While filing today, I came across a place called "Manhood Community College".

Also today, I got some pens I can write on CDs with. This makes me unfeasibly pleased. I have been writing on all my unmarked CDs, yojously.

Wednesday 10 July 2002: Goths! In! Braaaaampton!

My parents’ shop is about a mile away from my house. Although there’s usually a car at my disposal when I want to go there, I never use it, except in times of serious rain. The walk takes me twelve minutes, which is how long it takes me to get from Park Wood to the Maths department - a journey I made at university several days a week - so twelve minutes is therefore an absolutely negligible time by Canterbury standards, and I could not justify covering such a distance by vehicle. Besides, I need the exercise.

That said, I don’t exactly like walking through Brampton. It is always full of coach parties of old people; middle aged people who’ve lived here all their lives and therefore all flipping know each other and therefore block up the pavements catching up with each other's minutiae; and school kids.

The last segment of the population’s presence makes no sense at all, because I walk to work at 2.45, which I know is after lunchtime ends, but before the end of the day at the local school. Admittedly, the GCSE and A Level people should have been set free by now, but the age range visible tends to be far greater. It’s the same in Canterbury, for that matter – any day of the year, any time of the day, it’s always swarming with people who can’t be sixteen yet.

In any case, they’re always present, and, since I live in Scally Central, passing them is not much fun. Up until this holiday, I never got much hassle - I hardly went into Brampton anyway, and I dressed fairly normally: leather jacket, jeans, band shirt, New Rocks. At the moment, though, it’s too flipping hot to wear trousers, so my stripy tights and skirts of many gothic fabrics come out of the drawers.

Anyway. On the night of Wednesday 10th, I agreed to take Carey’s Twisted Wheel virginity. Carey is this punk bloke who lives near Workington in West Cumbria, who I’ve been e-mailing for a few months. We went to Monroe’s Bar in Workington during the Easter holidays, which I was rather enamoured by. But since there hasn’t been much happening there of late (naturally, the day I was planning to go to Slimelight, the goth night there would take place), he asked to be introduced to The Wheel.

I was slightly reluctant, since the last two times I’ve been there, it didn’t impress me much, and I’d never stayed for more than an hour on a Wednesday night before, so I didn’t know what it would be like. But it was free to get in, so we’d either get what we paid for or better.

But just as I was entering Carlisle, I got a text message. Since me trying to multi-task while driving is not a good idea - me trying to drive while not doing anything else is a bad enough plan - I carried on driving until I reached the car park, then read it. "Abort! Abort!" it said. His car had broken down. (Not too far from his home, luckily, it turned out.)

I felt rather silly, because he’d offered to give me a lift, but I’d refused, since him swinging by Brampton twice would add about sixty miles to his journey, and if either of us wanted to leave earlier than the other, it would be possible. But because of this, I was there, and he was not to be.

Nevertheless, I had a letter to post (note that I preferred to post it in distant Carlisle, rather than stop in Brampton’s mean streets), and I needed the toilet, and I’d travelled all this way, and it was free, I left the car, found a post box then entered The Wheel.

I’d been there on my own once before on a Saturday night a few weeks earlier, and it hadn’t been much fun. The music played was good, but unfamiliar, so I was reluctant to dance, especially since no one else was doing so and the cloakroom was shut, so I was sweltering in my trench coat - and since it had cost £3 to get in that night, I couldn’t just go back to the car and leave it there. I didn’t know anyone there to start with (I’d only been there three times before, and had hardly spoken to anyone); I went on to speak to a couple of people briefly, but the best conversation I had was with a bloke who blatantly fancied me (or, more likely, fell under the spell of my PVC dress), and upon discovering I wasn’t single, he - literally - ran off. I left early.

This time, however, I’d had the foresight to bring my mobile phone with me for amusement, so I set about texting Carey, Bryn, my online friend Mikey and my olde friende Claire who left UKC in January, so I didn’t look totally sad and bored. They soon played lots of classic alternative-ish stoof though - Weezer, Presidents Of The USA, that sort of thang - and people were dancing so I joined them.

It was, as usual, very hot, and I was wearing my trench coat. Thing is, I need to keep my car keys somewhere, if I dress up I don’t have any pockets and you can’t very easily headbang with a handbag, despite the fact that "headbang" and "e handbag" are anagrams. So it wasn't long before I went to get a drink.

But before I could reach the bar, I was pounced on by my 23-year-old cousin David.

It was most bizarre, because although he’d also been at Monroe’s when I went, and he was there when I saw The Stranglers, I’d never run into him elsewhere unexpectedly, as his taste in music could not be more Dodgy 70s - something for which I do not share a liking. Turned out he’d just been to see Paul Weller, and his friends had dragged him to The Wheel.

He was very, very drunk. I had never seen him in such a state before. In fact, I have never seen anyone in such a state before. For the last twenty one years, we’ve barely said a word to each other, but he was rambling away, making up and singing songs, spilling beer everywhere . . . I was rather relieved when they played "Baggy Trousers" by Madness, and I had to excuse myself to dance.

But afterwards, I looked around for him again, since he was looking after my drink. Finding him was very difficult, since the place was packed. But as I scanned the room, a bloke (who reminded me strongly of Dale, both in appearance and temperament) came up to me and said, "Are you from Brampton?"

It turned out some that of his friends had seen me walking through Brampton, and mentioned me to him, as I was Another Goth, a rare and therefore welcomed thing in the area. (Until then, I was aware of no others.) Furthermore, his friends had followed me through the town, but lost track of me.

Woohoo! All those torturous trips through the town centre were not in vain and total pain after all!

So I spent the rest of the evening talking to and dancing with him (Tony) and his friends. They liked VNV Nation as much as I did! (Appreciate that the number of people in the entire county who’ve even heard of them probably isn’t more than twenty.) One of them, Ben (I think), had even been to Dark Jubilee (which I was meaning to go to). And he had a Nine Inch Nails hoodie, just like me!

