I headed home at 3.30pm today as Richmond was hit by heavy snowfall. All the English residents of the office panicked, while our one Canadian scoffed sardonically (a special talent of hers) and announced that it wasn't real snow until you couldn't see the buildings opposite. We all ignored her, and left as she typed away, muttering to herself about the weakness of the old country. No doubt she'll ski in tomorrow with great smugness.
It was strange coming home on the train. After a certain point everything around was white except the sky, which was a threatening yellowish grey. It somehow felt a little like the Fifth Element, down beneath the pollution, only without Bruce Willis in an orange vest (alas). People who would normally be sunk in books or ipods were staring out the windows. Everybody was prophesying journey doom with that pessimistic glee that characterises the English when faced with disruption of routine from unstoppable outside forces. As a nation, I think we might be the closest to the cockroach. I imagine that the cockroach probably greets most forms of disaster with pessimistic glee.
My journey was actually disappointingly ordinary. No trains lost power. The Victoria line continued its seemingly unstoppable two minute march and I arrived home in Finsbury park to confront a disgruntled and mournful boyfriend. He is ill. I could, if I wished, tell you every permutation that his throat "infection" (sore throat and a cold) has taken since it first struck so devastatingly two whole days ago. However, this is my first post and if anybody does happen to come upon it among the hundreds of blogs that surround this one (very reassuring that. Like speaking directly into a howling gale - I could be yelling all kinds of crap), narrating in paralysing detail the sore eyes of yesterday, the aching ears of 3pm this afternoon, the aching neck this morning, the sore middle toe of late last night... would be likely to drive any prospective readers away. He's currently sniffing loudly in the spare room. I'm ignoring him.
I can't work out if I actually want anybody to be reading this. I mean, I haven't made it private and I'm choosing to blog rather than write a diary, so obviously I do want someone to read it. However, I'm also not going to tell anyone I know about it. I think it's the literary equivalent of singing in the loo while drunk. It's probable that people might hear you, but you don't have to take any responsibility for the performance.
What else can I write about? It's nice not having a theme, but does tend to mean that you utterly fail to make a point. The book I'm reading at the minute is called 'Hyperion' and is by Dan Simmons. I've read it before, but had forgotten quite how well written it is. I can only read it in short segments lest I become too jealous of his talent. Every word in the story has a purpose. You'd be surprised (unless you happen to work in publishing or similar) how rare that is. He has recurring themes and everything. The few times I've ever written something of any length, any themes (or indeed logic) are entirely accidental. Unfortunately it appears that to write anything important you need a more structured mind than I seem to possess. Less alcohol, more sleep, I assume.
Alcohol is nice, isn't it? I mean, where would we be without it? I certainly wouldn't be with my current boyfriend. We spent drunken nights and hungover mornings together for a whole year before managing to reach past the awkwardness and hold a sober conversation. Even now, living together, our alcohol cabinet has pride of place. The problem with drinking is that sometimes I become aware of just how lazy it's made me. Not simply 'coming home in the evenings and sleeping' sort of laziness. It is more insidious than that. It's such an easy answer, a shortcut, to so many social difficulties. In some situations it's a necessity. Work parties - where would you be without the tongue coating semi-dry faintly fizzy warm white paraffin in the bottom of that plastic cup? There'd be nothing between you and that twitchy bloke from Accounts who tries so hard but remains so boring. How would you escape a conversation? There's only so many times you can go to the loo.
The problem is that, over time, your social skills atrophy. It's like unused connections in the brain - they decay through lack of practice. A large percentage of British people seem to drink in order to reach that longed for plateau: a place where the minefield of small talk smooths over. No inhibitions on either side equals all parties keeping their limbs. Problem solved. So, although I'm aware I should stop automatically grabbing at the alcohol when awkwardness threatens to strike, I'm even now wanting a glass of wine to stave off the memory of feigning interest and exclaiming too loudly in order to fill an awkward silence.
*goes to get a glass of wine.
*mmmmm...
Well, now I've lost all inclination to continue writing, so I'm going to leave you with this quote from Wanda the Fish (the 'fortune telling' icon which is an option on Linux and gives you random comments when you click on it):
"You are wise, witty, and wonderful, but you spend too much time reading
this sort of trash."
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