afuckingawfulweekend

2011-01-01T05:16:00.000-08:00

ONE: CHAPTER ONE.

2010-12-31T11:14:00.000-08:00

It’s Thursday. Someone (me) is lying on my bed and looking through the patterned net curtains at the bare branches of the tree that grows on the grass verge outside my flat. It’s just getting dark. everything is blue. I’ve just eaten dinner. (a tin of ravioli and a brandy and coke)

I have several things to do. If I don’t do them, I’ll be in trouble in one way or another. I stop myself from thinking about what they are and stay lying down and looking out of the window. I can feel the brief, gentle euphoria of the brandy and coke wearing off. I don’t have any brandy left. I took a quarter of a bottle from a party on Sunday and now it’s all gone. I think about where I could get some more brandy from and accidentally think about money. I try to stop thinking about everything but it’s too late. My stomach starts sinking again. It’s 89% dark outside. It’s nearly night time.

I’m quitting smoking. This is my twelfth day.

I reach over to the cabinet by my bed to get my notebook. I can’t see it. I move a small pile of unopened post. It’s not underneath those either. I don’t want to get up.

“For fuck’s sake.” I say under my breath.

For my twenty-third birthday my girlfriend bought me a salt and pepper coloured hooded jumper from American Apparel. She broke up with me the same day. The hoodie is draped over the chair in the corner of my room. I go over to it and search the pockets. A fountain pen, my phone, a train ticket from Clapham Junction to somewhere or other and my card receipt , my visa debit card, a tissue and a tangled pair of earphones. No notebook.

“Fucking hell…” I say and pat the pockets on my jeans.

I have a tiny table in my room that my flatmate and I rescued from a skip that I use for a desk. Resting on it is a candle, a bottle of ink, my laptop (I need to get my laptop fixed), a small stack of CDs and two books (The Great Gatsby and The Magic Mountain). None of these things are my notebook.

Aside from my bed, the rail I hang my clothes on, a stack of magazines and other papers , the washing up from dinner, a camera and my ipod speakers there is nothing else in my room.

The hallway is completely dark. My flatmate Emma has gone to the pub she works at to do a shift or to drink, I don’t know. My jacket hangs on the hook by the front door. I search the pockets. My keys are in there and a tissue.

My notebook isn’t in my jacket. I pat the pockets on my jeans again.

My notebook isn’t in the kitchen either. It isn’t in the front room, underneath or inside our only armchair or on the table. It isn’t on top of the TV or inside the DVD player. It’s not in the pile of books Emma keeps by the arm chair. (It must be. I check three more times. It’s not.)

The only room left to check is Emma’s room. I open the door. It smells of ladies' perfume. There are CDs and clothes everywhere. She has left her laptop on. My notebook probably isn’t in here. I shut the door again.

I write a text on my phone:

"Hi, have you seen my notebook?”

I send it to everyone in my phonebook.

“Where the fuck is my notebook?” I say out loud.

My phone goes off. It’s a message from a guy called Stuart that I haven’t seen for years.

‘Who is this?’ it says.

TWO: LOOKING FOR MY NOTEBOOK.

2010-12-30T06:33:00.000-08:00

It’s 9:47. I still haven’t found my notebook. My notebook is a moleskine with a red band across the middle that says G R A N T A. Everything is in that notebook. Emma gave it to me for Christmas. I later found out that she got it free with a subscription to Granta magazine. It’s a really nice notebook (everything is in that notebook, everything). I got her a bag of Satsumas. Emma really likes Satsumas. She eats them slowly, segment by segment. She calls them Unshiu because that’s what her mum calls them. (Emma is half Japanese. She knows about twenty or so Japanese words. Emma isn’t her real first name, it’s Nami. Emma is her middle name.)

I’ve already been outside to look for my notebook. I ended up walking to the end of the road and down the high street, all the way to the tube station. I asked a tall black man in a TFL uniform standing near the barriers if they had a lost property ‘department’. I immediately wished I’d said lost property ‘box’ or ‘cupboard’, it was obvious that a small tube station in North London wouldn’t have a whole department dedicated to lost property. The man raised his eyebrows as if he’d never been asked this before.

“No, not really.” He said. He had a Nigerian accent.

I described my notebook. I asked if I could give him my phone number to ‘put in the office’ in case someone found it. He just nodded once. I got my phone out to look up my own number. As I was doing this a woman with a buggy and two small children tried and failed to enter through the large gate at the end of the barriers. The man went over to help. I waited patiently for him to finish. The woman was having problems with her Oyster Card. She was getting increasingly flustered and annoyed. I stood and watched. It took around two minutes for the woman and her children to be on their way. It felt like longer while I stood there awkwardly.

When the man came back he looked surprised to see me still there. He made a face that said ‘can I help you?'

“Do you have a piece of paper?” I asked.

“Go up to the ticket office, please sir.” He said, pointing at the ticket office.

There was already a man in a suit at the ticket office, talking to the ticket server through the glass window. I joined the queue behind him. The man was asking all sorts of questions about different tickets. The woman suggested twice that he should buy a Travelcard. He wasn’t listening. A very pretty girl with short blonde hair and a dark green pea coat came in and joined the queue behind me. Eventually the man asked for a Travelcard for tomorrow. He paid for it and left the station.

I got to the front of the queue and explained my situation and asked to leave a number. The woman got a pen and asked me for my phone number. I don’t know my phone number off by heart. I raised my phone and selected the phone book and pressed 6 for M. I am listed in my phonebook as ‘Me’.

