I can’t believe that it’s taken me nearly a week to write about my meeting with the saxy sailor. My only excuse is that I’m mentally exhausted right now. I can’t focus on anything for long.

Anyway I met G at Euston Station, and we went into a nearby cafe for a cup of tea. I don’t know what I was expecting, honestly, but he was just like he’d described himself. I hate these blind date kind of meetings, where you’re waiting at the designated meeting place, looking at any guy who could possibly be that person and wondering if it’s going to be the guy with the walking stick who’s limping and looks about 70…

Luckily it wasn’t the septuagenarian who greeted me. I was very nervous at first, almost as skittish as when that male stripper said hello to me after the show… But after a cup of tea I felt a bit more like myself.

From Euston we walked to Camden Town, and walked around the market and the assorted shops in that area. I love going to Camden Town as it’s just such a cool area. G fitted in perfectly there; a little boy even stopped him and told him that his North Face cap was “sick” and asked him where he’d got it from. (He said that he’d picked it up in Norway.)

I didn’t buy anything in Camden - I’d wanted to visit the African drum shop where I’d bought my djembe a few years ago, but it wasn’t there anymore. I’m not sure if it’s been relocated due to the fire that raged in that area several months ago. G bought himself a gangster-style Capello hat after haggling with the shop guy.

After a few hours, I was starving so we stopped at a Chinese buffet restaurant for dinner. He’s a vegetarian, and unfortunately there wasn’t much that he liked from their selection, so I felt a little bit guilty for having 2 plates of food, even if it was lousy food.

After that we walked back to Euston (it was starting to rain a little) and went back to the cafe in the station for a chat before setting off home. It was a nice day, and he was great company.

Overall, I’m still kind of confused about things with G. He’s a lovely guy, and I like him a lot, but I’m not sure whether I could have a relationship with him. The main issue is the age gap - he’s 26 years older than me. It doesn’t seem to bother him at all, and he still thinks that he’s in love with me. In an ideal world it might not matter, but in spite of myself I was thinking about what my family and my friends would say about me being with a guy so much older than me.

G is a guy who does what he wants to do. He’s done a lot and has seen a lot, and he doesn’t have any close ties to anyone who might want to talk him out of what he wants to do. I feel like I’m in the opposite situation, as long as I’m living here I’m not free to do what I want, when I want.

I’ve told G that I think that he’ll teach me a lot about life, but now I’m just wondering where those life lessons may lead me.

One of the best aspects of my job is that it gets me out of the house a few days each week. I get to commute to work by train, and mix with a variety of London folk. Each day is different, and all these little snippets of experience help to define *my* London life. (more…)

Last Saturday morning I was drifting merrily in the land of nod, when I heard my mobile phone ringing in my bag. I turned over in bed then reached over to find that noisy object in order to find out who would be so cruel as to interrupt my Saturday morning lie-in. The display told it was Charlene, my friend Miguel’s friend.
(more…)

We Brits are known for our propensity for queuing. There is a clear etiquette for queuing, which must be adhered to at all times in order to maintain decorum. Without decorum we would have anarchy!

Just think of what the Pub Landlord, Al Murray would say about where we’d be without rules!

So you’ll understand why I wasn’t amused when this guy pushed in front of me in Superdrug. There was no need for it so I called him up on it. “Excuse me,” I said, “I was here before you. It’s a bit cheeky to push in like that.”

He tried to say that he’d moved out of the line to look at something, but as far as I was concerned if you leave the line you forfeit your place (unless you ask someone who is waiting behind you to save your place), and he hadn’t. Then he apologised.

Score: Manners 1; Yobs 0

I wouldn’t tell anyone else to chastise someone as I did today because in the worst case it could lead to a physical alteration (queue rage). It can be a volatile situation. The previous time I did something similar I ended up swearing at the guy and nearly started a brawl in the train station!

When idiots ignore the principles of queuing, the Brit in me seethes inwardly or becomes a passive-aggressive nutter while the Jamaican in me wants to cuss and berate the offender. Which will win next time (for there will be a next time)? Come on people, behave yourselves for my sanity.

Further reading:
Standinaqueue
Why do the British queue so much?
Order, order

And a queue of pics, lining up for your attention:

I’ll tell you why tomorrow.

It hasn’t come completely out of the blue; my mum has mentioned her feelings on my lifestyle in the past few days, but an hour or so ago she decided to have it out with me.

She said that I am acting like my life is over, because I stay in the house a lot and don’t go out much. She said that she is worrying about me, and that I wasn’t like this a year ago. A year ago I used to go to the gym, go to the cinema, etc.

She said that my dad is also worried about me because I spend a lot of time in my room and I eat a lot of junk food and sleep a lot during the day when I’m not at work.

At my age I should be going out all the time…

What they are saying is true, but I feel okay about my life at the moment. I’m not going out a lot, but I am more of an introspective person and I appreciate having time alone to think about things and to read, etc. I’m not particularly unhappy, though I admit that I’m somewhat unfulfilled and directionless. The only thing that sometimes upsets me is my inability to pursue my creative goals, and to slim down.

I do take myself out sometimes, and I do exercise sometimes, so it’s not like I’ve completely “given up on life”.

I think that this is a phase that I’m going through, and in time I will probably want to go out more and be more active. I don’t want my parents to worry about me, but I guess it’s hard for them to understand my moods and needs.

Sometimes I tell my mum that she should be more supportive of me since I’m not causing her a lot of trouble; things could be worse, I say: I could be a drug addict or an alcoholic, etc. Sure it’s not ideal that I eat the odd packet of biscuits from time to time, but I’m not hurting anyone else.

