Hrmmm. I have lost one job and with it the little thing I was giving love to. It's okay, as the fawning affection and lack of independent movement was beginning to do my head in.
Spent a mad Saturday flying around in my car, tanning poet's corner savvy B from the bottle. Would enter suburb and burst into aptly located acquaintance's lounge-settings. So many home for a Saturday. Middle age arrives. Demand we have a drink, then rush out the door soon afterwards. Wished I was wearing a trench coat, but then it is 38 degrees.
Feeling the weight of my heavy vehicle around dockside roads, letting the engine find it's own rhythm. Late-night radio hosts provide me with some conversation. I like the way neither of us is really listening to the other. I stop in dimly lit car parks, with the pretense of searching for wireless Internet hot spots. Really I'm looking for other late night sojourners. I'm looking for grime and insidiousness, for desperation and intrigue.
There is no-one else. I open the laptop and madly research walking meditation and lucid dreaming, all the time reading all and understanding naught. My eyes drift often to the rear-view, fervently hounding the car park's entrance for the arrival of a fellow soul. I need a new low point, the entrance of someone so depraved and shat-upon that I can end my night drunk on a rich dose of catharsis. Disgusted with my reading a rev the engine and move on.
I arrive at a woman's. Her friend, a camp one, is there also. I pick them up before at a train station. While I'm waiting they get chatting to some people, just 20 meters from my door. I can't hear what they're saying. Who are they, chatting up two teenagers at midnight? I scream for them to get in the fucking car. They giggle and run over, hop in.
We go to the house someone has let her stay in. I ignore all conversation and download brit-pop, pausing only to sing the praises of some tawdry act or another. Then we go to bed.