Mark B

Matt

Max

Mum

My number wasn’t there. I checked twice more. My number was gone. I had deleted myself. I quickly flicked through my whole phonebook. Where the fuck has my number gone? I could feel the pretty girl behind me glaring at my back.

“I don’t have my number…” I said to the woman behind the small glass window. She just blinked at me.

I thought for a moment. I could hear the pretty girl behind me shift her feet. I could hear her thinking.

“I wish this dick would hurry up. Stupid dick.”

My face was hot by now. I had started to sweat.

“Could I text you, maybe?” I said to the woman.

“I’m sorry?”

“If I text you, you’ll have my number. Then you can call if my notebook turns up.” The girl behind me made a loud sighing noise. I instantly wanted to run out of the tube station and into the main road. I told the woman to forget about it and left.

Now I’m at home. I’m slightly sweaty. My phone goes off. It’s a text from a girl called Laura, I last saw her at someone's 'birthday drinks' about two months ago. I open the message.

‘Hey, whos this?’

I turn my phone off.

THREE: TWELVE DAYS IS MY NEW RECORD

2010-12-29T16:52:00.000-08:00

I am dying for a cigarette. I’m fairly sure that my driving licence and library card were tucked into the pouch at the back of my notebook. Whoever has it can read all of my notes, personal thoughts and ideas, look at my drawings and then look up my name and address. Maybe they could call the DVLA and get my phone number and mock me with text messages.

"Hey dickhed, fnd ur notepad ur poetry is shit + ur fuckin gay lolol"

I’m going to have to change my phone number.

It's 12:56. Emma isn't home yet. I'm pissed off about my shit day. Fuck this. There is a packet of Cutter's Choice tobacco on the sideboard in the kitchen. It's not mine. I make myself a cigarette. I put it in my mouth but don't light it yet. I go into my room and get my iPod and speakers and pick up my copy of The Magic Mountain (I bought it for £1 from a market stall, the pages are yellow around the outside, contact with air is burning them slowly.) I go into the front room. I sit in the armchair. I put on some music (Cat Power - Moon Pix). I open my book and smell it. It smells of classrooms. I smell it again. And again. I light my cigarette and take a deep, deep drag on it.

I feel okay. I wish I had some alcohol. I wish I hadn't lost my notebook.

I wonder where Emma is. I wonder if she is with her boyfriend. I sit and read until I fall asleep.

I dream that I am riding a bicycle through France, really quickly, I am pedaling really hard and covering hundreds of miles. I have been booked to give a trombone recital in Paris and I am already late. (I don't know how to play the trombone) I suddenly realize that my bicycle is crying. I stop and get off the bicycle and wheel it over to the a patch of wet grass on the side of the gravel road. I ask my bicycle what's wrong.

"I'm sorry." He says. "I know that you have to get to your trombone recital and I've been doing my best to go really, really fast, but I'm just really tired and everything hurts." He starts sobbing harder. "Please don't scrap me." He says. "I know I'm not very good but I don't want to be scrap."

"I'm not going to scrap you, bike." I say.

"Really?" the bike says.

"Of course" I say. "I don't even know how to play the trombone anyway." The bike gives a little laugh. I give the bike a hug.

"I wont scrap you. I wont scrap you. We were going so fast. You've done really well, bike." I say, starting to cry a little bit myself out of sympathy for the poor bike.

"Thank you." The bike says. He's crying really hard now. I'm getting quite wet. The bike falls over and makes a huge bang.

I wake up. The front door has just slammed shut. I've been crying. Emma is home.

FOUR: I WILL GO TO THE ORANGE SHOP TOMORROW

2010-12-28T19:48:00.000-08:00

It's 3:42 am.

I am in bed. I am nearly asleep.

Emma is asleep in the next room.

My phone goes off. I don't even remember turning it back on.

It's a message from a girl I met at University. We were in a lot of the same classes. She always had problems with the work and would text me and a few others for help regularly. I would often send her lengthy e-mails explaining things to her. She probably thought that I was attracted to her, but I really just felt sorry for her. This was stupid of me, she was and will always be more content that I could ever dream of.

'Hi I hav got a new fone and dnt hve my no's. who is dis??lol'

For fuck's sake.

I think about replying with the words 'fuck off'. I don't. I put my phone under my pillow and try to go back to sleep. I've made a new, small, plastic enemy.

FIVE: TIME IS MY ENEMY

2010-12-27T17:04:00.000-08:00

I have been dead for thirteen and a half billion years.

I have been alive for twenty five years.

I have been asleep for four hours.

My alarm goes off. 7:30. I hit snooze.

Twenty five years and I haven't got around to anything yet.

I can make up for it all today.

Just five more minutes.

SIX: COSTA

2010-12-26T12:08:00.000-08:00

My bedroom is freezing. I reach a hand out from under the warmth of my duvet, open my middle drawer and grab the first jumper that my fingers touch. (it’s my blue mickey mouse one.) I put it on quickly. The jumper itself is freezing too. I fold my arms and sit still until I’ve warmed up a bit. I try not to think. I think about Emma.

“EM!” I shout.

She’s out.

I rub my face with both hands, cover my eyes with my fingers and start pulling at my cheeks. I picture my notebook somewhere. I wish I could find it. I yawn, do a small groan and get out of bed.

I don’t want today. I wish I could get back under the duvet, pull it over my head and stay there. There would be some sort of agreement between me and the rest of the world. They would leave me alone. I would have unticked that little box that consents to everything and they wouldn’t be allowed to talk to me, I could just read my book and occasionally chat to Emma about her day.

It’s 10:06. I have a text message. It’s from my friend Alec.