I don’t have much of a social life; some of that is my own fault for being somewhat socially awkward, and some of it is just the way that things have worked out. I don’t have many friends, and the ones I have don’t ask me to meet up with them on a regular basis. I don’t have a group of friends who I meet up with at the weekends or in the evenings (like everyone else seems to have). Some of the friends I have only seem to contact me when they want something from me.

I’m not sure what to do at this stage. If I do anything.

Right now I should probably be at my workplace’s Summer Party, but instead I’m staying in. I live about an hour away from there, and as it’s in London zone 1, I have to spend several quid to get there (which is okay when I’m actually being paid to be there).

That’s not the main reason that I’m not going, of course. I have not named this blog The Urban Recluse for no reason. I’m not going because I don’t want to suffer through tedious small talk with people who just see me as the Admin Monkey (no offence to administrators or monkeys).

I can imagine myself standing around on the outskirts of the gathering, nursing a glass of orange juice, my gaze constantly returning to the clock on the wall. Is it okay to leave after half an hour or an hour? I ask myself.

When the 59th minute finally approaches, I collect my jacket and head towards the exit.
“You’re not leaving now, are you? The fun is just beginning!” says some inebriated partygoer.

I mumble something about feeling unwell or having to meet someone, and slip away.

Why bother going in the first place?

I’m feeling like crap again. I seem to have picked up a bug at work, which has manifested itself as fatigue, blinding headaches and a sore throat since Friday evening.

You’re probably sick of all the memes and quizzes on this blog; I know I am.

I haven’t written much in the last week or so on here, nothing of any consequence anyway.

I have a love/hate relationship with this blog. Tonight I hate it. In the morning maybe things will be different.

Today was a good/average day overall, which does not explain my sudden downward spiralling.

I saw a fat bloke knitting with bright pink wool on the train. He’d just started his “piece” so I couldn’t tell what it was going to become.

At lunchtime a guy stopped me in the street and exclaimed, “If you were my girl, I’d…” He didn’t finish his sentence (thankfully). I walked on.

Later on, a cute guy said hi to me. I was on a mission so I hurried on.

I’ve almost finished this book I’m reading, it’s a nice romance about a photographer and a scientist by Michelle M. Pillow.

My neck aches. Going to go. I hate this blog. Does that mean I hate me? Probably.

Good night.

Last night I met with my former boss, Linda, for a chat. We had been planning to go to the cinema after having a drink in the pub, but as I wasn’t feeling so great and we hadn’t seen each other for ages we decided to forego the cine.

We took a table near the window of the pub. The pub was quite busy, with a large screen showing the Chelsea v. Liverpool match, our conversation was occasionally interrupted by boos and shouts at goals and near-misses.

So we had a catchup chat, talking about both work and personal matters. If I am totally honest, I could admit to feeling a twinge of rage when she discussed the happenings at the old workplace. I guess it’s not all out of my system yet. Outwardly I remained jovial while inside I was seething.

Then as I was telling her something she saw someone at the window, who seemed to be asking her for a cigarette. She nodded to him and he sneaked into the pub and crouched down beside our table, a can of beer in his hand. She offered him a cigarette and lit it for him with her lighter. He thanked her and said that she was lovely. We waited for him to leave. He didn’t.

“My name is Robert. I am French,” he slurred. “What is your name?” Linda told him her name.

“You are lovely. I saw you through the window and thought you were lovely. My name is Robert, I am French, from Brittany. What is your name?”

And so it went on. He was trying to hide from the bartender, who had seen him and had turned a blind eye. He eventually grabbed a stool from the bar and rejoined us. He told us that he’d been forced to join the French Foreign Legion when he was caught stealing, and that he’d served in the army for 5 years. Apparently he’d killed loads of people… He had been living on the streets at some point too, but he was now living in Peckham. He uttered several random things, and the only one I can recall now is that he said, “We are not f***ing cats, we only have one life.” When he left us to go to the loo we scarpered. The jolly bartender shouted goodbye to us as we left.

We went to a Wetherspoons down the road and continued our chat, it was rather more civilised in there and I enjoyed a cup of tea as we chatted. Another woman asked Linda for a fag, but thankfully she didn’t hang about afterwards.

Then a middle-aged Irish woman approached and asked for a fag. I groaned in irritation, can no-one in Peckham buy their own fags! Linda kindly gave her one, we waited for her to depart, but she didn’t. She started singing! She sang a medley of old ballads, interspersed with tidbits about how her sister slept with her baby’s father, but she forgave her…Eventually I got fed up and left to go to the loo. When I returned I’d discovered that she’d taken a seat beside Linda and some random dude was in my chair!

As I was aware that my train home would be coming soon I told Linda that I was ready to depart. As we left the pub she said to me, “I think I’m a soft touch.” I said something non-commital in response.

As I waited for my train at Peckham Rye station I looked up at the dark sky and saw the full moon looking back at me. Quelle surprise!

A crowded train. My hand rests on a nearby pole for support. Our bodies jostle as the train speeds along the track.

He is beside me, leaning against the pole. I glance at him from time to time. He’s tall, maybe about 6ft. Slim. Wearing casual clothes, navy blue tracksuit bottoms speckled with paint. His dark brown hair is spiky, with a violet/blue tinge at the ends.

He watches me change my ipod track with my remote control. His gaze lingers on the device.

As the train slows down I feel his gaze upon me. Our eyes meet. Shy, I look away. Then look back. He is still looking at me. What is he thinking?

Then he looks away again.

The train stops. He disappears into the crowds of commuters. As I alight from the train I look for him, wanting a final sighting, but he has gone.