a gluttonous meal of lobster and trimmings by myself.

Which is why I traversed to Madeline's flat.

It was 7pm and she was home, having supper with a couple of associates.

I believe my debonair offer to treat the lady to a wonderful meal may have descended into pleading, followed by the request that I leave. Upon being told that the day was the anniversary of my birth, Madeline disappeared, returning moments later with a bottle of Hardy's Stamp Shiraz. I had been under the impression that she was cellaring the vintage, but she assured me it was now perfectly aged and hoped that I would enjoy it. She offered best wishes for the coming year, then closed the door again, leaving me with a weariness that saturated to the marrow of my bones.

I know, I am a fool.

Basically, I spent the rest of the evening coiffing vino and staring at a g**damn kangaroo while consuming a belt-busting slew of prawn toasts, Kung Po prawns, fried noodles and an admittedly disappointing salt and chilli lobster for £22.50. The closest I got to love was something called Three Way in Black Bean Sauce, which was a clever name for limp vegetables in salty brine. Still, it's good to have some vegetation to push everything through the next morning. Again, sunny optimism.

OK, time to draw the bath. I've been dehydrated and in pain all day. If a good long soak doesn't help, I may have to skive work.

Stay well,
Nate

Happy birthday to me

2010-08-25T13:53:00.002+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Yes, tis the day to update my profile and change that youthful 47 to a mature and measured 48. Now normally I wouldn't bother with too much hullabaloo to mark the passing of another year, but 48 happens to be a milestone in my family - or more aptly, a millstone.

You see my father, grandfather and two great uncles all passed away in their 48th year. Remarkable in a morbid way, I know. One was from the war, two were natural causes (exploding hearts) and one was ... well, pinning this down is complicated. Utter stupidity and alcohol are both natural, but directing a speeding vehicle into a tree is not. Yes, I see your point, we'll pronounce the final death accidental.

Regardless, the psychological weight of the impending 12 months is upon my sloping shoulders, so I shall be partying like it is 1999 tonight. If you're a lobster, I suggest you hide under a very large rock. After all, this may be the last birthday of my life. As my grandfather used to say, we all live with angels on our shoulders, so make mine a double.

On a final note, thank you to my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson for serving a delectable breakfast. Knowing me well, she cut the crusts off my bacon and butter sandwich and kept the tea flowing well into the scones. I'm not sure about the jumper, but a gift is a gift!

Stay well,
Nate

Aanesh

2010-08-23T14:04:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, it's nice to have a few days off. Though my training period has reached its end date, there is a good chance that my young friend Aanesh will continue to work with me for a while longer. Though I am efficient and accurate, apparently I'm a touch slow.

It's not such a bad thing, however, as I'm enjoying the young lad's company. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say we're getting on like a house on fire. As this is a rare event in my life, I won't say so for certain. But he has kindly offered to bring in his mother's special curry, which even with my flaming, intensely agonising and debilitating indigestion, I am eager to sample. He says it is a generations-old family recipe and is guaranteed to be 'highly satisfactory'. I offered to bring in my mother's most beloved recipe, then felt obliged to tell him that granted, the recipe was originally concocted by Gordons Distillery of Clerkenwell.

I've asked Aanesh about the June situation, as her dark cloud of gloom hovers above our office until she departs each evening. He has refused to bite, however, showing the non-judgmental Eastern Hindu placidity of his upbringing, deflecting each of my probing sarcastic barbs with an enigmatic smirk or a shrug or the phrase 'none are perfect, this is the beauty'. I find this quite refreshing in our X-Factor world of superficial and quick judgment, though over the longterm it could become annoying. I am a big believer in cynicism. Everything can't be shrugged off after all or society would end up with no standards.

Beyond this, I am enjoying being a touchstone of knowledge, as the lad asks all sorts of questions about my life and London in the 1970s and 80s. With great honesty I tell him life was just as horrendous as today, but in different ways. Instead of global warming, we had nuclear Armageddon and The Good Life. He made an inquiry about the swinging 60s but I curtly informed him the only swinging I participated in occurred between intense games of conkers. Really, how old does the boy think I am?