“Notebook? Nah. Pint in Brixton 2day?”

This could be an okay day.

“sure”

I could get breakfast in Brixton. There is a tiny little Col0mbian café there full of old Colombian men. I can get an omelete, plantain, cornbread and a strong coffee for £3.50. I wouldn’t need to eat again.

I take my iPod speakers into the bathroom.

There is a post-it on the bathroom mirror.

“Hey mate, I’m off for a walk and stuff – thought I’d let you sleep. See you later. Em x”

I put on some music. (Grizzly Bear – Yellow House)

Emma has beautiful handwriting.

I brush my teeth. I lather my face up with soap suds and shave with a blunt razor. I’ll start growing a beard after this. (I will be able to write again soon, I will do it at the library and then I will get my laptop fixed.) I piss. I shit. I shower.

“Each day, spend it with you now
Each day, spend it with you now

All my time, spend it with you now
All my time, spend it with you but

Each day spend it with you now
Each day spend it with you now

All my time, spend it with you now
All my time, spend it with you but”

I sing to my music in the shower. I’m an okay singer.

“Out here, no one can hear me

Out hear no one can hear me…”

I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror Emma moved into the bathroom last week. I’ve never been so skinny. I quite like it.

I put on clothes, I take my keys, my cash card, my copy of The Magic Mountain and I leave the flat. The air is fresh and clean. I smell nice.

I stop at a cash machine. My balance is £-80. Could be worse. I’ll be okay. I take out £20.

I’ll get the tube to Brixton and I’ll have a good day. I start walking.

A car is passing me on my right. The windows are down. I look at it. It’s a black Citroen Saxo. There is a boy of around nineteen leaning out of the passenger side window. His face looks compact and angry.

“CUNT!” he shouts. He spits towards me. The car slows right down. I am scared he is about to get out. Someone appears in the rear passenger side window. He throws something red. It explodes on the floor. I jump back. The car speeds away, just as I am beginning to remember to get angry.

There is an empty red paper coffee cup and a plastic lid on the pavement. The white lettering on it says COSTA. I read it again. COSTA. There is cold coffee on my trainers and the bottom of my jeans. COSTA. I step on the cup. It doesn’t even make a sound.

For fuck’s sake.

SEVEN: I SOMETIMES SEE YOU PASS OUTSIDE MY DOOR

2010-12-19T11:21:00.000-08:00

There is a girl with short, curly brown hair and a patterned woolen jumper sitting across from me on the tube.

She is reading an 1972 edition of We by Yevgeny Zamyatin. A cream-coloured tote bag sits in her lap, the straps spilling over her knees. She wears an ordinary pair of glasses with cheap-looking plastic frames. About 107 seconds ago she looked up and saw me looking at her. She smiled. I forgot to smile back, I pretended to be interested in an advert for whitening toothpaste above her head.

She's listening to her iPod. If I try to say hello to her she'll probably say "What?" and pull her earphones out and look confused. I'll say "Never mind..." and have to get off at the next stop and wait for another train. I keep my eyes half on my book.

Her name is probably something like Sarah.

My eyes are just flitting over the pages of The Magic Mountain, I'm not reading any of it.

I imagine waking up with Sarah in my bed like it's the most natural thing in the world. Sarah. Morning, Sarah. I put my arm around her naked waist. We're going out later, Sarah and I.

Maybe she is going to the same place as me. The train is stopping.

Don't get off, Sarah. Stay on the train. Come to Brixton with me. Have a pint with me and Alec. (Fancy me and not Alec, please.)

She slides a slim little finger between the pages of her book. She looks at me. Right at me. I look at her.

The train stops.

This is... Moorgate. Change here for the Circle, Hammersmith and--

She does a little smile. Moves her eyebrows very gently upwards. She's not getting up. The doors close. I look back at my book.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Sarah rummaging in her bag. Is she about to produce a mobile phone? Pepper spray? She couldn't spray me on the tube. It'd choke everyone in the carriage. They'd have to evacuate the train and part suspend services. There'd be serious delays. She could end up on terrorism charges.

What if she gets her phone out?

"I like a man who reads Thomas Mann on the Northern Line southbound..." she'd say. "Where are you getting off?"

"I.. I'm changing at Stockwell for the Victoria Line to Brixton." I'd say.

She'd hold her phone up.

"Here, take my number. Let's meet up there later." She'd say. "We can eat cornbread and talk about books in that little Colombian cafe."

"My god, Sarah." I'd say. "This is going to be the best weekend ever."

She'd laugh.

Her hand emerges from the bag. She's holding a little black notebook and between her middle and index finger one of those little pencils you can get from IKEA. She starts scribbling something on the pages.

The next station is... London Bridge. Change here for the Jubilee Line and National Rail services.

I don't love you, Sarah. I can't love you, I'm too busy reading.

"No doubt about it, he had meant something by that. Hans Castorp entered his room in .... confusion.
No doubt about it, he had meant something by that. Hans Castorp entered his room in confusion. Did Settembrini know what was going on with him? Presumably he had been spying ... .... ... Presumably he had been spying on him for educational reasons, taking careful note of where his eyes were directed. Hans Castorp was angry at the Italian, and at himself, too taking careful note of where his eyes were directed. Hans Castorp was angry at the Italian, and at himself, too.. "

Sometimes the confidence to say or do something strikes me like lightning.

The train is slowing down.

Never when I want it to, though.

She is throwing her things into the Tote Bag.

The train stops. The doors open. She stands up.

This is... London Bridge. Change here for the Jubilee Line and National Rail services.

She hops out of the doors and walks away.