They were a few years younger than me, still at school, and clarified why so much truancy was occurring. Since I left school, these foul creations called AS Levels have been invented, which you take in the year between GCSEs and A Levels. In the few weeks between these things and the end of term, you’re still supposed to go to school, to start work on your A Levels, but after the exams, lessons seem rather pointless and impossible to focus on.

And they knew Alison (a friend of mine from primary school who I haven’t seen since I was eleven) and are taught English by my aunt! (Not the mother of David.)

And I met some bloke called Keith who’s obsessed with Tom Lehrer and blood-drinking.

There I was, thinking Cumbrians had no interests other than booze, prank calls on CFM, and moaning about Foot and Mouth . . .

(Aside: just read my Livejournal friends page. The entry at the top begins, "wow. some people just really annoy me." The second is entitled "Annoying people". They are written by different LJ users.)

It was a very profitable night:

1. I didn’t spend any money on drinks for myself, because I generally don’t drink alcohol (for various reasons, which I’ve explained before, but the fact that I was driving was reason enough not to that night), I don’t like fizz, I don’t like fruit juice, so the only thing there I can drink is water - it’s the most refreshing thing anyway - which is free.

2. Tony and Ben asked if they could have a lift home with me, since their plan had been to get a taxi, but that would be hideously expensive. I said sure and they gave me £5. I kept insisting that I didn’t want it. Well, obviously, I wanted it, but since I was driving back that way anyway, taking them home wasn’t going out of my way. But they wouldn’t hear of it.

3. Ben asked if I’d buy him a drink, so I did. I paid for it with a five-pound note, and got five pound coins as change, as well as the drink. Hmm . . .

I’m starting to think nights when I arrange to go out with Carey will always leave me richer, whether he turns up or not, since at Monroe’s, we found a five pound note on the floor, and keeping it unless anyone asked if we’d seen it seemed the only sensible thing to do.

The music was pretty good - decent indie and better nu metal. Unfortunately, as the night drew to an end, I became painfully aware that I’m too old for this staying out till three in the morning lark.

First, I lost my keys. Luckily, I became aware of this before I left the club - they must have fallen out of my pocket when I was headbanging - and someone had handed them in at the bar. I’m very grateful for this, because they could have easily run off with my car - there were only three in the entire car park, so determining which one the key fitted wouldn’t have been hard. Then again, who’d want my car?

After the club closed, everyone hung around outside for a while. Eventually, The Brampton Goth Posse set off back to my car. On the way, Tony threw himself into a bush. He likes doing this, apparently. My theory is that because he describes himself as a straight man trapped in a gay man’s body, he’s desperate to get into a bush. Since he was holding a cigarette at the time, it was nearly Moses-esque.

We travelled home. They claimed to like the fact that I kept under the speed limit, and didn’t make them fearful of their lives, but I kind of forgot to steer, which was nearly disastrous, then almost drove them to my parents’ shop, since I’d slipped into autopilot mode.

Ben said, "Just drop me off here, it’s only a two-mile walk to my house from here." So I stopped the car, and he got out. It was only when I got home that I realised, "Why on earth did I do that? Why didn’t I insist on driving him to his doorstep? What was I thinking?"

Tony guided me into the murky depths of the council estate, where I dropped him off. I then had rather a struggle to escape from its labyrinthian roads, and ended up driving round in a circle. He had to run after me, to guide me out.

Then I caught the wing mirror on a wall. Remarkably, it bent inwards naturally, and didn’t even seem scratched, but I was lucky.

And when I got home and inside the house, I couldn’t for the life of me remember if I’d locked the house and car doors. Then I noticed I’d misplaced my wallet. I recalled seeing it on the seat of the car as I got out, but luckily, I thought to go back and get it then, rather than waiting until the next day. Luckily, because it wasn’t actually there, and after about five minutes of hunting for it, I discovered I’d put it on the car roof. Someone could have easily taken it the next morning before I found it.

When I got inside again, I still couldn’t work out whether I’d locked the doors or not, but realised I would be here all night if I kept checking, and went to bed. (Turned out I’d left one of them unlocked.)

But I couldn’t flipping sleep! I lay there for four hours, hallucinating about meeting people in central Brampton and having pointless conversations with them. Eventually, I got up. My voice was croaky, I was hardly able to string a sentence together, and my back was killing me. (I’ve no idea why: I’m a seasoned headbanger, and that was a fairly light session by my standards.)

Oh well. It was the most interesting night I’d had in a long time.

Thursday 11 July 2002

In contrast to the night before, this day was rather boring. But I wasn’t too surprised by this - rather boring days are quite common in my existence - so it could have been worse. I made Bryn a mix CD and talked to him on the phone for a few hours. He laughed at my Brampton accent, which I’d adopted automatically the previous night and hadn’t had a chance to get rid of. I spoke to Tony on the phone a bit, too, mostly about the book "Z For Zachariah", which we’d both had inflicted on us as thirteen-year-olds. I also went to work for three hours, much of which was spent reading bad translations of German poetry, which I had to photocopy onto horrible peach paper. (Yes, this action seemingly has absolutely nothing to do with selling musical instruments, which is what my parents’ business does, but trust me, there was a reason. It’s just too long and boring for me to impart to you.)

Friday 12 July 2002

Dad was going into Carlisle for 8.30am. Although my train to Sittingbourne didn’t leave until 11, I got a lift with him, so I could commit shoppage first. Typically, it rained, for the first time in ages.

I hung around in Marks And Spencers (the only place open before 9), then went to W H Smith, since I had a £10 book token, and was very saintly and didn’t spend anything other than that, much as I wanted to. I got "Shopaholic Ties The Knot" and "Are You Dave Gorman?"

