Yesterday was a bit of a milestone for me – one year since the big life-change.
I feel that I should do something appropriate to mark it – spend the day on Brancaster beach, for instance, or at the very least enjoy a crab sandwich in the garden.
However, with a twist of irony, I have a meeting in London.
But it’s a beautiful day, and nothing can get my mood down. Drawing into Ely from the North is one of the great railway journeys of the world, and even if WAGN doesn’t quite reach the Orient Express in terms of opulence, I’ve already wolfed a top-notch bacon roll, downed a cup of tea and read the sports pages.
The vacant seat opposite is occupied by a girl with beautiful, beautiful breasts.
Now THERE’S “a delicious source of milk goodness”
Shit! I am turning into Alan Clark. I bury my face in the paper.
I have time to kill, so I go to have my hair cut. It’s a nostalgia trip to my old hairdresser’s in EC2. I love it there. It’s cheap, it’s friendly, and the girls dress like cheap whores.
What’s happening to me?!? It must be the weather. The spring sunshine, the almost-end-of-the-weekness. There is a buzz of eroticism crackling in the London air. It’s quite overwhelming for a simple country boy like me. I just don’t feel this on the way to the village shop. Everybody seems to be whispering: ‘go on! It’s the mating season! Looooose your inhibitions! Come to meeee!’
Perhaps there is a fine line between ‘whimsical flights of fancy’ and ‘hearing voices in my head’.
Concerned that I have scared and alienated my female audience, I grab a hurried fifteen minutes in an Internet cafe and bash out a feeble post about a TV programme nobody watched.
So here I am, hungover and tired, after a night on the town with an old friend.
I love visiting London, but it’s time to go home.
My people need me.