EIGHT: HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS GOING TO CHEW THROUGH HIS OWN SKULL

2010-12-18T15:38:00.000-08:00

I am in WH Smiths. I want to buy chewing gum, a packet of tobacco and possibly a newspaper. For some reason I pace past the tobacco counter and the newspapers. I walk along a long aisle full of every kind of magazine imaginable. I pass some shelves full of shit books. I pass a shelf with ring binders and printer paper on it. I stop and stare at a massive display of pens. There is a nice fineliner for £1.80.

I pick it up. According to the packet it is ‘dry safe’ and ‘waterproof’. The nib is ‘ultra smooth’. I put it back and turn back towards the tobacco counter. Suddenly I am confronted by a display of notebooks. There are Black and Red books of all kinds and sizes. There are dozens of Moleskines.

I think about owning all of these notebooks. I would have no idea how to separate what I wrote in them. (could one be a diary? One could be for drawings, one for writing ideas, another for poems, another would just have all my neatest handwriting in it.) They would all sit on my table. My thoughts and ideas would be spread on them like the dregs of a jar of Marmite on too much toast. When I moved house I would have to put them all in a bag and carry them with me, they would weigh a ton. A large plain red moleskine costs £12.95.

I don’t want any of these notebooks. I want my notebook. I want the one that Emma gave me. I want the one with all of my thoughts in it. I’m starting to forget what they were already.

My phone goes off.

It’s a message from a guy I used to work in a record shop with called Sanj. Sanj is quite tall and quite obviously good-looking. I haven’t spoken to him in around nine months. The last time we saw each other I was on a night out with Emma, my ex-girlfriend, Alec and three of Alec’s friends. Sanj was DJing in one of the bars we went to. He came over and shouted ‘FUCK! HEY MAN!” and shook my hand too hard. He was being too loud and enthusiastic about everything. He gave me a fistful of his free drink tokens and instructed me to "Get a round in!". He told me that we should definitely "meet up for a drink some time!" despite the fact that was what we were already doing. After that he ignored me. He reserved most of his attention for Emma. She wasn’t interested. She told me.

I delete the text without opening it.

NINE: PLEASE ENTER YOUR PIN

2010-12-18T06:47:00.000-08:00

I am in the queue at WH Smiths.

I am holding my book and a copy of The Guardian. I'm not sure about this. I want the newspaper. The thick layers of crisply folded newsprint will feel good tucked under my arm. Can I afford it?

Later, Alec will probably tell me that the newspaper I was reading when he walked in is "a bourgeois rag". He will be half joking but it will still irritate me. I don't know what to say to things like that.

I will say that I 'disagree' and for a little while afterwards I will be trying to think of something to say back to him that would make him realize that he should be more careful using words like 'bourgeois' when he's not completely sure about their implications (and that I'm a bit fucking broke all the time to be bourgeois don't you think?) while making it still seem like I'm only kidding.

Then he will come back from the toilet and put two pints of Guinness or Spitfire or London Pride on the table and hold his packet of Lucky Strikes up and say "We'll go for a fag after these?" and I'll forget about it.

I'm really hungry.

I get to the front of the queue. The old man behind the till has sagging brown skin and very wispy white hair. He smiles at me.

"Hi." I say.

He takes the newspaper from me.

"I don't want that." I say.

He looks at me blankly.

"Sorry, I changed my mind - I thought it was Saturday, I was after the pullouts, The Guide, The dinosaur poster. I thought there was a free poster. I don't want that. It's the wrong day." I say. I only ever tell stupid lies, never proper ones.

He puts the newspaper to one side without taking his eyes off me. He points to something beside the till, in front of me. I look down at a stack of 100g Cadbury's Dairy Milk bars.

"Chocolate for a pound?" He says.

"No, thank you." I say, picking up a packet of spearmint chewing gum from the display. "Just this and a pouch of Drum."

The man goes to the tobacco and picks up a large pouch of Drum Gold.

"No, no, sorry." I say "The blue one, medium."

He brings over the correct packet of tobacco.

"Five-ninety-seven, please." He says quietly.

I put my hand in all of my trouser pockets. My £20 note is not in there. I am wearing my salt and pepper American Apparel hoodie and a pair of light brown slacks (and my light blue Mickey Mouse jumper). I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. My phone and my cash card and tangled earphones are in there.

Shit.

The man behind the counter is still looking at me.

"Sorry." I say. I go through everything in my pockets. My Oyster card, my cash card, my earphones, my phone, a train ticket, a tissue, tangled earphones. I flick through my book with my thumb, hold it spine upwards and shake it. My £20 note is gone.

I pay on card.

How did I lose my £20 note?

Fucking hell.

TEN: CONSEQUENCE

2010-12-17T17:19:00.000-08:00

I really wish I hadn't lost that £20 note.

I check my pockets for the ninth time. It's not there. I sit on a bench and roll a cigarette.

I am really, really hungry. I think about the omelette, plantain, cornbread and strong black coffee I had planned. I'm still going to get it - I will pay on card. I get up and head towards the café.

I walk along the road, I pass the pub I will probably meet Alec in later. I finish my cigarette and put a piece of chewing gum in my mouth. I'm feeling low.

I think about the kids in the car that threw coffee at me. I imagine tying one of them up and burning him with cigarettes. I would tell him that this was happening because he threw coffee at me and that it's his own fault. I will make him feel consequences. I will tell him that I will stop burning him if he can answer my questions. I will deliberately ask questions that don't make sense. I will ask where my notebook is. He won't know. I will burn a beautiful work of art into his head where his face used to be. A landscape. There is a lonely tree in the foreground, a mountain in the background. I am in the picture, I am watching the sun set. I am completely calm and happy. Emma is just outside of the picture, taking a photograph of the beautiful sunset. Wherever my victim goes, people will see his face and see how happy and calm I am in this beautiful picture, they will wonder how I did it with just cigarettes.

