Sunday, 23 January 2011

The Plan. A plan. Some plans. I plan, he/she plans, they plan, we plan.

So here's the current schedule:

Feb 6: I take an overpriced train to London, meet up with my brother, have him cook me a roast dinner. Hang out with his flatmates, drink sensible quantities of cheap wine. Reminisce about my days in student halls.

Feb 7: Up at dawn, surrender electronic devices to brother, arrange to meet him later in day. Head over to Grosvenor Square. Stand around whistling to myself, pissing off those around me. Surrender man-bag containing paperwork to be x-rayed, walk through a metal detector, take bag back. Receive deli-style numbered ticket. Wait for number to be called. Surrender paperwork again, give fingerprints and retinal scan, return to waiting area. Read book. Finish book, curse self for not bringing another. Get called up to window. Answer questions about myself, my fiancée, wedding plans, potential working plans, criminal convictions (none), outstanding arrest warrants (none), past immigratorial issues (none), general physical and mental health (fine; questionable, respectively), colour preferences, mother's maiden name, airspeed velocities of both African and European swallows. Trade sartorial tips with US immigration representative. All being well, surrender passport, leave embassy, drink. Just make it in time for last train to Loughborough.

Feb 8: hand in notice at work, nurse hangover. The former will help tremendously with the latter.

Feb 8 - week commencing Feb 22: buy plane tickets, sell unnecessary shit (hey, you wan' books? I sell you books. Good price, good price! I sell you CDs, guitars! Good prices! My eBay), inform student loan company that I am leaving and do not know when I will be able to begin repayments ("do you bite your thumb at me, sir?"), contact work pensions provider and demand contributions back (future security? Bless you, sir, no. Not for me!), end mobile phone contract ("I do bite my thumb sir, but I do not bite my thumb at YOU. Sir."), close down unnecessary bank and credit card accounts ("do you quarrel, sir?"), pack.

Sometime around 25 Feb: Hit the road, hit the air, hit the land. Show off fancy new K-1 visa to US Immigraton officials, assure them that the catering-size boxes of Scampi Fries and other assorted snacks are, indeed, for my own consumption and not for resale, hit the air again, hit the land, disembark, walk into the sunset of a brand new future...

Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Exit, pursued by a bear

I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting. Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale

This doesn't have much to do with anything, other than vaguely touching upon the passing of time, and the fact that when I was one-and-twenty, this sentiment rather appealed. Apart from getting wenches with child. I wasn't doing much of that back then. Or stealing and fighting and wronging the ancientry, unless you mean short-changing the old piss-heads in the pub I worked in.

What little point can be found here is this: When you're busy and times are good you don't want to bother yourself with something as silly as a blog post, and when times are quiet and life is dull, what is there to write about? Memories?

She's just left, and we've said goodbye for the last time. Except, like, because, y'know, um, last time because the next time I see her will be when I move over there, not for the last time because we're not gonna see each other again. Why, it's just not like that, I tell ya.

So I'm back here, she's back there, and I hate to say that things are back to normal. I want to shift the idea of normality from "the situation I'm in most of the time" to "the situation I'm in where things feel best". Who said normality is a matter of quantity and not quality? The dictionary? Oh, screw those guys. They've got clever-people degrees and satisfy themselves with intellectual discourse and rhetoric. That ain't no fun.

So: normality is two to a bed, slowly waking up and not caring about the weather outside. Reading things and not only knowing they're about you and your life, but knowing they're about you and your life now.

"There's a reason they call it the present, man." Shut up.

Normality vs reality. Reality is cold mornings, grumpy train journeys alone, and a teeny lingering scent in my bed. Reality's a bitch, and I aim to get her fixed before she shits puppies all over my nice ideal of life. I'm taking Reality to the vet on February 7th. 7 February, me and that bitch are gonna ride down to the US Embassy, and the government-approved vet is gonna fix up Reality for good. No more misery-pups, just a good, obedient ol' girl who fetches my slippers and a beer, and sleeps at the foot of the bed made and occupied by two.

WOW. That was one horrible metaphor.