There's a certain satisfaction in the realisation that if you stay around long enough in this life you become moderately interesting by proxy.

Housekeeping: my bottom seems to have ceased its bloodletting, though the post-ablution Masque of Red Death is still very much on my mind, especially after reading that night workers face increased rates of heart disease and cancer. Still, I do get meal money, which I'm saving up for my grand birthday extravaganza of gluttony. You don't turn 48 every day.

Sorry if this post is not up to my usual impeccable standard. I am very tired most of the time these days. I'm sure my hormones will ramp up and my circadian rhythms will adjust to my ever-changing sleeping patterns.

Stay well,
Nate

True Blood

2010-08-20T10:05:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, a job certainly gets in the way of blogging. There’s been so much happening that I’m not sure where to start.

No, I haven’t been working on my book proposal for Penguin. Yes, it is my stated dream to have my novel Low Down Bigtop published so that I can hold my success over all of those who doubted and/or mocked me (practically everyone). But I’ve been working and have also started watching True Blood, an American television series about highly sexualised vampires in the Deep South. It’s really quite riveting, and perfect for the sluggish, not-very-sentient night-worker haze in which I am ensconced.

In the series, a new beverage has been invented – a synthetic blood – so the vampires are now free to come out of hiding and co-exist with the living. Apparently vampires are extremely good at intercourse. Humans who engage with them are derogatorily called ‘fang-bangers’. It's all very fascinating.

I can’t help but think what mother, father and my aunties would have made of the premise. Yes, this is why we fought the wars, for freedom, full frontal nudity and high-speed bonking with the living dead.**

**the vampires are extremely fast with their thrusting

Speaking of relationships, I spent close to an hour watching two ducks in the park yesterday. One would sit and rest while the other waddled around, keeping an eye out. And then they would switch. It was the most beautiful sight. I could only think how lucky there were to have found one another.

The new job is going along swimmingly. Though I am slow and quite deliberate in my organisation of delivery print-outs, Aanesh assures me that I am doing an excellent job and am much better than the bint they had in previously.*

*his words

On the home front, I still have no roof and the corner of the tarpaulin has loosened even more. This situation continues to veer toward disaster. I’m saving my emails for the police report/legal proceedings and for the first time have begun to consider insurance for my possessions.

And finally, I have become rather concerned with a health issue, namely my bleeding rectum. For the past three days I have bled out like a small, beheaded chicken from my bottom when having a movement. I don’t feel particularly stressed, but suppose the adrenalin rush of an important new job and not having a roof could be having an effect. My other hypothesis is peanuts.

I’m not typically a nut eater, but on two occasions I have partaken in coated peanuts (I bought a rather large bag for a reasonable price). As mastication doesn't fully grind these salty legumes into a paste, and the stomach does not digest them well, I’m thinking nut shards may have lacerated my colon. As I dislike physicians, I’m going to give the problem a few days and hope it disappears.

I find avoidance and repression the best course of action in life.

There’s more, dear readers, but I must get cracking on my book proposal. Or perhaps endulge in one just more episode of True Blood. That Sookie Stackhouse certainly is a charming young creature. I don't know what she sees in Bill Compton.

Stay well,
Nate

Office politics

2010-08-18T05:07:00.001+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Goodness, is that the time? Deathly still in the land of Fitzgerald, with even the pixies curled up in the dusty stacks, tucked in safely between To the Lighthouse and Home Repairs, 1987.

Bit of tension in the workplace today. When I arrived (slightly early to show my dead keen nature), June was lingering near the front door of our office, which is kitty-corner to the entrance we use into the warehouse. She was smoking in that pensive way that nicotine addicts do, looking severe and in no way refreshed by her indulgence of choice.