I arrive at the café. I can see through the glass front that it is empty. The chairs are on the tables. The little wooden door with flaky white paint is locked. There is piece of A4 paper stuck to the inside of the big glass window. There are words printed on it in Helvetica, bold. They say:

Dear customers,

Thank you for your loyalty.

We have been forced to close our doors for good. : (

Thank you for being part of our memories.

Love

Juliana and staff x

It is written again underneath in Spanish.

Jesus Christ.

ELEVEN: GUEST ALES

2010-12-16T05:53:00.000-08:00

I am in a chain pub on Brixton road. I have made a bad decision. I don't care, I'm so hungry. There is a faint smell of vomit in here. It's 12:58.

The place is almost empty. There is a group of elderly West-Indian men playing dominoes by the window. Occasionally they break out into shouts and hearty laughter. The barman looks about sixteen. I ordered scrambled egg on toast and a black coffee fifteen minutes ago. I can hear the hum of the glass-washer from behind the bar. Every now and again the barman dumps a load of glass bottles into a recycling bin and makes an enormous crashing sound. It's pissing me off. I wonder if there are actually any other staff in this place.

I can't be bothered to read my book. I'm just staring into space. I want a cigarette but I am worried that if I go outside my food will come and be sent back to the kitchen and I will have to wait another fifteen minutes.

I send a text to Alec.

"What time shall we meet?"

I think back to a couple of months ago, Alec and a group of his 'best mates' got together for a dinner in his favorite Italian restaurant for a celebration because the band he was in had signed a 'publishing deal'. He was in high spirits, he insisted on buying lots of drinks. I ordered an aubergine bake. It was piping hot and smothered with cheese, soaked in tomato sauce and humming with garlic. I could only eat half of it, even though it was delicious.

I hate myself for not eating the last half of that amazing aubergine bake. What a waste. I would eat that aubergine bake with my hands if I had it now.

My phone goes off.

It's a text from Alec.

"Uh, who is this?"

I say "You've got to be fucking kidding me..." out loud.

TWELVE: ON THE HOUSE

2010-12-15T08:54:00.000-08:00

The phone is ringing.

"Hello?"

He is somewhere noisy.

"Where are you?" I demand.

"Oh shit, hey man... Did you just text me?"

I ignore this question.

"When do you want to meet?"

"Yeah yeah, look have you left yet? I'm in Angel. Have you left yet?"

"Why are you in Angel?"

"I'm meeting someone, look don't go to Brixton, come to Angel."

I am breathing in all of the air I can fit into my lungs. I am letting it slowly out of my nose.

"... Hello?" he says. I can hear the heavy shudder of a bus passing in the background.

"Fine." I say

"Call me when you get here, you getting a bus?"

I hang up.

My eggs and coffee still haven't come. I have already paid for them. I go to the bar and ask where my meal is. The barman makes a face that poorly imitates one of vague concern.

"Did I not give you your coffee?" He asks.

I tell him that he didn't, I tell him I've been waiting for about twenty minutes. I tell him I have to be somewhere. I tell him it doesn't normally take twenty minutes to cook some scrambled eggs. As I am speaking I am starting to worry that he will put pubes in my eggs or something.

He makes an 'sssssss' sound with his mouth. I think he is about to say sorry, but he just holds onto the 'ssssssss' sound. He looks away from me and cocks his head towards the ceiling, he looks like he's trying to remember something. The 'ssssss' sound stops. He keeps looking upwards, just past me. I keep looking at him. I wonder if he's going to throw some coffee at me.

He looks back at my face as if suddenly remembering I am there. He says 'Yeah..." and turns around to make my coffee at the machine behind him. I hadn't noticed the machine. He fills a white cup and puts it down in front of me. There is a cracked film on the surface of the dark liquid. He tells me that it's 'on the house' and wanders off.

I take a sip of my lukewarm, stewed coffee, roll a cigarette and leave.

THIRTEEN: HER NAME WAS EMMA

2010-12-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

I am in Sainsburys, standing in front of an open refrigerator filled with pre-made sandwiches, wrapped in plastic and stacked in order of extravagance. At the top of the fridge there is a 'Deli-style club special' for £3.95. There are five different kinds of chicken wrap.

I think about the money I have spent today and wince. I'm starving, my breath smells.

A cheese salad sandwich is £2. I pick one up. There is fresh fruit behind me. There is a short, pretty girl with straight dark hair and brown skin staring at some bananas. She is wearing a purple coat and holding an iPhone. She eventually selects a small, slightly green banana. She says "excuse me" in a small voice as she squeezes past me. She smells of shampoo.

I pick up an apple and look at it. I put it to my ear, I imagine I can hear it rotting from the inside.

I feel really low. I want to go to bed.

I imagine the apple can hear my brain as in folds in on itself, slowly, slowly, slowly.

I kiss the apple gently. I am surprised. I put it back.

The small asian girl is in the queue. She looks at me, I look at her, she looks away.

I pick up the apple again and brush it on my trousers.

This is my lunch. I will eat it on the tube. Breakfast didn't happen.

I used to have a girlfriend. Her name was Emma.

FOURTEEN: _ - _ - _ Part I

2010-12-08T17:58:00.000-08:00

Her first name was Emma. She was pretty and blonde.