When I got to Nodnol, I saw both of them advertised everywhere. I got the first because I’ve enyojed the Shopaholic series for quite some time. It is trash and superficially I have nothing in common with the main narrator: she thinks Marks and Spencers clothes are cheap and nasty, but to me, they’re wonderfully made but beeping expensive. She adores Saks Fifth Avenue, I found it hard not to wince when I saw the prices there. However, the mind games she plays with herself, to convince herself it’s ok to do certain things when she knows better, and the knots she ties herself in are universal experiences. Besides, although I’ve never agreed with reviewers who claim modern novels are a laugh a minute, this series does have its hysterical moments. And I got the second because the first was in a "two-for-ten-pounds" deal, and that was the most interesting of the other books available - tis the true story of two blokes who go round the world looking for fifty four other people called Dave Gorman. But it would seem I have fashionable taste in books. Noooooo!

Saturday 13 July 2002

Bryn and I arose at 8.30 and headed to London. We parted company at Victoria station; Bryn started wandering around (and didn’t take a tube until we were reunited - the foolfaced cheapskate!) while I headed for Oxford Street, where I met my online friend Daine in the café at Borders.

This meeting online friends malarkey - it never gets any easier, even though I’ve now met several. After I’d apologised for being late, I excused myself so I could go to the toilet and I was sweating so much it was hard to unstick myself from the seat once I’d finished. But after that, we fell into conversation pretty easily. Me and Daine, I mean, not me and the toilet seat. I can never think of anything to say to those things.

We went to Camden, where she was simultaneously in agony and ecstasy over all the pretty clothes - just like I was the first time I went there, and continue to be every time, up to a point. She bought fishnet tights at the first stall we stopped at, and it wasn’t long before she was the owner of a fluffy black mini-skirt ("I couldn’t stop stroking myself," she later reported, when she wore it for the first time) and I was in possession of a red PVC one. Shock, shock, horror, horror! A deviation in clothing colour, if not in material!

In one shop, I tried on a dog collar with vast spikes, but it didn’t look quite right. But one of the blokes working there was reluctant to let me leave without anything. "I’m a student," I protested, "I can’t afford anything."

"We give you very good price for anything you like," he said. "What do you like?"

I pointed out the pink tights with black spider web patterns on, which were a prohibitively expensive £7.99. He offered to sell me them for £6.99. I declined. He said £5.99. I was reluctant, but when he insisted, "That’s good!" I said, "Ok." I was very glad I’d haggled, because minutes later, I saw the same tights in other shops priced at £5.99! Good thing they weren’t any cheaper.

Out of cash, we made a pilgrimage to distant Safeway’s (or is it Sainsbury’s? I can never remember) to use their distant cash machines. But all three of them were out of order! Nevertheless, I had enough for some wonderful hideous green tights. At Slimelight, I discovered that they're UV reactive!

When the Camden ordeal ended, we returned to Oxford Street, to find an A to Z which would tell us how to get to Kensington, because one of Daine’s friends had been to Kensington Market a few years earlier, and reported that it too was full of wondrous goffic stoof!

We successfully navigated the multi-branched District Line, and reached Kensington High Street. We walked up and down it (and got a bit lost in its labyrinthian Marks And Spencers, seeking the toilet), but saw no sign of Kensington Market anywhere. "Looks like we’re not going to find it," I said, just as Daine pointed out a heauge sign saying, "Kensington Market this way".

We followed it, and came to a shop named Kensington Market. It was fairly small and full of really boring clothes. Wha?

Bryn later informed us that the real Kensington Market had closed down a few years ago. Typical! Oh well, it was an Adventure.

We went back to Oxford Street and I showed Daine the sex shop, since it’s full of interesting PVC garments. She was more interested by its other displays though, and made a purchase. This was more than I needed to know about her, but I didn’t mind too much, since she was pleased. In more ways than one.

We went back to the café in Borders to have a chat. It wasn’t long before Bryn text messaged me, saying he was bored, could he join us? I said yes, and he did.

The plan was for the three of us to meet Anna The Goth in The Purple Turtle (a bar - one of many with that name - they have a rather disturbing website here) and then we’d all go to Slimelight. She’d told me that Stef and Dale might turn up too. But they phoned me, to say no. Since I hadn’t spoken to them for a long time, we ended up talking for quite a while, and I was late to meet Anna. She didn’t mind, though; while waiting, she’d been approached by a bloke offering her £10 an hour if she modelled jewellery for him.

Our time there passed swiftly. It was quite a funchie place, but its toilets are definitely not going in The Good Toilet Guide. They were quite cool in that their walls were totally covered in magazine cuttings, Kenneth Halliwell style, but quite nasty, in that their floors were totally covered with water. Brown water.

Slimelight was . . . Slimelightish. I’d forgotten how the sliminess of the air strikes you the moment you set foot on the goth floor. The music took a while to get going and I was driven upstairs to the industrial / techno floor. I happily danced to about ten songs, but then realised I was probably missing brilliant stoof downstairs, and returned. I hadn’t missed much, to the best of my knowledge, but it wasn’t long before the DJs mercilessly assaulted my poor tired feet with one stunning track after another. I eventually had to sit down in my beloved "Vengeance" by New Model Army.

While seated, I kind of fell asleep, and the usual vicious circle started snapping its teeth at me. I’d be jolted into wakingness, feel really cold, and have no way of waking up other than to dance; then my feet would hurt too much to carry on, so I’d sit and fall asleep again, then wake up freezing, and so forth. Even Bryn’s trenchcoat couldn’t keep me warm, since the only available seats were right below the fans. But overall, it was a good Slime.

One slightly annoying thing about the whole trip: all around Nodnol, I was thinking, "Rsers, I wish I had a Kerrang badge to give to Daine" because I have several million of them and try to give them to everyone I meet or write to. And on Wednesday, I found one in my coat pocket, which I’d had with me all along!

Sunday 14 July 2002

We missed the first tube, due to Anna saying an elongated goodbye to her friend Woody, but somehow, after parting company with Daine at Oxford Street, we managed to get the first train back to Canterbury. (Bryn and I were to sleep off Slimelight at her place, since his stepdad didn’t want the hassle of having to tiptoe past Bryn’s room.)

