Days are getting more mundane, I feel. You start a day with all the optimism that things will be enjoyable and happy. However, it doesn't seem what you do and however hard you do it, fate seems to just bite you in the arse. Even Marie didn't really seem to want to pay me any attention. She's been pouring over some McEwan novel for the last seven hours, and refusing to even say a sentence that wasn't under four words long. Everyone seems to be busy, of course, so I've been left to my own devices and what boring ones they are. I can't amuse myself; I just can't; I need people or I just crumble and end up eating everything in bursts of twenty seconds every hour or so. I made myself a sandwich at noon, and within the hour I was eating some kind of cheesecake (I forget which). Surely, that's just wrong. And then I'll complain about my weight. I have no right to complain really, I'm just instilling the problem for myself.
Or maybe it's not my fault. Maybe it's everyone else for just leaving me out of their damn plans. Well, whatever it was, I did eat an entire tub of mint ice cream for dinner this evening whilst watching Manstrokewoman on my own because Marie refused to put her book down, and I don't know how to cook anything higher than pasta.
And I wasn't in the mood for pasta.
Minor Inconveniences.
What is it about bus drivers that their job infuriates them so much? Yes, I am a thirty-four year old man, but this week I was forced to use public transport, as my car decided to give up on life this morning, in the middle of traffic. It was working fine until I got a round about near central London, where it just stopped; literally, It stopped, right in the line of fire of haggard, rush hour drivers, that really didn’t want to have to deal with any complications at eight twelve in the morning. It really isn’t the time of day anyone in such a need of rushing should have to deal with anything more then getting out of the house and getting to work. I mean, crossings are bad enough, but a car breaking down on a roundabout is just mental. It’s the worst place, in fact; not only are you hindering traffic, you’re right where everyone else literally needs to cross over. And, in central London! Where better? As soon as the car started stalling, I could feel myself thinking ‘Shit, not here! Anywhere but here!’ and when it stopped, god, I felt a bit like that woman in Halloween H20, in the Kitchen who tripped over and realised it was too late to escape Michael Myers’ fatal stabbings in the head. A bit like that, it was. But, for me, it wasn’t a real knife, more metaphorical stabbings with looks of hatred and about seventy (possibly more) horns telling me, metaphorically, that I was a cunt. So, of course, I called the RAC to get me out of the mess that my car had dragged me, screaming ‘NO! JESUS CHRIST! THEIR EYES!’ into. But, of course, it’s central London, and the traffic is ravenous (as I was finding out, sitting there with a fair few people wanting me dead) so the bloke said that it would be at least half an hour. So, what could I do? There was enough room for people to get past my car, but only just, which meant that there wasn’t room for more than one lane of traffic to move at a time. It was a nightmare. I just sat in my car, wishing I wasn’t and were somewhere else, not inconveniencing London. I rang up my office and told them that I would be late, and why. Penny from reception shared my grief.
“Fucking hell, Peter. Have they not rammed your car out of the way and off the road yet?”
“No, and I’m quite surprised they haven’t yet. I’ve had about the entirety of Central London’s motor population call me a wanker, though. So, it’s not all bad”
“You must feel like the lucky one, and I’m the one in the boring office, when I could be told how twatish I was” She said, laughing at me. “I’ll tell Francis”
“Thanks” click.
Well, to cut a long story shorter, the man came, and hooked the car and went off with it and told me that I’d have to get make my own way to “wherever it is you’re going” because he “wasn’t a taxi service”, a fact I’m not so sure about because he did seem to give a fair few opinions that were vaguely offensive and made several references to immigrants as he chatted to me while hooking up my car to his van.
So, yes, the bus was to be my only way of getting to work unless I was to walk ten miles, and to be frank, I’d rather pay for my journey then walk that. Why is it that bus drivers always seem to think that they are the most amazing humans gifted of opinions and decisions in all existence? I got on the bus, and I didn’t know what the hell I was meant to pay, so I asked him, as you would. If you don’t know something, you ask the expert, simple. But it clearly wasn’t simple, and I was obviously meant to know this, because he just looked at me as if I had just told him ‘I only pay in coppers, is that okay?’ He sighed to himself, and to me for being unknown to the price of a fare, many times. Finally, he told me the price. One pound, seventy-two (why the two? Do they really need that extra two pence from me? Which means, because I don’t carry coppers around if I can, that I needed to give him an extra five pence coin, thus him giving me a two and one pence coin for my change, which I know will just sit in my wallet for the next few months, finally giving it to a busker in the street, as I had no use for it) for a single ticket; ridiculous pricing.