She used to play piano and sing. At University, she met a boy called Alec one night in the Student Union bar, he played guitar and sang. They talked about starting a band. Alec introduced her to a boy, he was quiet, not ugly. At the time, Emma could sense something fragile in him.

Hurrying between lectures, she often used to see him sitting on the outside seating of the campus coffee shop, alone, smoking, sometimes holding a curled paperback, although almost always starting into space, looking like he had lost something.

Alec brought him along to social gatherings often. When people were talking she would notice him looking out of the window or at his hands. He always looked worried.

She didn't think she was attracted to him, but she could feel a desire growing inside of her to stroke his hair, kiss his forehead and tell him that things were okay.

Emma lived in halls. She had a friend called Nami who lived on the corridor above her. Nami already knew him, they both studied English Literature. She said that he was 'A bit strange, but nice.'. Nami was a good pianist, she used to spend a lot of time in Emma's room borrowing her keyboard. In return, Nami would often cook Emma Japanese food that her mother had taught her to make, it was always good.

One afternoon, Emma sat down opposite Alec's friend who she sort-of-liked-in-a-weird-way when he was slumped over a book in the Student Union bar.

"Hi, What're you reading?" Emma asked.

"The Magic Mountain." He said.

"What's it about?" She asked.

He put his book down. He started talking to her.

She fancied him a bit for the first time.

FIFTEEN: _ - _ - _ Part II

2010-11-30T17:57:00.000-08:00

During her second and third years of University, Emma rented a run-down flat in South London. She re-painted the mouldy walls, bought an armchair off of ebay. She used to smoke strong weed and play records in her bedroom with her boyfriend. They would lie on her bed together, stoned, stoned, listening to music. She would kiss him on the head. They would listen to Mogwai, Miles Davis, Kings of Convenience. They would watch films on her laptop. They would have sex, she would go on top, keep her bra on, they would play cards, the loser would roll the next joint. They would go to the same cafe, the same vietnamese restaurant, rotate among three pubs. They would sleep together, wake together, kiss with morning breath. She was not happy, she was not sad.

There was still something fragile, something cold inside, something they never mentioned. She could feel it only sometimes, in serious moments, saying hello or goodbye, she felt almost as though he was constantly attempting to conceal that something and was equally sure he could not sense it himself. She could feel herself becoming tangled in pity.

She watched as Nami and her boyfriend slowly became friends. She tried to feel jealous, tried to figure out what it should feel like, hoped the feelings would take root. They didn't. She thought a lot about other men.

SIXTEEN: FUCK YOU

2010-11-19T15:53:00.000-08:00

I have eaten my lunch and wasted all of my oyster top up on a pointless trip to Brixton.

If Alec is in a good enough mood I will definitely call him a 'stupid prick'.

I am walking towards the pub in Angel that Alec and I usually drink in. It's cold, I'm pissed off that I didn't put my jacket on.

As I walk I start to think about the 1984 film Dune.

I imagine a giant worm erupting from underneath the road. It would smash through the front of Mc Donalds, start eating people, chewing them up, spraying lumps of flesh, clumps of hair, shards of bone.

"Yeah..." the worm would think.

"... fuck you."

SEVENTEEN: SALIVA

2010-11-11T16:33:00.000-08:00

The worm is rampaging down Pentonville road, turning over police cars, screaming, picking people up in it's mouth and eating them as they try to run away. Nobody can do anything. It keeps eating people. They crunch in it's mouth. My eyes are glowing blue, I'm filming it with my phone.

I will put this video on Youtube. I will disable comments.

I take out the cigarette I rolled on the tube and light it. My lungs flood with smoke. The worm is gone. I press the button at the pedestrian crossing and then see that there is nothing coming, I step into the road.

I am nearly halfway across the road. My phone goes off. I push my right hand into my pocket to get it. My cigarette drops from my mouth. I bend to pick it up, drop my phone. I can hear something like shoes scuffing along on shingle.

I straighten up to see the front of a blue Vauxhall Astra, the driver is wearing a grey hat, he has a cigarette wedged between his lips, he looks frightened. I think really hard about moving out of the way of the car. I think about diving headfirst onto the pavement, doing a commando roll, I think about jumping over the car, I think about sidestepping it, I think about just moving, moving in any direction at all, I think about it some more. Something I hadn't remembered comes to me.

I am in a dimly lit room.I can only see few inches in front of me. There is complete silence. The air is very stale, I can taste dust. Nobody has been in or out of this room in a long time. I am sitting in a big, old armchair. I stand up and start to feel my way around. I can feel a table, I can see things arranged on it. I knock a glass over, thick liquid spills onto my hand. It smells like saliva. I stumble through a stack of papers, more dust floats up and into my mouth. I can just see a door. I pick my way towards it, feel for the handle. My eyes are starting to get used to the dark. I can faintly hear a brass instrument playing somewhere, possibly upstairs. I can't move the handle, the door offers no movement, it's been sealed. I turn around. There is a child standing near the armchair, holding a candle. It has been watching me. The brass music stops. Someone is running around on the floor above. The child looks like it has been in here for a long time, it looks old. It points at me.

"WHO IS THIS?" The child screams. I can hear someone thudding down some stairs beyond the door.

"WHO IS THIS?" The sound is unbearable. I start to kick the door. BANG. BANG. "WHO IS THIS?".

Someone begins knocking furiously on the door from the other side.

"WHO IS THIS?" I turn around again. I have lost sight of the child. The knocking continues.

BANG.

