Met up with Purple on Thursday - all good fun, she's lovely. We both turned up early but were able to spot each other by our mutual looks of excited bewilderment. Grabbed some lunch with e_b and then mooched around Camden in the afternoon looking at pretty shiny things. Somewhat unbelievably, I'd never been to Camden before and now I'm hassling my sister to come down cos I know she'd love all the clubby stuff. General agreement was reached that there should be some sort of blinx with a few of us, so - watch this space.

Then on Friday I did two terribly cruel things (three actually, if you count me forcing  - MPC, please look away - e_b to skive off work, which he was pretty squirmy about.) The first thing was that I made him go shopping. All I bought in the end was a bag of Lush goodies, but I felt I'd achieved my purpose by gently introducing him to H&M and the concept of 'buying things for yourself to make you feel nice'. Hm. It's a slippery slope. Nice hat tho, e_b, suits you. God, hats, we tried on loads and loads of hats. Then we went to a pub (to cushion us for later) and played Blockbusters. Very, very loudly. I'm amazed they didn't take it back off us.

And the next terribly cruel thing - I made him go into The Local. The karaoke guy bailed out (as did The Mushroom Lady and her new fella, but I'm trying not to be cross about it) so it was just me, T and her sis and T(e)BS. We scared all the 15 yr old mums out by putting 'old bloody rubbish' on the jukebox, and generally had a laugh. As I made mention, e_b danced. Which was confusing. I'd expected him to sit down very quietly and make a few jokes here and there. I possibly over beered him. In fact, judging by Saturday morning, I definitely over beered him. The (ex)Boyf turned up, with a bemused looking girlie. He seemed v. happy, he's settling in at work and finally getting sorted I think. And nobody hit anybody (actually, there was a fight after we'd left but we missed it.) Thank god. T's sis and T(e)BS danced on a table at one point. We know how to have a good night. Then I took e_b for a Mr. Cod. Sophis-ti-cay-ted lay-dee.

On Sat got a random anonymous txt as I was waiting to see Infernal Affairs (result: I am in love with Andy Lau more appreciative of Hong Kong cinema than I thought) which turned out to be from an old buddy I was at college with. Let's call her Charles (as this is what I call her.) Anyway, Charles lives up in Norf London, and had just bumped into our old mate Rog (also a girl) on the tube. Last we heard of Rog she was travelling the world, she only moved to London (Brixton, in fact) last week. What are the chances? So it looks like I'm getting back in touch with ppl I was last close to when I was 16/17. Aces. And Charles is getting married! Which is a little daunting, but I am ever so happy for her. Bless.

Sunday, I kaned the 'boon at Mario Kart. Someone's gotta do it.

Charlie is currently "singing" the following in some kind of diabolic never ending loop:

Mother, er, mommaaaa
Just killed a man
Put my gun up to his head
Er...now he's dead

I can only hope that repeatedly ramming a Stabilo Boss into my ear will deafen me for the remainder of the afternoon.

Here's Charlie. As viewed from my chair. He just called the phone on my desk, from his desk, to ask if I could hear him speaking clearly.

What?!

I. am going. to kill him.

“Do you think I drink too much?”fficeffice" />

Tommy looked up from the cash register. “Hm? Do I what?”

“Do you think I drink too much?”

“I’m a bar man, Phil” said Tommy, flapping his towel in the direction of the fruit machine to illustrate. “Why you asking me?”

Who else is there to ask? thought Phil, but he said nothing. He watched Tommy ease his considerable bulk out from behind the bar, and wander about emptying ash trays. It was force of habit, really. Most of them were as empty as the pub. Under the juke box the puppy whimpered and stretched out. Phil yawned. The fruitie was winking at him, enticing. He turned his back on it and hunched over the bar.

“Is it Monica?” asked Tommy, squeezing himself back in again. Tommy had learned in the past eighteen months that mostly with Phil it was Monica.

“Maybe,” muttered Phil, “yes...no. I don’t know. Perhaps. If I hadn’t spent so long sitting up here, talking about her… I could have been at home, you know, talking to her, trying to sort things out.”

Tommy said nothing. As the eyes and ears of the pub he knew very well Monica had never been sat at home lonely. He shifted uncomfortably in the heat. He was aware there was something he should do, suggest maybe Phil looked for a proper job instead of skanking the social, but there were profits to consider. These were lean times. He took Phils glass and poured him another Guiness. Phil stared at it mournfully. He missed Kristiana, the little polish barmaid. She would draw hearts in the foam of his pints. Sometimes flowers. She’d gone now though, disillusioned. Shocked to find English man were just Polish men, beneath it all. Tommy was not really a substitute. He didn’t smell as nice, for one.