I did find it hilarious though to be told by Jenny that Francis (the boss) wasn’t to know about what happened because her and Frank made a point to distract him from his daily round of the office, as he likes to survey his workplace and subsequently scrutinize anyone who’s being ‘tardy’, as he puts it. Honestly, I can understand now why people told us that school was preparing for the real world. The only thing that has changed is that you get paid to be doing this, and it’s less likely that your colleges is going to be sitting on their desk neighbour’s desk at half ten, discussing why Jade Goody needs to be a great dame. Thankfully, that discussion was at lunchtime between Phyllis (the cleaner) and Trish (office, although I’m not sure what she actually does with her time, bar flexing her fingers across her desk for several hours) and was a discussion on pantomime and not being a contender for a royal allegiance.
“Fucking hell, Peter. Have they not rammed your car out of the way and off the road yet?”
“No, and I’m quite surprised they haven’t yet. I’ve had about the entirety of Central London’s motor population call me a wanker, though. So, it’s not all bad”
“You must feel like the lucky one, and I’m the one in the boring office, when I could be told how twatish I was” She said, laughing at me. “I’ll tell Francis”
“Thanks” click.
Well, to cut a long story shorter, the man came, and hooked the car and went off with it and told me that I’d have to get make my own way to “wherever it is you’re going” because he “wasn’t a taxi service”, a fact I’m not so sure about because he did seem to give a fair few opinions that were vaguely offensive and made several references to immigrants as he chatted to me while hooking up my car to his van.
So, yes, the bus was to be my only way of getting to work unless I was to walk ten miles, and to be frank, I’d rather pay for my journey then walk that. Why is it that bus drivers always seem to think that they are the most amazing humans gifted of opinions and decisions in all existence? I got on the bus, and I didn’t know what the hell I was meant to pay, so I asked him, as you would. If you don’t know something, you ask the expert, simple. But it clearly wasn’t simple, and I was obviously meant to know this, because he just looked at me as if I had just told him ‘I only pay in coppers, is that okay?’ He sighed to himself, and to me for being unknown to the price of a fare, many times. Finally, he told me the price. One pound, seventy-two (why the two? Do they really need that extra two pence from me? Which means, because I don’t carry coppers around if I can, that I needed to give him an extra five pence coin, thus him giving me a two and one pence coin for my change, which I know will just sit in my wallet for the next few months, finally giving it to a busker in the street, as I had no use for it) for a single ticket; ridiculous pricing.
I did find it hilarious though to be told by Jenny that Francis (the boss) wasn’t to know about what happened because her and Frank made a point to distract him from his daily round of the office, as he likes to survey his workplace and subsequently scrutinize anyone who’s being ‘tardy’, as he puts it. Honestly, I can understand now why people told us that school was preparing for the real world. The only thing that has changed is that you get paid to be doing this, and it’s less likely that your colleges is going to be sitting on their desk neighbour’s desk at half ten, discussing why Jade Goody needs to be a great dame. Thankfully, that discussion was at lunchtime between Phyllis (the cleaner) and Trish (office, although I’m not sure what she actually does with her time, bar flexing her fingers across her desk for several hours) and was a discussion on pantomime and not being a contender for a royal allegiance.
Putting The Age Into Marriage.
In the days surrounding the pretence of my wedding day, things seem to just be getting even more complicated. I’ve not lost so much hair, ever, and I’m barely thirty. In fact, I often think about that. Is thirty-four too young to be getting married? I do love Marie, that’s for certain, I do. But, do I want to end up being in one of those marriages that are rushed and that never had a chance? The kind where a family is settled for in mere months after marriage, and even that marriage was only previous to a nine-month relationship. I’ve always told myself that I would never let myself get into such a relationship. So, is thirty-four too young for marriage? I wouldn’t know and I don’t know who actually knows these sorts of rules. I would say the person, who invented the term, but he’s probably dead, and I have no reasonable ways of contacting him. I suppose any time after the age of thirty is fine, and morally acceptable. Still, I just don’t want to learn to regret it one day when I am filing for divorce and wondering If I will ever get to see young Grant and Paula, my imaginary children, on a regular basis as the mothers always seem to get the custody for children In a separation. I suppose this kind of nervousness is just natural, and I think that Marie and I are strong enough to withstand the troubled times of marriage.
