Tuesday, 7 December 2010

aonther snippet from 'work in progress'

'Journal Entry 5th Dember 2001'

“Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed” me ol’ pappy used to say. Just got an e-mail from Celene saying tonight is looking doubtful. Her folks are refusing to give her any money. Goddamn it’s dark and it’s only five to four. I can hardly see the keys to write this. She did end up saying “Fuck it, we’ll go to the flat and rough it” but neither of us has cigarettes. For us that’s pretty much fatal. My carer’s allowance comes in at midnight but that seems days away. Amazingly my zero electricity is still on though all I’m using are my speakers. All I have in the fridge is a tiny bit of cheese I stole from the Spar last night so I unplugged it. Cel’ said she’d get back to me 5.30ish so I just gotta hope she can wangle some concessions from her long suffering parents! Perhaps it’s time to light that spell candle, intention: get to Celene’s, smoke, drink and make love, it’s a big ask but me n’Thoth are kinda close…

Hah! The candle had no wick so I knew I was doomed. The darkness was closing in around me, I had to move. I pulled on my favourite blue plaid shirt, hat wiffa smiley face, scarf and the brown padded jacket Jill bought me. I looked through the out of date all day bus tickets I’ve been collecting and picked up the least grubby looking one. I’d easily make Torry to town but I’d try to get the 19 on Union Street, ma had told me she’d have enough for a packet of baccy and in the unlikely event of Celene making her flat I’d be within walking distance. (I’m writing this in The Spirit Level, 8.30 Monday morning… the barmaid just passed and said… “What’s that yer writin’ yer autobiography? Mind n’tell ‘em yer in this boozer!” (Consider it done darlin’). So, I get to the bus stop across from McDonald’s and wait and wait. As soon as I clock the bus driver I know I’ve got no chance. A big skinheaded bruiser with tiny intense eyes who glares at everyone. I’ve learned never to go on first with a dodgy ticket but also to try and make sure there are plenty folk behind me so the driver feels rushed and distracted. I flashed my ticket and tried to walk by the Perspex drivers cubicle but he pulled me back by curling his index finger at me. I went through the motions of rifling around in my pockets looking for a valid ticket then thought better of it and just walked off the bus before he could confiscate my pass. Ok gotta walk it. It was 5pm and cold as hell. My laptop only fits in a bag with no shoulder strap and I was imagining either getting it ripped outta my hand by a desperate crackhead or goin’ arse up and smashing it on the icy pavement but kept on walking. Halfway up George Street a number 17 appeared, this time the driver looked pleasant enough. I flashed the same ticket and gave him a smile and he nodded absently. The packed bus rumbled through the freezing night, carrying me to the cigarettes and light and the X- Factor results show. Celene texted me as soon as I got in the door at mum’s. tonight was definitely off but I already knew that. Within ten minutes she’d phoned. She was sorry, I told her not to worry. She’d missed me today, I told her I had too. We batted jokes and spoke in our Bo Selecta accents and mum shouted “Hellooooo Celeeeeeene” so she could hear her and Celene shouted back. We’d put our plans on hold till my money came in tomorrow (now today) and meet me at the doctor’s at 10pm, just an hour away. She won’t mind me already having been in the pub, she doesn’t seem to mind anything I do. God, I’m falling in love with her so fast. Walking here through the still dark city, cold grey granite all around me and seagulls and people hurrying to work I imagined she’d told me you loved me last night and felt myself floating upwards into the slate grey sky. “I love you, I love you, I love you”.

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