It turns out that Anna is so goth that her house is number 13 on her street! (Her housemates put a sign saying "Asylum" above the 13.) It filled with interesting things. The walls are adorned with amusing studentish posters and goth-related magazine cuttings. A pile of funchie-but-very-uncomfortable-looking black shoes lies in the hall. The fridge is covered in surreal lines of magnetic poetry. A large fluffy stuffed pear with eyes sits in the living room. Everyone agrees that it’s evil, except Dale, who strokes it a lot, and insists, "I’ve got a nice pear" repetitively.

Bryn and I slept in Matt2’s bed, whose virtues I feel I must extol. Usually, when I get back from Slimelight, tired as I am, I find I can’t sleep. After all, I’ll have had a few hours of sleep already, and slumber during the day is a difficult thing to procure. But although I normally struggle to catch my namesakes in unfamiliar beds, even at normal sleeping hours, and regardless of the fact that I could hear Anna talking to her housemates in the next room, I fell asleep in his bed almost instantly, and remained in that state for an impressive five hours. The next day, and four days later, I would sleep in his bed again, and have similar success.

Hmm. Maybe I should go out with Matt2 instead of Bryn, so I can get such good night’s sleep there more regularly. Actually, I fancied him before I met Bryn - Mykosbeep Bryn for standing in the way of endless nights of beauty sleep!

I don’t suppose Matt2’d want me, though. And he definitely won't if he finds out what me and Bryn did in his bed, when we woke up . . .

Monday 15 July 2002: Ben And His Amazing Refilling Pint Glass

Bryn arose at 7.15am to get ready for work. He’s currently doing data entry. It’s not a job he wishes to stick with, but he’s going to do it till something better comes along. It doesn’t sound too bad, bearing in mind he seems to have done about two hours’ work in all the time he’s been doing it. The rest of the time, he reads my old journal entries. He’s been working his way through the archives for as long as he’s known me, but he’s got from November 1999 to August 2000 in the last couple of weeks.

I spent the whole day reading my Livejournal friends page and e-mail. At 6pm, I had a phonecall from Bryn, telling me that he’d attempted to walk home from work, but had got lost, because he’d followed a road sign that some joker had turned around for a laugh. He eventually got back at 6.40, and we spent half an hour together before his parents gave me a lift to Faversham station, from which I could get to The Beercart Arms in the simplest manner.

Bryn did not accompany me, since he had a job interview the following day. He didn’t want to get the last train back from Canterbury, since he didn’t want to walk home through Sittingbourne's mean streets in the dead of night and couldn’t afford a taxi. My plan was to spend the night on Nick’s sofa, but he couldn’t do that either; taking a suit to the smoky Beercart is a Bad Idea (tm) and there wouldn’t be time for him to go home and change the following morning before the interview.

The night was all right. The music was good - same bands as usual, but less well-known tracks. The most people dancing at a time was ten or so, to "Bodies" by Drowning Pool (although I wasn’t looking during "Killing In The Name Of" - as per usual, I fled in terror, because although I like it, I’ve heard it at least ten times more often than I ever wanted to). This policy, the DJ told me, was deliberate, and it mostly fine by me. But just as I finished headbanging on my own to "Can I Play With Madness?" some geen came up behind me and slapped me on the arse, and he’d run over to the bar before I could hit him.

Also, some very drunk bloke who looked about thirty came over to me in that song in 6/8 time that goes "Get away! Get away!" I sang along with it, but he didn’t seem to get the message. He spoke into my ear, his stubble scratching my cheek.

"First time I saw you here, you were a brunette."

"Well, I dyed my hair."

"It looked better before."

"Oh, cheers." He must have read some article in Men’s Health or FHM telling him that in fact girls don’t like to be complimented on the way they look - they’d much rather be told they have no sense of aesthetics.

"I bet you’re a student at UKC."

"Yup." So why didn’t you work out that I’m too young to be interested in you?

"Well, just to say, I think you’re well horny, can I buy you a drink?"

"No thanks. And just so you know, I’ve got a boyfriend." I may as well be direct, I thought.

"I bet he thinks the world of you."

What do you say to that? Fortunately, he slunk off at that point.

The strangest thing is, I was talking to Nine Inch Nails bloke earlier, and this guy came over to him. NIN bloke excused himself to talk to him, and he quite possibly wanted to know more about me. But NIN bloke knows full well I’m otherwise involved - why didn’t he pass on this information?

Then again, I didn’t realise quite how short the red PVC skirt was when I bought it . . . I knew it was my size, so I didn’t bother to try it on, only to discover that although it’s about the same length as my black one, it’s not stretchy, so it will only sit around my waist, not on my hips.

The rest of the night was uneventful, apart from Dennis James putting my phone in Dutch. It looked funchie, and I could still understand some of it, since all the main menus have animated pictures to go with them, but I had no idea how to reset it - luckily, Matt did, a skill surely only acquired from intimate knowledge of this trick. Also, they kept refilling Ben’s pint glass while he wasn’t looking, and he thought it was really freaky and told everyone about it.

And after a year, I finally solved the mystery as to who Anna The Goth’s fifth housemate is: a bloke called Tom, who knew who I was, because he asked me if I knew what had happened to Mark and Chris of late, and I think I know where I’ve seen him before, but I’m not sure. This happens with more and more people these days.

Nick didn’t turn up, so I asked if I could stay at Anna’s. She agreed. Iain, who lives with Nick, was present, however, explained that Nick was staying in with his girlfriend, and asked if I was walking back with him. "Nah, Anna says I can stay, and there’s a bed at her place," I said. A very good one at that.

"There’s a bed at my place too," he said, "but it’s full of glass." Somehow, this didn’t convince me to change my mind.

Nevertheless, the walk back with Anna and co wasn’t entirely pleasant, since Dale and Tom thought it would be fun to knock on strangers’ doors, forcing all of us to run like crazy before we were caught. Fortunately, we soon reached the river, and I thought I could deal with the wrath of fish.

