Hello my very good friends,
It was pointed out to me recently that my entertaining stories of a young Australian living out his dreams in the Motherland had come to a rather abrupt halt. My apologies to all those scarred by the deafening silence from this end. Nothing was further from my mind than insult or implied stagnation. I’ve just been rocking along in my own little world as I usually do, and without the added stimulus of things like new countries I tend to get a little self-absorbed.
Enough of that! The purpose of this email is to fill you in on my latest wheeling and dealing without having to customise too much for each person. It’s true, these emails started as a time-saving device and grew out of my control. I’ll assume that you’ve all read my email regarding moving house. You can probably understand my need for a bit of a rest and a chance to settle down before I felt a sufficient excess of energy to devote to tasks like this.
The last you heard I had just moved into a new flat in South London. I was working a three month contract in Hammersmith and barely keeping my head above water. Since then the flat has become one of the nicest places I’ll ever live in. While not as big and sentient as Archer Street in Dicko, it’s rooms glow with warmth and the wooden floors are a much needed grounding with nature in a city obsessed with growth, change and fun. My room is on the third floor with a pretentious view of Canary Wharf, the biggest skyscraper in London. It’s as big as the lounge room, so I’ve stashed a couch and stereo up here, making it the ultimate chill-out room.
So that’s the house sorted. The other priority and source of irritation over here is a job. To be honest I’ve been fucking lucky. The number of positions in front-end web development has completely dried up and I think I snagged a permanent job just in time. I’m doubly lucky in that it’s quite a good job. There aren’t any Hitler-type power freaks, I’m not asked to stay till 8 at night yet and the work is enough to keep me going insane from boredom. It’s not much of a life though. It was suggested to me recently that I should take up a position in a light-house, and I must admit that it holds a certain attraction. Living in London is fun, don’t get me wrong, but there must be more to life than this?
As you can probably tell, I think far too much. But when I’m not thinking, I like to get horrendously drunk. Take the other Friday for example. The usual Friday drinks were on the cards at the local pub, the Beehive. The Beehive is a dark and dingy pit of despair but they stay open after closing time so it’s pretty popular. It was a doubly festive Friday drinks as it was Juan’s birthday. The plan for the night was to get very drunk at the Beehive before going to the local strip joint. I should point out here that I was raised under a strict feminist ideology. I’m probably more of a feminist than all those women who say “I’m not a feminist but …”. Suffice it to say that strip clubs aren’t high on my list of a good time. In fact, I find the thought of a bunch of old drunk men leering at a woman being paid to spread her legs distinctly depressing. From the looks of the outside of the Queen Anne you could tell what it was like inside. It was the size of a small house. All the windows had been boarded up, I assume to stop people getting a free perve. In preparation for the night a few of us decided to climb some trees in the park across the street. It wasn’t a well formulated plan, probably brought on by some absinthe consumption and copious amounts of beer. It was a relaxing way to unwind after a week at work and I’d recommend a sit in a tree to anyone.
The night started to dissolve after one of my colleagues broke the branch he was hanging from and tumbled with it about 10 feet to the ground accompanied by peals of laughter from above. He’s a tough Swedish lad though, so no harm was done, apart from to the tree of course. By this stage most people had gone into the strip pub leaving a few dissenting patrons in the park to enjoy the late evening sun and fine lager. The group of us eventually settled into some firm drinking at a neighbouring waterhole, nodding in sympathy at the ashen-faced compatriots as they left the den of inequity.
I was intending just to go home but my team leader Ian asked me to come in. Apparently some guy had seemed a bit dodgy and he wanted to check that everyone in there was OK. Bear in mind that I’d had seven pints and some absinthe at this stage, so I was far beyond caring or understanding. The strip joint was exactly what I’d been expecting. It was about twice the size of your average lounge, with’a ‘stage’ in the centre. Judging by the pattern of the carpet, not to mention the stains, this place had been going strong since the seventies. I’ll spare you the excruciating details. Let’s just say that dodgy strip pubs in Vauxhall don’t get very good talent. With my head reeling and half a stiffy (a bodily reflex, I assure you) I ran from the horrible women paraded before me. Once back in the smoggy summer air I paused for a second before heading back to the other pub for more beer. I think I’ll stick to clubbing in the future.
Dave out.
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