The original idea was to use this blog as a sort of journal of my day to day life. I figured that I’d maybe write an entry every week. The more observant among you may have noticed that this hasn’t exactly happened. With things as they are I haven’t actually been able top muster up enough of my own interest in my life of late, so I’m sure that everybody else would care even less.
I am going to try harder to keep the blog alive though. This time I’m not going to make any promises about updating it every day/week/month. That’s blatantly not going to happen. I will promise to try to write something (situation permitting) every time I feel the urge. I say situation permitting, because I offer start writing an entry in my head whilst I’m unable to get to my laptop. Apparently laptops don’t work too well in the shower and I seldom carry it with me on the tube on the way to a night out.
I’ve also written a few entries that I haven’t had the courage to publish. Generally I tend to first write my blog on word (to help iron out any spelling mistakes and ensure that I actually have a copy of my work in case blogger decides to reject my entry, losing it some where in the internets’ darkest corners. Those are, of course very valid reasons for typing it up on word first. Of course it gives me time to be a coward and back out. I'll try to go over them at some point, finish them off and post them over the next few weeks. Most of the time, these entries are written when I’m feeling particularly depressed. I worry that if I show people how low I get that they won’t want to know me or wont come back for a read. Is depression contagious? I start to think so. I’m stuck living at home, because I had to leave my job. Because of that with no one on a daily basis in whom I can confide. I’ve tried to talk to my Mum about it, but I only get told to shut up because I’m “making [her] depressed.” That’s why I ask, can you catch depression?
Anyway, right now I’m feeling ok.
I stumbled across a blog last night. The author was so prolific that it shamed me into resuscitating my own ailing blog. Actually, perhaps it's been so long that it's really more of a resurrection. I’d been feeling ok, for most of the later part of the week (the part that came after my actual birthday on Wednesday). I guess I’d been looking forward to the actual celebration with my friends on Saturday, which kept me going; maybe I’ll talk about that later. After that I started to flag a bit, though coming across the blog helped to cheer me up a little. It’s nice to have a window on a complete stranger’s life, even if they occasionally draw the curtains. (Is it sad that I’m so proud of that metaphor?)
But to my birthday celebrations. I was really bad at trying to organise things. I couldn’t really decide what I wanted to do. Actually that’s not true. I’d pretty much decided what I wanted to do right away, but for some reason I kept trying to find something else. I wanted to go to The Roxy, a club just off Oxford Street. I’d had a lot of fun there the last couple of times I’d been there, but that was the problem. I felt like I’d been there too often too recently. And I wanted to be original. Honestly, I don’t know why I think that I should try to do something new when I can virtually guarantee that I’ll have a great time by going back to somewhere I know and love. So in the end decided that we should meet at The Royal George, which is a great little pub, with a small, but high quality selection of drinks (they serve draught Grolsh, my favourite), great food (as I discovered for the first time that evening, at least I made a little nod in the direction of originality) just off Charring Cross Road.
It’s got a nice atmosphere and is always just crowded enough. You can even get a seat sometimes, just like we did that evening, which was fortunate since it’s pretty hard to hold a plate in one hand, a pint in the other and still somehow manage to eat without looking like some sort of bipedal wild animal. On the annexe to our table were a couple of girls. Oh that’s another thing; all of the clientèle are seldom unattractive, so you’ll always be able to keep you eyes happy.
We’d managed, after about an hour, to get a table at the back of the pub. It was a low table, in the shape of an L. Two comfortable leather sofas provided more than adequate seating. We took up most of the L whilst two girls sat right at the end point. One had dark, almost black, hair that covered much of her face from my perspective. The other was a tall, slim girl, with light brownish hair. She was pretty much bang on my type from a physical perspective (there were a few aspects that I didn’t like, but a few minor imperfections in a girl’s physical appearance seem to be a key aspect of my type. I kept catching her glancing over at me, though maybe she was just looking at me in disgust. Was I staring too much? I thought that I was just making the occasional glance, but I have less control over where I look and how long I take looking after a few drinks. And by that point I’d had more than a few drinks, courtesy of all my friends (thanks by the way). I was feeling pretty drunk by the time I was offered a “car bomb”, half a pint of Guinness mixed with something else, something creamy and sweet in a shot glass. It was nice, but I’m surprised that I wasn’t sick as I left the pub. Of course long before I left, the two girls at the end of the table moved. Was I staring? Was I freaking her out so much that she no longer felt comfortable staying? Maybe it was nothing to do with me at all? Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Still, the upshot is that I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. Bah, I thought, there’d be plenty of girls at the Roxy.
It was a great evening and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. One of my friends even remarked that I should have my birthday more often (and this coming from someone who’d only just celebrated his birthday the week before). It was fun to dance the night away; not the entire night, we left at 1.30am, I suppose I must be getting old. And on the subject of getting old, it really felt like all the girls out that night were just a little too young. Perhaps that’s the reason why I just felt like I couldn’t be bothered to pull. No, that’s not quite right. If I couldn’t be bothered it means that I wanted to but didn’t want to make the effort. I simply didn’t want to. I guess that I’d decided to have a good time, that was my mission above all else and making an unsuccessful attempt to pull would undoubtedly mar that. Actually last time I went to the Roxy, I did make a vague attempt, which was spurned. I felt quite bad about it afterwards, like I shouldn’t have made an advance that proved to be unwelcome. Perhaps that’s what put me off trying to pull. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter since I had a great time regardless.
Besides, I tend to prefer to meet girls in quieter, less dandy environments. I guess it’s no coincidence that I’ve tended to meet girls that I’ve subsequently gone out with in such circumstances. When I put it like that it tends to make me seem less shallow; it clearly takes more than simply good looks for a girl to be attractive to me. Or perhaps my limited natural charm is enough to distract the ladies from my relatively grotesque visage? Well, limited charm coupled with plying the poor unsuspecting lady with alcohol.
I made finally made it back at 3.30 after a trip on the Night Bus, followed by a 30minute(ish) walk back from Harrow-on-the-Hill Bus Station. It’s the fact that it takes quite so long to get back home when I stay out late that puts me off doing all that regularly. I did, however, discover that I’ve been making the journey unnecessarily long. Most nights when I have to take the bus I tend not to notice the route that the night bus takes to get back due to tiredness/drunkenness or just possibly just my black of observational prowess. As a result, whenever I’ve gone to the Roxy I’ve walked all the way to Trafalgar square to get the bus. Once I’m there it takes me a good 10 minutes or so to actually find the right bus stop. What I discovered the other night is that I could catch a bus from a bus stop just about 10 minutes walk from where I started. This effectively means that I’ve been taking a completely unnecessary 30minute walk that, coupled with the first part f the bus journey, effectively takes me around in a big circle. Doh. However, now that I know where I’m going wrong I should be able to knock a fair bit off my trip next time.
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