Tuesday 16 July 2002

I woke at nine thirty. At ten, I realised:

1. Bryn’s interview is at ten thirty.
2. If it’s as short as all my job interviews have been, it’ll be over by ten forty five.
3. Even if I don’t get lost on the way there, it’ll take me at least half an hour to get to the station.
4. I’ve got to go to The Indoor Market and The Leather Clothing Company first.

Since Bryn’s interview was in Chatham - fifteen minutes from Sittingbourne, while Canterbury is half an hour away - and the plan was for us to meet back at Sittingbourne station, I concluded that I’d better get up.

No one was about that I could announce my departure to, and I couldn’t get the magnetic poetry to say, "I’ve left. See you soon. Z", so I waited for a while and read some of "My Lustful Adventure" - a classic erotica novella that Dale had been reading from the previous night. It was terrible (you just can’t have a sexy teenaged vixen called Ethel) and the narrator reminded me strongly of Alex from "A Clockwork Orange", but, like asstr, it was strangely addictive. After ten pages and the protagonist coming twice, I still heard no sign of life, so I left anyway.

I managed to get back to central Canterbury without getting lost at all (amazingly), bought Ibid the bracelet she’d requested I got her from The Indoor Market, and asked The Leather Clothing Company what they could do about my trenchcoat, which is torn at the bottom. They said they could probably mend it, but the woman who did that was away; could I come back another day? Bryn informs me that she’s always away, though.

I went into Siesta, to tell them that they supply my parents’ shop with instruments, and, um, well, to look around. They had a five-row spiky wristband, which was pink and going for half price, so I asked if I could try it on. It actually fit on my wrist, unlike all spiky wristbands I’ve tried, which probably has something to do with the fact that it was pink, and consequently designed for girls, unlike the black ones. But clashed terribly with the red PVC skirt, so I said I’d try it on again another day, when I was wearing something pink.

In the meantime, though, could I try on the giant red - well, it was too big to be described as a wristband, really. The giant red armband, which was also half price? Just for a laugh?

It had ten rows of spikes. 108 in total.

It didn’t fit on my forearm, but worked on my upper arm, covering it entirely (and, later, I discovered, I could wear it on my lower leg too). The woman working there told me that they were trying to sell it, so they could get some new stock in. It cut into my arm pit and looked ridiculous. My parents would disown me if I bought it.

I had to have it.

I went into The Piercing Studio, sells fetish stoof. Sometimes they have nothing of interest, but that day it was full of goodness, so I left before I could damage my bank account any further. To go into any shop would be masochistic, I decided, so I headed for the station. It wouldn’t be long now before Bryn got in touch.

I let the ticket vendor leer at my legs for a bit, at his request, then went onto the platform. Unfortunately, since the gates were operating, the only way to escape was by train, so I decided to try and master Bantumi (one of the games on my mobile phone which I’ve never understood) while I awaited Bryn’s word.

He called me after two hours. I hopped on the next train, only for him to text me to say he wouldn’t arrive in Sittingbourne until I’d waited there for half an hour.

I learnt to beat the phone both in the easiest mode and second easiest mode, though.

Thursday 18 July 2002

According to an online quiz I took I'm a trendy goth! Just because I like pink and wear a dog collar and want to have fun doesn't make me trendy! aNgEsT and bl0d!

Since I left Canterbury, an indie night at The Beercart Arms has started to take place every Thursday. Bryn had been to it, and reported that it was ok, so I needed to experience it for myself at the first possible opportunity. Alas, for Bryn could not accompany me to it, for similar reasons he couldn't make it on Monday. And I couldn't get back to Sittingbourne that night for the same ones. And he'd be leaving for work at 8.15 the next morning i.e. long before I could readily get back there, and I was to meet Ibid in Nodnol at eleven, i.e. long before he got home. And after that, I was to head home, because his parents couldn't put me up any longer.

Anyway, I reached the Beercart fairly late, and went over to the DJ to ask him if he could keep an eye my luggage. (I'm rather reluctant to leave possessions lying about at the best of times, but since Anna The Goth had her wallet stolen in The Hobgoblin - what we thought was a nice friendly pub - I'm being extra careful.) Before I could, a rather surreal conversation occured, with a bloke standing nearby me. "Can you speak Welsh?" he asked me.

"No. Except 'gêr' which means 'gear', since I'd forgotten all that I'd learnt on my trip to Aberystwyth a few years ago, (though how could I forget 'toiledau'?) and it had slipped my mind that I also know 'ysgol' which means school (learnt due to typing orders from schools in Wales) and 'bryn' which means hill (learnt due to going out with someone called Bryn). I suppose this combination of words would be quite useful if I was in Wales and wanted to arrange to get some heroin on a hill with a school on it. Unfortunately, I don't think this will ever be the case.

"Well, can you play a violin with only one string?" he asked, holding one up.

"No. Bit useless, aren't I?"

"Yeah, how dare you come in here?"

"I'll leave then," I said, and pretended to walk towards the door.

I soon wished I'd actually left, upon realising that I hardly knew anyone there! There were a couple of people I recognised, and I knew the DJ, Ben, Sarah The Vice Goth and her ex-boyfriend - up to a point - and that was it.

Now I'd never call myself popular. However, I've been devoutly supporting Canterbury's rock scene ever since I moved there two years ago. The only indie night at The Venue I missed was when I had an exam the next morning; the only Pit I missed was when I'd arranged to go to Sheffield; and since the rock night at The Beercart Arms started in November, I've been there every week, except the one when I was too ill to walk, and those when I was at home. Once, I even deliberately went home on a Tuesday morning and came back on a Monday afternoon, just so I spent a week at home but didn't miss a Monday evening! And even though I had two exams on Tuesdays this year, it didn't stop me from going.

So, due to my ever-presentness, sometimes-insane dress sense which leads to comment, and the fact that I spent those years going out with the president of the rock society and people therefore approached me to ask about forthcoming events, I know quite a lot of fellow rockers in the area. And usually when I walk in on a Monday, someone gets all offended because I didn't talk to them first. This time, though, it was by no means deserted, but full of strangers. Scary!