Marriage is weird anyway. Committing yourself to someone for the rest of your life is just bizarre to me. It’s such a huge decision, that I’ll probably be toying with for years to come. Hopefully, I’ll get used to it and settle. Or maybe this is my conscience telling me to get out while I can. I don’t know, but I think I’m too far in this to say no. I wouldn’t want to hurt Marie, for a start and wasting the effort people are putting in for this wedding would just be spit in the face.
Mother came round today; smelling of that god-awful perfume Bright got her for Christmas. I do think she only wears it now, just for the plain fact that it impressed some bedraggled gentleman in the street the other week. He was so off his face on whiskey, or some other alco-beverage, that I’m surprised he could even mummer anything more than ‘You smell well nice, babe’. After we had walked off, I heard some kind of clattering from behind us. I never looked, but I could only imagine it was him falling into the assortment of waste bins outside the off licence. Mother seemed pleased to see me when I welcomed her in after a prolonged session of rapping on the door, because I was taking a while, trying to find a pair of trousers because lounging in my underwear, on my bed, seemed more appealing then in full clothing. Normally, when the door opens, her face drops when she remembers that I bare no recollection to my brother. Bright has always been the favourite, and I’ve always been the one who decided to take a year out of college at the age of seventeen, tried and failed to get a job for a whole thirteen months and was highly disapproved of. But, for some reason, she beamed at me as if she actually loved me. She was even baring gifts, as if her glow of appreciation wasn’t good enough. She got me a bounty bar. Well, you can’t expect it to always be in good tidings. We had a long discussion about the wedding over coffee and short bread biscuits. Again, a sign of change; she didn’t turn her nose up at the quality of the coffee or my taste in biscuit. She even seemed eager to take one, as well, very strange. maybe she’s pretending to be proud of me because it’s my wedding on the tenth. She mainly talked about how lovely Marie was going to look and that she had seen her dress and it looked ‘like a vision of beauty, and so was she’, which was nice of her to say. I do care about my mother; and I do care about her opinions. Not just of me, but also of everything that surrounds my life. My home, my friends and my fiancé; especially Marie. She can tut, scowl and rant about anything, but heaven forbid her discredit my darling bud. But, the fact that she actually likes Marie, and thinks her ‘delightful’ and ‘a noble, strong woman’ does make me a happy man, and a little less reluctant to admit that she’s my mother. When she left, she actually gave me a hug to be going on with and actually said that she was proud of me. I was so shocked by this that I almost forgot how hugs actually happened, and stood with my arms like a boxed action figure for several seconds.
The rest of the evening I just sat about the house watching the awful ‘Lost’. I know it’s atrocious, but there really wasn’t anything else of interest to be found on the television tonight and I thought I would just watch it and murmur to myself for the duration of how awful it actually was. Plus, I wanted to find out if it ever went anywhere today. It was a lazy day.
Marriage is weird anyway. Committing yourself to someone for the rest of your life is just bizarre to me. It’s such a huge decision, that I’ll probably be toying with for years to come. Hopefully, I’ll get used to it and settle. Or maybe this is my conscience telling me to get out while I can. I don’t know, but I think I’m too far in this to say no. I wouldn’t want to hurt Marie, for a start and wasting the effort people are putting in for this wedding would just be spit in the face.