I roll up onto the bonnet of the Vauxhall Astra, my head hits the windscreen. The car stops. I roll off of the bonnet onto the road. I scuff my hand, my left leg hits the ground hard. I roll, hit my head again, scuff myself more on the road, finally come to rest on my back.

A tiny plane is tracing it's way from left to right across the sky.

EIGHTEEN: OMG

2010-11-05T16:29:00.000-07:00

I am still lying in the road, trying really hard to remember how the dream I had last night ended. (I hope I am not still inside that room.)

Pain is registering in various places. It feels like I have stubbed my toe, but all over. I have stubbed my body. The car stubbed me.

People are talking about what has just happened. I have 'broken the ice' for all of the strangers that just saw me get run over, they are reacting, interacting, coming together as a group. It's like twitter. I imagine the tweets.

"omg, just saw someone get run over near the lexington! possibly not dead, going over to help now."

The driver is kneeling next to me now. His eyes keep going up and down me.

"Are you okay?" He is looking at the right side of my head.

"I was just about to remember how my dream ends then you hit me in your car." I tell him. The moment has passed to call him a 'stupid prick'.

Another person arrives. It's a handsome man in a suit.

"Is he okay?" the handsome man asks. (He is getting ready to take control of the situation.)

I had been going out with Emma for three months when we went to a gig (Loney, Dear). Cans of Red Stripe at Scala were £2, she drank two and a couple of whiskys. We watched the band play. I stood behind her. I put my arms around her. During the climax of a song called 'Carrying a Stone' she turned around, put her arms around my neck, shouted into my ear.

"Do you think we'll fall in love?"

She was drunk. I pretended that I couldn't hear her properly.

The vapour trail from the plane is drifting, it looks like a smudged line of chalk.

"I think he's concussed" the driver says.

"You need to exchange numbers, insurance...." the handsome man in the suit thinks that the driver should be in trouble. He keeps talking.

I sit up. There is a group of about eight people watching me from the pavement. My hands are bleeding. I touch my head. It's bleeding. My trousers are scuffed.

The handsome man says "Hey, woah, woah." I put my hands on his shoulders and start to hoist myself up. He helps me stand.

"Listen mate." the handsome man says "We're going to get you to hospital, okay?"

The driver is just looking at me. He looks scared. He gets out a packet of cigarettes. He offers me one.

"Thanks" I say.

He offers one to the handsome man. He says no.

"Where did you come from? I nearly fucking killed you." the driver says, lighting my cigarette for me.

"Don't worry about it." I say. I take a deep drag on my cigarette.

"You're grazed pretty badly, you've got a cut and lump on your head." the handsome man says, handing me my phone. "We could call an ambulance."

I shake my head. I hate hospitals. If I go to a hospital it will turn out that I have ruptured my spleen or something, I'll suddenly 'crash', I'll die. All I want is alcohol.

"I need a drink." I say. The driver and the handsome man look at each other. The driver smiles. The handsome man smiles and shakes his head. He is very handsome.

"Here." the driver gives me a £20 note. "It's on me." he starts back towards his car. The handsome man follows him saying "Woah, woah, wait wait wait."

I take my new £20 note and wobble towards the pub.

NINETEEN: BLEEDING

2010-11-03T10:33:00.000-07:00

I take three quick puffs on my cigarette and flick it away. I push through the doors to the pub.

The barman has his elbows on the bar, he is reading the paper. He looks over his glasses and does a little double-take with his eyes when he sees me walk in. He watches me approach the bar and doesn't move.

I stand in front of the lager taps. I smile at him. I can taste blood. He walks over.

"Are you okay?" he asks. People seem to care a lot more when you're bleeding.

"I'm bleeding a bit." I say.

"I can see that." he says. "What happened?"

"I got run over, the driver gave me twenty quid." I say, showing the barman my £20 note.

"I really want a pint of Guinness." I tell him.

The barman fills a glass with Guinness just up to the little golden harp. He leaves it to settle on the drip tray. The wall behind the bar has lots of shelves mounted on it, with lots of different kinds of whisky. The barman turns around and selects a bottle from one of the shelves. He pours some whisky into a glass and hands it to me.

"Thanks." I say. I knock the whisky back. It stings my mouth and sends warmth down my throat, into my stomach.

"No problem." he says, handing me a wad of blue paper towels. "Put these on your head."

He finishes pouring my Guinness, charges me £3.20. I take a big gulp. On the way back to my seat I pick up a copy of a free music newspaper.

I slump into an armchair, sip my pint and put it on the table with the wad of paper towels. Judging from the blood on them, my head has almost stopped bleeding now. I look at the front of the paper.

Alec, my ex-girlfriend, another woman and two other men are on the cover.

TWENTY: A POST-MODERN MR BEAN

2010-10-29T18:13:00.000-07:00

I am drinking my second pint of Guinness when I remember that my phone went off. It's a text from Alec.

"meet u in the pub 30mins"

The text was sent about an hour ago. It's been an hour since I was run over. I'm thinking it would be really good to get completely smashed. I should've haggled for £40.

I send a text to Emma.

"had a shit day, got run over, want to come and get completely fucking smashed with me?"

I pull my book out of my pocket. This is the book I had in my pocket when I got run over. It's impressively unscathed.

I practice telling this day to people as a funny story. I pause in places and say 'I swear to god'. People laugh. 'This guy is crazy' they think. 'What a crazy story.'

I would make it so the people listening could relate to my story. They would find me non-threatening. They would develop friendly feelings towards me. They would enjoy listening to me talk. A pretty girl would think about if it would be 'hot' or 'gross' if she slept with me. She wouldn't think it was 'gross' at all.