I tried to dance to "Novocaine For The Soul" and "One To Another", but no one joined me, and both proved really difficult, so I didn't dance again for the rest of the night. I talked to Sarah for a bit. Then a bloke came over to me, and claimed he'd met me on Eliot footpath once and saw me in The Hobgoblin a lot. I pointed out that I'd only been there twice in the last six months, so he decided he'd seen me both times. He also claimed I knew his friend. Both statements were news to me, but his friend revealed that he knew Bryn. But Bryn knows a scary amount of people - do I have to remember them all too? Argh! These 'who are you?' wonderings grow ever more common.

I spoke to them for a while. Despite the fact that the first bloke had been in the same predicament as me - at the end of his second year, he'd already had a third class degree - he kept going on about how amazing that I'd made it as far as third year. Yeah, me and millions of other students on the planet, what an achievement! Admittedly, getting that far in the right number of years is fast becoming unusual among the rock society. Nick and Anna The Goth both had to retake their second years. Soppygit and Dale will do so, come September. After two years of studying Film And Drama, Matt2 has decided to restart second year, doing Philosophy. After two years of studying Physics, Iain has decided to restart first year, doing Chemistry. Ben and Alex are both retaking first year (but are rather happy about it, as it means an extra year at university). Anthony left after his preliminary year, Tasha dropped out after her second year, and Mike retook first year four times before getting kicked out. Even I'm not entirely innocent, since I dropped out of the first university I went to after four weeks and had to do a gap year. Still, though: Sarah The Vice Goth agreed that the bloke was patronising as beep, and I was quite relieved when he gave me an opportunity to escape and talk to Matt and Dennis James, who had since materialised. Some other UKC types also showed up - which reassured me, because if Anna The Goth hadn't appeared, I'd have had to rethink where I was going to stay.

I got to meet the spunk monkey (the acquisition of which was written of here and here). It only had one arm which was freakishly long. Dennis James put Iain's phone into Russian. I talked to some bloke in a black metal band who writes fifteen minute songs about Vlad The Impaler's aunt, and conditionally offered them a gig at the first live metal event next year's rock soc manages to organise. Also, since they keyboardist had just left, I offered my keyboard playing services. Getting a keyboard might prove useful for this, but my parents own a musical instrument shop, I should be able to get hold of one if necessary.

Getting back to Anna's took quite a while, because we were walking part of the way with a bloke who's convinced Anna's going to marry him. He'd bought her a rose.

In order to annoy him (he'd annoyed me in the past), I asked Anna to marry me, while he was talking to some random foreigners. Despite her cruelly mocking me earlier for being a trendy goth (the test says she's a cheesy goth; she totally agrees), she accepted the proposal, and turned one of her shagbands into a ring which she gave to me. (Interesting, one of my other wives, Krysten, has given me one as well. The only difference being Krysten's was PINK! and of course, Anna's was black.)

He was indeed jealous, stumbled around in circles a lot, and when the time came for him and Anna to part company, he was rather reluctant to let go of her. Luckily, I had the company of Iain, who was showing off about his ability to square any number less than a hundred, to keep me sane. Ish.

Back at Anna's, I wrote some magnetic poetry (which began "worship rock club music" and grew less sensical each subsequent line), she played me obscure gothic music and I was horrified to discover that she owns a yellow and orange swimsuit! Horrified, because Anna's one of these goths who wears black all the time. Her greatest concession to colour is a partially purple corset. I was horrified to see her wearing a red t-shirt a few months ago, but she argued that red with a gothic colour. Yellow and orange most certainly are not, though. Eek!

Friday 19 July 2002: The Devastating Refurbishment Of Foyles

I woke at eight, and set out for Canterbury station. Of course, I arrived in the town centre long before I needed to, and nowhere was open except W H Smith. I went in, meaning to just buy some sweets - energy to get me through the day - but I noticed they were having a "all paperbacks for £5" offer. And since all the biographies I kept drooling over when they were only out in hardback had suddenly come out in paperback, I couldn't resist. So I bought one of Victoria Beckham (yes, I know she's evil, but I find The Spice Girls almost as fascinating as Marilyn Manson - I already own Geri's autobiography) and one of Kurt Cobain.

I went to the station, where a man heartily greeted either me or the woman in front of me. Neither of us had a clue who he was. The ticket vendor expressed distress at me going back to Carlisle, told me to behave myself, and leered at my legs some more.

I travelled to Nodnol and met Ibid in the café of Borders (just to be original), as planned. So I didn't spend any more money, I would have been content to remain there until it was time for me to go home, but as it was a nice day, she insisted we walked around the area.

Which was, of course, full of shops. I was very good in the record shops we went into, since all the Wumpscut albums were for too expensive for the likes of me. (Meanwhile she was very very bad in the classical music section, but at least all the stuff there was good value for money.) But walking round Foyles The Giant Bookshop (which is being refurbished so it's light and airy instead of claustrophobic - nooooo!) and the cheap ancient tomes about Siberia I came across in the second hand bookshops (where we had to hand over our bags at the counter, which I've never had to do in this country before) drove me mad! Eventually, sitting in another Borders (which was only a few hundred metres away from the first - eeeevil American chainstores are taking over the world! Ibid crossed herself every time we passed a Starbucks or McDonald's, and her arms were tired by the end of the day), I succumbed to the temptation of a book of short stories by Laura Hird (who, like Irvine Welsh, is part of the new Scottish writing music). Warg!

We went into the British Portrait Gallery, er, to use the toilets. We couldn't decide what rating to give them for The Good Toilet Guide. To flush them, you had to press a very discreet button, which I found novel, but Ibid disliked. Also, while sitting in a bus shelter (my luggage weighed me down too much to walk a lot), a goff girl walked past wearing exactly the same tights - the pink ones with cobwebs on - as I was. Well, not the same pair of tights, but you know, same design. We were pleased - it doesn't take much to satisfy us.