Mother came round today; smelling of that god-awful perfume Bright got her for Christmas. I do think she only wears it now, just for the plain fact that it impressed some bedraggled gentleman in the street the other week. He was so off his face on whiskey, or some other alco-beverage, that I’m surprised he could even mummer anything more than ‘You smell well nice, babe’. After we had walked off, I heard some kind of clattering from behind us. I never looked, but I could only imagine it was him falling into the assortment of waste bins outside the off licence. Mother seemed pleased to see me when I welcomed her in after a prolonged session of rapping on the door, because I was taking a while, trying to find a pair of trousers because lounging in my underwear, on my bed, seemed more appealing then in full clothing. Normally, when the door opens, her face drops when she remembers that I bare no recollection to my brother. Bright has always been the favourite, and I’ve always been the one who decided to take a year out of college at the age of seventeen, tried and failed to get a job for a whole thirteen months and was highly disapproved of. But, for some reason, she beamed at me as if she actually loved me. She was even baring gifts, as if her glow of appreciation wasn’t good enough. She got me a bounty bar. Well, you can’t expect it to always be in good tidings. We had a long discussion about the wedding over coffee and short bread biscuits. Again, a sign of change; she didn’t turn her nose up at the quality of the coffee or my taste in biscuit. She even seemed eager to take one, as well, very strange. maybe she’s pretending to be proud of me because it’s my wedding on the tenth. She mainly talked about how lovely Marie was going to look and that she had seen her dress and it looked ‘like a vision of beauty, and so was she’, which was nice of her to say. I do care about my mother; and I do care about her opinions. Not just of me, but also of everything that surrounds my life. My home, my friends and my fiancé; especially Marie. She can tut, scowl and rant about anything, but heaven forbid her discredit my darling bud. But, the fact that she actually likes Marie, and thinks her ‘delightful’ and ‘a noble, strong woman’ does make me a happy man, and a little less reluctant to admit that she’s my mother. When she left, she actually gave me a hug to be going on with and actually said that she was proud of me. I was so shocked by this that I almost forgot how hugs actually happened, and stood with my arms like a boxed action figure for several seconds.
The rest of the evening I just sat about the house watching the awful ‘Lost’. I know it’s atrocious, but there really wasn’t anything else of interest to be found on the television tonight and I thought I would just watch it and murmur to myself for the duration of how awful it actually was. Plus, I wanted to find out if it ever went anywhere today. It was a lazy day.
To Write A Diary Entry...
Marie had always mentioned about my disorganization with everything, and how I should write a diary and maybe it’ll help me remember where I keep leaving things, like the television remote, or my mobile phone. I feel I should introduce myself, but as to why, I am unsure. I am the only person that would probably want to read this, and I’m writing it, so I probably wouldn’t need too, either. Maybe it will help me release tension and help me relieve some of those things that my chest is holding so close itself. It must be better then confiding in a person. There’s no judgement, or even a mind trying to prevent itself from judging. It’s just you, and a slice of tree.
I may as well explain what my current situation is, in case someone digs this diary up from the bottom of an overloaded chest, in twenty years time, and wonders who I was and what was I rambling about. Well, I’m a thirty-four year old white male, called Stephen. Everyone calls me Parker, so I would prefer you to refer to me as that. Not that I will ever know, either way. I am an administrative supervisor for accountant firm in central London called Richard & sons. I share a flat with my girlfriend, fiancée, and future wife, Marie. The future wife aspect is really the main reason I am writing in this book. I’ve postponed doing this for a while because I’ve had no real need to. Marie bought it for me, for Christmas, last year, and I never used it. It’s a big; A4 type size and it may as well be put to some practical use, instead of sitting in the back of a cupboard, waiting to be discarded into a bin.
You may be wondering right now, exactly why my marriage to Marie has given me reason to write in here. Well, the reason is that, basically, I’m scared, really scared about commitment. You know, I even have trouble buying things I need from shops, let alone committing myself to someone for the rest of my life. Plus, the reason why I’ve started writing it now, and not before, is because we’re getting married on the tenth of March. Which is little over two weeks away, and I am, for a want of a better word, shitting myself. Luckily, our parents have offered their services and will be in charge of sorting everything out for the wedding, so, neither Marie nor I need to stress about that sort of thing before the day. All we have to do is try on the outfits and look pretty on the day, and we can go home and be happy. But, I can’t help get the feeling that I’m doing something I don’t want to do. Do not get be incorrect, I love Marie; dear god, I do. But, I don’t know if I am ready to commit myself yet. I haven’t even had a threesome yet. Not like that is really important, but there are still things I want to do with my life, and I have yet to do them, and If I am married, then, will that be the end of my life? Will I have to just settle down and just remind myself that I can’t live any more? I know this all seems so pointless, and quite selfish, but sometimes you have to consider yourself in these things. Marriage is a consideration of the hearts of two, and if one doesn’t want both to become one, then what is the point? Surely it is just denial then and I’ll be living a lie for the rest of my life. You see my confusion now? Maybe I’m just being paranoid, and if I’m not too weary that it may engulf me and destroy something I will later regret disposing of.
