Where there's a Willesden there's a way

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Take that you bastard

I hate myself. I'm trying to destroy my body out of self-disgust, and God is right behind me on this one.

At least, that's the only possible explanation I can think of for Friday night. If I wanted to cause myself harm, there's probably no better way to do it. Having had a hard week, and being warned by my doctor to stay in the warm and take things easy, I resolved to just stick to a simple programme of going to work, a relaxing job interview, a leisurely ice-skate and a chilled out collapse way before midnight.

So how did I end up standing in Notting Hill Gate in sub-zero temperatures, around 1.3oam? Freezing fog creeping up my nose, around my ears and into my sinuses. I had an image of my doctor waking up on the other side of the town with an icey shiver in his spine. I blame the government; although you can now get that last pint at 11pm, there is absolutely no guarantee you can get home.

So after cramming into a night bus after a 60 minute wait, keeping myself awake by clinging on tight and starting a conversation with a very drunk man, I got home at 2.30am, had a hot chocolate to warm me up, and flopped into bed, my ears throbbing and hands shaking.

At 3.30am the doorbell went. I ignored it and rolled over, and lulled myself back to sleep by imagining the ring at the doorbell was the tooth fairy. Or a friend, being mugged. Or the police, telling me my friend had been horribly mugged. Or paramedics, responding to a call from my flatmate who was suffering chest pains.

A minute later I was opening the door with bleary eyes to a man in his forties, without a single hair on his head. He was holding a key to a deadlock.
"Sorry mate. I'm just trying to gain access to John Hunter's flat upstairs."
"Who's John Hunter? Who are you?"
"Sorry mate, I must have the wrong house."
I glare at him and shut the door. I'm dreaming of tooth fairies again, for some reason, when the doorbell rings again. Again I ignore it, and this time my flatmate answers the door. I hear some discussion, before the door shuts again.

At 5.30am I'm in the back garden, taking pot shots with a water pistol at the bird that sounds like a psychotic car alarm, which is currently sitting in the tree outside my room.

So I've spent most of Saturday in bed, and on Sunday, my early morning alarm call takes the form of a massive explosion 30 miles away, which sets off a car alarm in the alleyway behind my house.

For someone who's supposed to be resting, I'm not feeling too refreshed at the moment.


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