I set off for Euston station an hour before my train was due to depart, so I could get a seat in the solitary unreserved carriage. She accompanied me, to savour our last minutes together before she goes to Finland for a year. (She is nervous, but the thought of all the Moomins merchandise she'll be able to get her hands on fills her with glee.) She claims it's just not the same walking around without the reassuring clunking of my boots beside her. Awwww.

Getting a seat was still something of a struggle, but I managed it. The journey was totally unremarkable, apart from the bloke sitting next to me not being able to get out of the toilet for half an hour.

Saturday 20 July 2002

Today I spent seven thrilling hours at my parents' shop, entering the data from input invoices into Opera and anti-filing. (If filing is putting things in filing cabinets, anti-filing is removing them.) I took a liking to Arbiter's percussionist's practice sets, since including VAT they cost £118.81 and my date of birth is 11/8/81.

While I was there, I bought Bryn a set of guitar strings, an orange plectrum and a purple plectrum. I couldn't afford to get him a whole guitar, you see, so I decided to start with the components. Nah, he already has a guitar (well, his stepdad does), but it is both stringless and without plectrums. I tried to reassure him that better to have a stringless guitar than one with strings attached, but I don't think this wisdom gave him much solace.

He also informs me, after all these years (well, not quite two years) of keeping me in the dark, that his stepsister owns a pink guitar with an owl on it! I must see it when I next visit the south. Because really, what could be better?

Also, Dad has invented a new make of pianos. When pianos are rebuilt, the writing saying what kind they are often comes off. Since no one wants a no-brand piano, and Dad couldn't remember the original type of one he had, he had to invent a new name to put on it. Since he'd got the piano from Anne's auntie (Anne being one of the office workers at the shop), he called it an Anzanti. V. elegant and professional-sounding, you have to agree. (Well, the name is; I've not heard the piano itself.)

But there is more alasful news! My quest for a fourth housemate for next year has begun again!

Last year, finding a housemate was simple. Soppygit, Ibid and I put up some posters advertising for one. Five people contacted me as a result. We met the first person to get in touch, Jo. She seem appreciated our sense of humour and after knowing us for an hour, without even seeing the house, she said she still wanted to move in with us. She did, and we all lived happily ever after . . .

Sunday 21 July 2002

Senility has finally got the better of my remaining grandparent, 93-year-old Grandad. A couple of days ago he phoned my house and Noj answered.

"Is your Mum there?"

"No, she's out delivering a piano."

"Is your Dad there?"

Grandad knows perfectly well that if Mum's on a piano-delivering caper, Dad will be with her. Mum can't lift one on her own. "No, he's out delivering a piano too."

"Where's Stephen?"

Stephen is my uncle. He does not live with us. "I don't know!"

Also, a little while ago, Grandad's sister received a birthday card. Her birthday wasn't for a few weeks and it was addressed "To Matthew".

Matthew is my cousin, and it was his birthday at around that point. But he'd already received a card . . .

Mum and Dad are away today and tomorrow, driving Grandad around the places he lived in the 40s and 50s. I envy them not at all.

Not that my day has been any more thrill-filled thus far. All I've done is catch up with my friends page, finish reading "Are You Dave Gorman?", reread old journal entries and discover more about Jon The Postman.

I tried to download a_life.exe off KaZaA a while ago, but most of the time it just said, "More sources needed", and when I did manage to start grabbing the bytes of one, it said it would take 1154 years, six months, seventeen days, eight hours, thirty seven minutes and fifty nine seconds, by which stage I calculated lives would be at the height of fashion, so I ceased the download. I can't be fashionable, oh no, not I. I wouldn't survive.

Can people become life donors - like organ donors, except when they die, they give someone else their life instead of their organs? Oh, yes, that's reincarnation. Just my luck to be the reincarnation of Neil off "The Young Ones", only without the penchant for lentils.

Monday 22 July 2002

The postman rang the doorbell rang at 7.25. Since there was no way Noj was getting out of bed to answer it, it had to be me.

He didn't even have anything for me, either.

Since I'm going back down south next Tuesday, and if you buy train tickets more than a week before you travel they're cheaper, I had to go to Carlisle to get some. Since they've closed the Sands Centre car park to the general public, I really hate going there, knowing how difficult parking can prove. So I decided to go there really early in the morning, to grab a space before anyone else wanted one. Yeah, there'd be rush hour to contend with, but pfft, I used to work in Carlisle, I've sat in its stationary traffic many a time, it's not that bad.

Ha. It's meant to take twenty minutes to get to Carlisle. It took forty five. Considering my normal lack of driving ability, I think I did rather well - I didn't stall once.

Since I didn't want to enter any shops (lest I feel the need to buy anything), and there's not really much else to do in Carlisle at 9.30am, I decided to try to contact my olde skool friends, since if they were available to meet me, Carlisle would be where we'd go. But Games Workshop - where Roe works - was closed. Marion's phone was switched off (I have a feeling she's in Hong Kong) and Smill wasn't answering hers (I have a feeling she's in Edinburgh - not as interesting, but equally unuseful). Will's in America, and Chris, hmm, I'd feel happier meeting him in the company of others.

So I drove home (I was about the only person on the road, which was just as well, since the road I usually use to get home was closed, so I had to do about seven lane changes). I spent three quarters of an hour polishing my New Rocks (or to be more accurate, forty minutes looking for the polish, and five minutes applying it), then thought it a reasonable sort of hour to call Tony. (Him what I met a couple of weeks ago.)

We met in outside Other Spar. He showed me a third way to get to his house (which I immediately forgot), where we channel-hopped, he tidied the kitchen, and I marvelled over his parents' evident obsession with fishkeeping. Upon news that his Mum would be arriving home imminently, we returned to Brampton (via yet another route) and sat on top of the town hall for a while. We went back to my house, where I showed him my meagre MP3 collection. Then he had to go to work.