As I had to walk past her to get to the office, I slowed and mumbled a greeting, which she seemed to interpret as a request for a cigarette, as she offered her packet in my direction. Though I am fond of cigars, I’ve never been one to enjoy their minor cousin the cigarette, as the first is rich, bold and refined and fills the senses with exotic wonder, whereas the latter is what unhappy people stuff into their gobs in endless disgruntled cessation while endulging in 'fast food' and reality TV.*

*not to perpetrate any stereotypes

I was on the spot, and rather than sensibly say, ‘no thank you very much, I’m trying to quit’, I vaguely realised my hand was drifting toward the packet and my lithe fingers were drawing out one of the repugnant cylinders.

I often wonder why people think I’m a cigarette smoker, as the mistake happens on a surprisingly regular basis (not that I know what the typical basis is, I suppose). Does my slightly ramshackle appearance denote a tendency toward bacchanalia? Does the beard lend itself to the rugged and masculine marketing to which cigarette companies have long been associated?

Regardless, I bent forward for a light, mindful of the whiskers and conscious that my head bursting into flames – though memorable – would not enhance my reputation for reliability within the team.

As I tried not to inhale, I found that I couldn’t contrive even a speck of small talk with my bitter supervisor, a realisation which hampered my breathing, leaving me to inch slowly toward panic and nervous asphyxiation. I could feel myself growing flush, each second of silence exacerbating my discomfort and increasing the severity of my dire physical condition. I realised a hospital visit due to smoking-related fainting wouldn't be a reputation winner either.

All I could think was, ‘Typical. Whenever I try to fit into society and be normal, I make a complete and utter hash of it.’ Frankly, my problem is terminal shyness, which coupled with my cerebral nature, is often interpreted as aloofness and haughtiness. I am the worst of all creatures, the misunderstood.

Luckily (or not), the awkward silence proved too much for steely, bitter June and she launched into a xenophobic tirade on the Ukrainians in the warehouse. She urged me not to trust them, which was fine, as I had no firm plans to invite them to my home or lend them my most valued keepsakes. As all I had brought to work was a satchel containing two cheese sandwiches and a bag of cheese and onion crisps, I felt trust would not be a critical issue.

As she rambled, I hoped desperately that she would stub out and go home for the evening. I did not engage in any banter, but simply nodded with a forced smile. Apparently this was seen as affirmation. Seeing that I was smoking very slowly, June decided to treat her blackened lungs to a second cigarette. Could she not feel the weight of the atmosphere pressing down upon our stilted exchange?

Unfortunately, I could not compel myself to smoke faster. Even without inhaling, the vile rancidness of the tobacco was too much, and the nicotine hit soaking through the tender epidermis of my inner mouth was sending me lightheaded.

So what could possibly make the situation worse, you ask?

An asteroid hurtling toward us?

No, four of the Ukrainians came out for a smoke break (ironic, as they smoke while driving the forklifts, in clear violation of workplace regulations and the copious well-posted signs).

What could make this situation worse?

June looked at them, grunted and turned her back to them.

Dear reader, I had thought this sort of behaviour took place only in films, but here I was an accomplice to implied pack-allegiance with a bitter countryman. I was like a young Ralph Macchio in The Outsiders – an excellent adaptation of a seminal novel - caught in a gang culture with no options for wider understanding. Again, this is exactly the sort of thing that happens to me on a far too regular basis.

Yes, I know that I should learn to speak up in social situations. It simply isn't that easy.

I’m sure the Ukrainians hate me. They didn’t run me down during my oh-so-exhausting shift as a I delivered my print-outs to the bunker, but I sensed they were looking in my direction with thinly veiled malice. No doubt they’ll wait until I lag into a sense of ease and security and then strike.

Office politics. I had forgotten.

Oh my, I must to bed...

Stay well,
Nate

The end, my only friend, the end

2010-08-16T13:54:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Well, I've just emailed Madeline to officially end our relationship, citing "irreconcilable differences" in the subject line. We met up yesterday afternoon for a beverage. She wanted to go to a chain coffee shop, but I convinced her to venture into the pub, where she ordered a coffee. I was tempted to steal her handbag myself for being such a flippin' tourist.