People would be laughing. I would keep talking. I am Dave Gorman, I am Danny Wallace, I am an ordinary bloke. I am funny. I'm a bit odd, but not really. People like me.

My leg is still hurting.

"They should make a TV show about you." someone would say. "It would be like a post-modern Mr Bean!"

"Fuck you." I would say. "Fuck you. Fuck you."

"You fucking cunt."

Alec arrives at the pub. He walks through the doors and looks around the room for me. He spots me sitting in my chair and gets 3/4 of the way through a smile before he notices that my face it a bit fucked up.

"Jesus wept!" He says walking over to me. "What the fuck- did you get mugged?- what happened to you?"

"I am basically having a fucking awful weekend." I say. "I want to get shitfaced."

TWENTY-ONE: TWAT HAIR

2010-10-28T14:24:00.000-07:00

Alec and I have been drinking for a couple of hours.

We were talking and talking.

We are currently not talking to each other. I think I said something last. I cannot remember.

We are looking at each other.

I feel warm. I need a piss. I can't control my face completely.

I look at Alec.

Alec looks at me.

I look at Alec.

Alec takes a swig of beer.

Alec looks at me.

I take a swig of beer.

I look at Alec.

"Look!" I say to Alec. I grab the music paper with the photograph of him on the front and hold it towards his head.

Alec looks at the paper.

He looks away.

"I know." he says. "Obviously."

Alec moves his face around into a series of unhappy configurations. He looks like a child who has just been told to go to his room.

"They fucking..." He pauses and burps, keeps it in his mouth.

"Theyfucking did my hair like some... fff.. twat." he says and starts going through his pockets.

I look at Alec on the front of the paper again.

Alec does look like a bit of a twat.

"Did... did the uh, did someone tell you to wear that waistcoat?" I ask him.

Alec pulls out a packet of Lucky Strikes.

"Let's go for a fag." he says and downs the rest of his pint.

TWENTY-TWO: _ - _ - _ Part III

2010-10-27T09:08:00.000-07:00

Emma is lying on the sofa with her boyfriend. He is lying on his back between her legs. She is playing with his hair.

They are watching a documentary on DVD. It's called Helvetica. It's about a typeface.

"This is really fucking boring." she says

Her boyfriend doesn't say anything.

He is writing in his notebook.

She stops playing with his hair.

"Who cares this much about a font?" she says

He stops writing.

"Graphic designers. Typographers." he says. He starts writing again.

"Are you even watching this? Because I'm going to turn it off." She says.

He shifts around to look at her.

"I love you." he says. He is now putting weight on his right arm. His right arm rests right in between Emma's legs.

"Ow, ow! You're hurting my cunt." she says and pushes him off.

"For fuck's sake."

TWENTY-THREE: PISSING

2010-10-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

I am standing at a urinal. Pissing.

I hope I can finish before someone walks in and looks at my penis.

TWENTY-FOUR: LILY ALLEN

2010-10-25T14:22:00.000-07:00

When I come back from the toilet there are two women and one man at our table talking to Alec. The man has a thick beard, he is opposite Alec, leaning on the table, pointing at him, saying something. Alec looks like he is really interested in what the man with the beard is saying.

I sit back in my seat next to one of the women. She is maybe slightly younger than me, she has red hair and is wearing a green blouse.

"Are you in Deerhart Catalogue too?"

This is Alec's band. They have a stupid name.

"No." I say.

"Ahh right." she says as if I have just explained something complicated.

"It's weird when mates get famous, isn't it?" she says. "My friend plays drums in toyscamerastoys."

I have no idea who toyscamerastoys are.

"They were on this blog I read the other day." I say.

"Yeah, yeah, they're getting a lot of blog love, yeah." She says. "I nearly ended up playing bass for them, but you know, Uni, I'm at UCL, are you at Uni?" She is leaning too close to me. Her breath smells of Archers and Spearmint.

"No." I say. "I graduated." I really want to go. I look at Alec to see if I can give him a 'I might go now' look. He is talking to the man with the beard and the other woman. They are both listening, the girl is nodding, the man with the beard is chewing the nail on his thumb and saying 'Yeah, exactly."

The girl next to me is talking about her course at UCL.

I think about my notebook getting picked up by a cleaner on a terminated tube train in Edgware.(my hip hurts from where I banged it earlier) Maybe I need to go to Edgware and ask about my notebook. Would a cleaner hand in a notebook or would he put it in his bin-bag?

Gutted. The word pops up somewhere between my mouth and my brain and I nearly say it. I am gutted. I have let my alcohol balance tip the wrong way and now I feel gutted.

I think about the room I was trapped in earlier. I try not think about the room I was trapped in earlier. I want to go home and drink cups of tea and look at the Internet until the sun comes up. (I need to get my laptop fixed)

The girl with the red hair looks at Alec and her friends and then looks at me. "Band talk!" she says with a wry smile.

"Probably." I say, trying to make 'band talk' seem like a reference I am familiar with.

"James is in The Lake Horses." the girl says, looking at the man with the thick beard. "They played a gig with Deerhart Catalogue the other week at that pub in New Cross, it was amazing, were you there? They're both so amazing live. I love the girl from Deerhart's voice."

I lie and say that I wasn't there. I wonder what would happen if I told this girl that I lived with Lily Allen or someone. Would she want proof? How many questions would I be able to answer about Lily Allen? If it got out of hand Alec would get pissed off about it and talk about how he 'can't leave me to talk to someone for five fucking minutes, can he?'

I ask the girl if she wants a drink. She says that she wants a double vodka and diet coke. I will pay on card.