They were all leaving him, he thought, taking a welcome gulp. First the builders, their work on the new shopping centre complete. Welsh Steve emigrated, and Derek got posted abroad with work. The Geordie lads fell out with each other and neither had been seen since. Then Kristiana fled, and shortly afterwards Dave was barred for calling Tommy ‘a stinking paddy fuckwit.’ ffice:smarttags" />Nev stopped drinking in there on principle, and took Debbie and their four screaming kids with him. They drank down the street now, in a place that was rumoured to have a pool table. Phil had never ventured in. This was his local. Without Debbie the darts team had fallen apart, which was a shame. There were some nice birds on the darts team. Many a cosy Thursday evening he’d spent watching them getting slowly sinking Bacardi Breezers to steady their hands. Monica would roll her eyes at them, and make fun, but he knew she was jealous really. Excluded. Monica, with her silver jewellery and subtle beauty, would never be a Welly girl.

Now he was thinking of Monica again. He felt unsteady. There was a white pain between his eyes. He’d known, when she stayed out all night, that the game was finally up. He’d lost. But still, he hadn’t been prepared. She’d started crying, and then he was crying and then she was running out into the night, one sleeve of her coat flapping. In too much of a hurry even to dress properly. He’d run down the street after her, bare foot, unheeding, but she managed to flag a taxi and escape. He hurled his shoes after her, as cars swerved around him. Then he’d come up here, to his refuge and played the fruit machine blind til Tommy made a bed up for him upstairs.  He’d spent his entire Jobseekers in one evening. He could hear the fruit machine behind him now, whirring and bleeping, taunting. He looked at Tommy, who was absentmindedly polishing glasses. He asked him again.

“Do I drink too much?”

“Of course not, mate. When you have to drink down The Dog cos we won’t have you. Then you’ll have drunk too much.”

It must have been around eighteen months before Phil found himself in The Dog and Partridge.  There’d been a misunderstanding over karaoke, and Monica, and the internet. A pint glass was thrown. He noticed, without much satisfaction, that there was a pool table. But it didn’t feel like his pub. It was bright and white and noisy, full of teenagers Tommy wouldn’t risk serving and outcasts from The Anchor.  He missed its dingy squalor. Soon he was on the pool team, then on the darts. They changed the fruitie over every two weeks in the Anchor, so he could never get the measure of them, but in here the machine was old and dusty and he soon fell in love with it. Learned it’s tricks. In time he got a job, driving a van and delivering car parts. It wasn’t much, but it kept him in Guinness and whiskey chasers. Time passed, and nothing changed, and suddenly he found himself at his thirtieth birthday party, in a pub he’d never really felt comfortable in, with people he couldn’t really call his friends. It’d been five years, but he still missed The Anchor.

http://www.lrb.co.uk/v22/n23/suth01_.html

“Do you think I drink too much?”fficeffice" />

Tommy looked up from the cash register. “Hm? Do I what?”

“Do you think I drink too much?”

“I’m a bar man, Phil” said Tommy, flapping his towel in the direction of the fruit

machine to illustrate. “Why you asking me?”

Who else is there to ask? thought Phil, but he said nothing. He watched Tommy ease his considerable bulk out from behind the bar, and wander about emptying ash trays. It was force of habit, really. Most of them were as empty as the pub. Under the juke box the puppy whimpered and stretched out. Phil yawned. The fruitie was winking at him, enticing. He turned his back on it and hunched over the bar.

“Is it Monica?” asked Tommy, squeezing himself back in again. Tommy had learned in the past eighteen months that mostly with Phil it was Monica.

“Maybe,” muttered Phil, “yes...no. I don’t know. Perhaps. If I hadn’t spent so long sitting up here, talking about her… I could have been at home, you know, talking to her, trying to sort things out.”

Tommy said nothing. As the eyes and ears of the pub he knew very well Monica had never been sat at home lonely. He shifted uncomfortably, too heavy to be stood all day. He glanced at Phil. Maybe he should suggest he looked for a proper job instead of skanking the social, but there were profits to consider. These were lean times. He took Phil’s glass and poured him another Guiness. Phil stared at it mournfully. He missed Kristiana, the little polish barmaid. She would draw hearts in the foam of his pints. Sometimes flowers. She’d gone now though, disillusioned. Shocked to find English man were just Polish men, beneath it all. Tommy was not really a substitute. He didn’t smell as nice, for one.