And that is what she is and shall always be in my life, a tourist of the heart, who took and took without giving (aside from a few very nice meals and some top-notch wine). Because I am forever caught in the web of being Nate Fitzgerald, I launched into a fascinating synopsis of my latest read, Nothing to Envy by Barbara Demick. It is an absolutely tragic tale of the North Korean people. I made the mistake of saying George Bush might have right about his axis of evil remark.

Given more time, I would have augmented my thought with the caution that his diplomatic skills and attempts at scaremongering the American people showed poor leadership, but Madeline jumped in with a lengthy monologue of praise for the former President. I informed her that it was poor form to talk about politics in the pub, especially at her volume. She asked why we English people were so hung-up on pubs. I replied that along with watercress, Helen Mirren and the Cliffs of Dover, they were God's gift to our people. She said, and I'm quoting directly here, that they were "antiquated".

Let's just say things took a downward turn from that point. Though I did consider inviting her back to my abode for a last gasp, nothing to lose, pride-less attempt at shaggery, I figured the tarp covering half of my roof would be one hurdle too many. I'm told the workmen are set to return mid-week, weather pending. That would be nice, as the upper seam has begun to work loose and I'm afraid I may have to jib the mainsail if the wind comes up.*

*pure sailing gibberish, but it sounds nifty

And so, I am a wandering gypsy of the heart once more, searching the open road of tenderness for a wily nymphomaniac with large breasts and a well-paying job. Ha, ha, ha... See what I did there?

Job update once I get a few more nights under my belt.

Stay well,
Nate

New job and soul destroying lethargy

2010-08-14T07:29:00.000+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Oh my god, I have never been this tired in my life. So exhausted. So very, very not wakeful. By tomorrow I will be in a gutter shooting tea directly into my veins with a dirty needle. I knew worklife was tiring, but I feel as mental as a hereditary peer.

No, the job isn't editing. I am a logistics coordinator, which in short means that I receive emails, sort them, file them, print them out, sort them again according to store and then take them in lots down to the bunker, which is a windowless concrete room with a number of computers and monitors on the far end of a massive warehouse. I have to follow a small lane marked onto the concrete floor in yellow reflective tape so as not to get run down by the dozens of forklifts driven by crazed Ukrainians moving to and fro with boxes of food items. They aren't supposed to be smoking or driving over 5km/hr, but it's like a blue-hazed autobahn in there.

The bunker is filled with men with very short hair who mock one another ceaselessly, utter obscenities to spice up their patter and like football. They have already begun to call me Ponch for reasons I have yet to work out. Is this a character on a reality television show? The place really does break down along cultural lines with women and Indians in the logistics office, Eastern Europeans on the floor of the warehouse and white English men in the bunker.

So yes, my life-long dream to work in transportation has been fullfiled. As a company, we take in gross shipments, half the mad Ukrainians break them up while the other half load new mixed orders onto trucks going out to individual stores. Fascinating, isn't it? I can believe I'm even writing this... Or that you're reading it. I learned the ins and outs from June, who spent upwards of ten minutes orientating me. She didn't even look at my CV and clearly hates her life. I was then passed on to Aadesh, my 22-year-old co-worker and technically my superior, as he is the person I should call with problems, as June leaves at 6pm and refuses to answer her mobile telephone. Like I said: Hates. Her. Life.

I'm only going to be working with Aadesh for a week, and then I'll be left to my own devices from 7pm until 2am, two or three nights per week, responsible for making sure your local shop has whitening toothpaste and breadcrumbs. Pressure you say? The first faint stirrings of an ulcer, I say.

On the plus side, working alone will suit my introverted personality; Aadesh is quite friendly; the wage is surprisingly decent; and part of my renumeration is meal money - yes, six hot quid per shift. My plan is to bring cheese sandwiches and save the meal money for one lovely weekend spread, with seafood. I might save up for a lobster.