I guess I should tell you about my day, shouldn’t I? Well, this morning, I was awoken to the sound of some horrid techno/trance shit being forced like pulp through the wall of our bedroom, at ten o’clock in the morning by the neighbour’s son, Frank or Freddie or Frink or something horror movie name like that. Why the fuck does he need to drill that through my walls at that time in the morning? There’s one thing playing it when everyone’s trying to go to sleep, at twelve in the night, but in the morning? You’re not some bizzarly-tuned cockerel; I shouldn’t have to hear that rubbish waking me so early. It’s not even decent music, not that would make a positive difference, but if it were good, at least I wouldn’t get the urge to get out of bed, and give the boy a head injury of some kind, involving a very sharp item, possibly a poker.
I spent most of the day; scouring the Internet in hope of finding some kind of rack to hold the antique replica Victorian musket my father bought me for my birthday (last February). I haven’t a clue why he bought it for me; I’ve never expressed an interest in weaponry of any kind, let alone a quite specific model of firearm. I didn’t even play with toy guns when I was a small child, and yet somehow, I have gained an interest in Chinese armoury, unknown to me. It’s incredible how difficult it is to locate such stands; he couldn’t have bought me a harder present to display.
I may as well explain what my current situation is, in case someone digs this diary up from the bottom of an overloaded chest, in twenty years time, and wonders who I was and what was I rambling about. Well, I’m a thirty-four year old white male, called Stephen. Everyone calls me Parker, so I would prefer you to refer to me as that. Not that I will ever know, either way. I am an administrative supervisor for accountant firm in central London called Richard & sons. I share a flat with my girlfriend, fiancée, and future wife, Marie. The future wife aspect is really the main reason I am writing in this book. I’ve postponed doing this for a while because I’ve had no real need to. Marie bought it for me, for Christmas, last year, and I never used it. It’s a big; A4 type size and it may as well be put to some practical use, instead of sitting in the back of a cupboard, waiting to be discarded into a bin.
You may be wondering right now, exactly why my marriage to Marie has given me reason to write in here. Well, the reason is that, basically, I’m scared, really scared about commitment. You know, I even have trouble buying things I need from shops, let alone committing myself to someone for the rest of my life. Plus, the reason why I’ve started writing it now, and not before, is because we’re getting married on the tenth of March. Which is little over two weeks away, and I am, for a want of a better word, shitting myself. Luckily, our parents have offered their services and will be in charge of sorting everything out for the wedding, so, neither Marie nor I need to stress about that sort of thing before the day. All we have to do is try on the outfits and look pretty on the day, and we can go home and be happy. But, I can’t help get the feeling that I’m doing something I don’t want to do. Do not get be incorrect, I love Marie; dear god, I do. But, I don’t know if I am ready to commit myself yet. I haven’t even had a threesome yet. Not like that is really important, but there are still things I want to do with my life, and I have yet to do them, and If I am married, then, will that be the end of my life? Will I have to just settle down and just remind myself that I can’t live any more? I know this all seems so pointless, and quite selfish, but sometimes you have to consider yourself in these things. Marriage is a consideration of the hearts of two, and if one doesn’t want both to become one, then what is the point? Surely it is just denial then and I’ll be living a lie for the rest of my life. You see my confusion now? Maybe I’m just being paranoid, and if I’m not too weary that it may engulf me and destroy something I will later regret disposing of.
I guess I should tell you about my day, shouldn’t I? Well, this morning, I was awoken to the sound of some horrid techno/trance shit being forced like pulp through the wall of our bedroom, at ten o’clock in the morning by the neighbour’s son, Frank or Freddie or Frink or something horror movie name like that. Why the fuck does he need to drill that through my walls at that time in the morning? There’s one thing playing it when everyone’s trying to go to sleep, at twelve in the night, but in the morning? You’re not some bizzarly-tuned cockerel; I shouldn’t have to hear that rubbish waking me so early. It’s not even decent music, not that would make a positive difference, but if it were good, at least I wouldn’t get the urge to get out of bed, and give the boy a head injury of some kind, involving a very sharp item, possibly a poker.
I spent most of the day; scouring the Internet in hope of finding some kind of rack to hold the antique replica Victorian musket my father bought me for my birthday (last February). I haven’t a clue why he bought it for me; I’ve never expressed an interest in weaponry of any kind, let alone a quite specific model of firearm. I didn’t even play with toy guns when I was a small child, and yet somehow, I have gained an interest in Chinese armoury, unknown to me. It’s incredible how difficult it is to locate such stands; he couldn’t have bought me a harder present to display.
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