They were all leaving him, he thought, taking a welcome mouthful. First the builders, their work on the new shopping centre complete. Welsh Steve emigrated, and Derek got posted abroad with work. The Geordie lads fell out with each other and neither had been seen since. Then Kristiana fled, and shortly afterwards Dave was barred for calling Tommy ‘a stinking paddy fuckwit.’ ffice:smarttags" />Nev stopped drinking in there on principle, and took Debbie and their four screaming kids with him. They drank down the street now, in a place that was rumoured to have a pool table. Phil had never ventured in. This was his local. Without Debbie the darts team had fallen apart, which was a shame. There were some nice birds on the darts team. Many a cosy Thursday evening he’d spent watching them slowly sinking Bacardi Breezers to steady their hands. Monica would roll her eyes at them, and make fun, but he knew she was jealous really. Excluded. Monica, with her silver jewellery and subtle beauty, would never be on the team.

Now he was thinking of Monica again. He felt unsteady. There was a white pain between his eyes. He’d known, when she stayed out all night, that the game was finally up. He’d lost. But still, he hadn’t been prepared. She’d started crying and then he was crying and then she was running out into the night, one sleeve of her coat flapping. In too much of a hurry even to dress properly. He’d run down the street after her, shoes in hand, barefoot, unheeding. She managed to flag a taxi and escape. He hurled his shoes after her, as cars swerved around him. Then he’d come up here and played the fruit machine blind til Tommy made a bed up for him upstairs. He’d spent his entire Jobseekers in one evening. He could hear the fruit machine behind him now, whirring and bleeping, taunting. He looked at Tommy, who was absentmindedly polishing glasses. He asked him again.

“Do I drink too much?”

“Of course not, mate. When you have to drink down The Dog cos we won’t have you. Then you’ll have drunk too much.”

It must have been around eighteen months before Phil found himself in The Dog and Partridge.  There’d been a misunderstanding over karaoke, and Monica, and the internet. A pint glass was thrown. A window was broken. A lip was split. And he was barred from his only refuge. (‘Sure I feel terrible,’ said Tommy, ‘but you’ve got to understand…It’s since Monica left Phil…get yourself sorted out, eh mate?’) He felt uneasy walking into the place. Enemy territory. The only contact he’d had with these regulars was the rough and tumble of a Sunday League morning. He noticed, without much satisfaction, that there was a pool table after all. But it didn’t feel like his pub. It was bright and white and noisy, full of teenagers Tommy wouldn’t risk serving and outcasts from The Anchor.

How quickly things change.

Soon he was on the pool team, then darts. Tommy had always changed the fruitie every two weeks in the Anchor, so Phil rarely got the measure of them, but in The Dog the machine was old and dusty and he soon fell in love with it. Learned it’s little tricks. In time he got a job, driving a van and delivering car parts. Not much, but enough to keep him in Guinness and whiskey chasers. He found himself pulling into the The Dog’s car park every night, and driving an unsteady mile home in the early hours. He got on with Mel behind the bar, and although she never drew him flowers she served him way past twelve, which he felt was a more important quality. And so the years passed, until his days of living with Monica and joking with Tommy were all but forgotten.

Then one day he reversed out of The Dog’s car park and straight over The Anchor’s dog.

It was a disaster. He wouldn’t talk to his sponsor, and had to explain over and over again that he had no understanding of God, full stop, and never would have. He left the first meeting at a half run, stopped off in the pub at the end of the street, and made it back to The Dog just as Mel was calling last orders. She refused to serve him. fficeffice" />

“Don’t cast those doggy eyes on me, Phil. I’ll not serve you. You drink too much.”

Phil’s eyes widened. “Do I?”

She nodded. “I’ll make you a coffee, come on. Come round the back. We’ll get you sorted out.”

Just told somebody else about 20six. I can't stop once I get going can I? Oop.

It's a secret okay? It's a secret!

Yes, admittedly my boyfriend knows about it, and my mates know about it, and my bro and sis sort of know about it (they know e_b) and now some guy sort of from work knows about it.

I'm terrible at keeping secrets.