Beyond this, Penguin UK are taking unsolicited pitches until October, so I shall be reworking my proposal for Low Down Bigtop and perhaps even Ash Wednesday, even though it is essentially a couple of chapters and a convoluted web of plot notes. I know for a fact that author John Birmingham (First Strike) has read the excerpt on the blog, so I shall be endeavouring to obtain a recommendation, something like: A rip-roaring debut full of fast-paced action and unique characters. Like Archer on speed!

If you'd like to help, please Tweet @JohnBirmingham and ask him for support. You may like to cut and paste the quote above and add my name. Cheers for the assistance.

Stay well,
Nate

I have a job! (in all likelihood)

2010-08-11T09:12:00.003+01:00

Hello dear readers,

Goodness. Somehow it doesn’t quite seem real.

Yes, though I may not have a full roof over my head, I do have a job – at least in theory. I’ve got to meet someone called June later today, but if she approves of my person, I shall be joining the ranks of the gainfully (and no doubt wretchedly) employed. Though I loathe the thought of being beholden to a place of business to earn a crust, I can certainly use the cash. And it all came about by glorious accident.

Yesterday afternoon, completely disgruntled by the Toad of the Abode (my landlord), who informed me that my roof repairs are delayed due to the workmen being on another job, I wound up at the pub for a draught of cider. This turned into several, all wallowed above, followed by a stop at a chain retailer whose name I shall not mention in case they do an Internet search of my person and deem me a PR liability.

Needless to say, I wanted precooked bangers and mash for my supper. By chance, I commented to the apathetic teenage cashier that I found the shop's apostrophe use wanting – namely that a sign for DVDs had been posted as DVD’s, which is clearly absurd, as this is not a possessive situation. The DVDs did not own the shelf. It was comical for its absurdity.

Though this young person was quite neutral on the situation, the night manager was within earshot and asked me to explain my complaint in greater detail. Emboldened by drink, I did. I said the error caused me great pain, being an editor and a proud advocate of the English language, and that they should hire a professional to proofread any signage or print materials done in-house.*

*knowing most comes from a centralised head office

In the light of day, I feel slightly embarrassed by my bold demeanour, as it is completely out of my character to be forthright and/or engage in self-promotion. Yet, proving once again that alcohol is equal to ambition when it comes to accomplishing difficult tasks, the manager asked if I was looking for work.

I said, by chance, yes.

He asked if I was interested in working on a part-time basic, two or three nights, depending on rostering.

I said, that suited me perfectly, as I had a fair bit of web work and novel revision on my plate.

He asked if nights put me off.

I said that I was dead keen on the evenings and was a bit of an insomniac.

Amazingly, he then came straight out and said he had a position to fill at 'the night depot' and that I should see June if interested.

Now at this point, it all seemed a triffle too easy. I asked if there wasn’t some sort of vetting process or competition involved, saying government statistics rate the applicant-to-job ratio as 70-1 and rising, adding that a private employment agency assured me the odds were 500-1 for anything decent.

He said people didn’t like to work nights, because it interfered with socialising and good television. He also figured most of the job vacancies were up north where no one wanted to work anyway, as they were all perpetual layabouts.

Isn’t life odd. One day you're being fobbed off my a recruitment firm you're trying desperately to win over, and the next a man with regional prejudice is offering you gainful employment.

Anyway, I shall soon be giving the trousers a thorough pressing while suppressing the urge to vomit.

The night depot. Sounds vaguely like the newsroom of a major broadsheet, full of die-hard hacks and editors chain-smoking with their heads buried in copy. The tension is palpable.

Just think, the next food flyer in your letter box might have been approved by Nate Fitzgerald!

I shall be informing Madeline via email that I am close to nailing down ‘consulting work’ with a major corporate player and shan’t always be available on a whim. That should shake her up.

Stay well,
Nate