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.