In the course of the afternoon, I asked after various people I was at primary school with that I thought he might know. The number of connections we discovered was quite scary: "Do you know Jake The Hippie?" "Ohhhhh, yes. Do you know Thomas?" "Yes, I went to church with him." "Rose?" "Her brother was in my school year." But the weirdest thing of all is that Ben who I met t'other night - who likes Nine Inch Nails, who went to Dark Jubilee, who asked if I found him attractive, who I bought a drink - turns out to be the same Ben that my Mum gave a lift home from school when I was ten and he was six!

My parents came home and reported that Grandad hadn't been too evil. I spent the evening online and Smill returned my call. She is indeed in Edinburgh, but coming home this weekend. I'd better warn everyone so they can evacuate the county.

Tuesday 23 July 2002

Worked at parents' shop for many hours, doing a horrendous amount of anti-filing. Went online in the evening and talked to Soppygit on ze phone. Yoj.

Wednesday 24 July 2002

Worked at parents' shop in morning. Made many phone calls at lunch time - to Tony, who'd tried to call earlier on but lazy Noj couldn't be bothered to answer the phone; to the girl who currently lives in the house I'm moving into, who wants to stay there a couple of extra weeks; and to my new landlord, who Silent French Bloke didn't think to inform that he wasn't coming after all. Sighzeeb. Spent afternoon working at shop again. The anti-filing continued.

By nine o'clock in the evening, I was very very exhausted. Work and being woken at silly hours of the morning has this effect on me, and I've had a nasty cold since the previous Wednesday, which is showing no signs of going byebye. (I believe I picked it up from Slimelight, so I christened this blend of the illness Slimes Disease.) But I was supposed to be going to The Twisted Wheel with Tony at ten, and my policy is, "If you're planning to go out, you must go out." For if I don't, I fear it'll be the beginning of a transformation into a total recluse. So I logged off the Internet, and decided to spend a nice relaxing hour deciding what to wear and painting my nails.

This proved to be not at all relaxing, when:

1. After tearing my room apart three times, I still couldn't find my black blouse.
2. I got green nail polish everywhere except on my fingers.
3. I discovered that there weren't any car keys in the house - Dad was at the shop, with all of them, out of earshot of all the phones there and with his mobile phone turned off - and my only option was to walk down there to get one off him. Fortunately, about thirty seconds into my journey, he arrived back.

My tiredness vanished when I got to The Wheel, and my hours there were ok. Unfortunately, though I don't usually even have to try to flatten my posh private-school-inspired accent, it just happens automatically when I'm among comprehensive-schooled Cumbrians, I couldn't that night, and consequently I felt too self-conscious to talk to anyone much. Still, I ran into my cousin again, this time in a less inebriated state; I danced to Madness and stoof; and my nail polish and hideous green tights both lit up under the UV light, and a supergoth complimented me on them. So it wasn't a bad night.

But once again, my mad lift-giving sk1llz failed me. A bloke asked if I could give him and his two brothers a lift home. I said I'd like to, but there was a load of bumph in the back seat of the car, and there wouldn't be space. At least, this had been the case last time I checked; when I got back to the car, I realised Dad had removed the bumph earlier on that evening, in case I wanted to give more than two people a lift. Argh!

But I managed to get home via Tony's without incident this time (although the headlights didn't seem to be working properly), so I'm better at this driving back from places late at night thing. I'll get it right someday.

Thursday 25 July 2002

Got woken up by Dad playing the piano, but managed to return to a sleepy daze until 10.30. After that, I still couldn't face getting up, so I read "Nail And Other Stories" by Laura Hird for an hour. At 11.30, I had a shower, then spent over an hour waiting for my hair to dry while I sent e-mails. I called Tony at one (he'd only just got up) to discuss our plans for the day, had lunch, and finally reached work at 1.30.

I finally finished the mammoth task of anti-filing! And after that, I got to do some payments, which I like since they're easy, but much less boring than anti-filing. This doesn't mean they come close to being actually interesting, but after so much anti-filing, they seemed positively fascinating.

Got home, had tea, talked to Tony some more. While doing so, my mobile rang. I felt so popular! Noj kindly brought it to me, but just as I noticed the caller - Chris Mobile - it stopped ringing. Finished conversation, arranged to meet Tony ten minutes later, and phoned Chris back. He'd already called once before, and didn't want him bothering me again later on. Also, my plan gave me a good excuse to keep the conversation short.

He'd graduated with a 2:2 (or a Desmond, as he calls them; I find the thought of Chris dressed as a ballerina more amusing though) and is annoyed because he never gets to see Michelle (his ex-girlfriend) since her new boyfriend is evil. He takes solace in the fact that said boyfriend only get a third though. He's currently living in Dalton In Furness (which is in south Cumbria, I'm in the north) in a huge flat above his workplace. He told me to stop by, if I was ever passing through. Hmm, yes, it's en route to my every destination . . .

Since he proved a bit reluctant to say goodbye, I arrived outside Old Spar a bit late, but Tony accepted my explanation. He bought eight cans of beer (I bought a Mars Bar), and we went up The Moat, which is this hill thingy from which you can see quite a bit of the surrounding countryside. This proved to be a mistake - I hadn't been there since my online friend Helen visited two summers ago - and it was a lot muddier this time round. And I only cleaned my New Rocks three days ago too!

Also, I got bitten by chiggers! Whatever the smink chiggers are. My dictionary doesn't seem to believe they exist, but I've just found a website called "What are chiggers and how do they bite?" and it might actually have been them. I thought it was just midges, and I was just saying it was chiggers because in that Scott Adams text adventure game, between being eaten by grue you were always getting bitten by chiggers.

Anyway. We talked about ghosts and school budgets and watched hyperactive cows and the sunset. Then we headed back to his house, but his parents didn't want me to come in, so we went back to Old Spar, then sat on top of the town hall again. While we were there, Bryn phoned, and told me he was going to visit some friends this weekend. "Where? Which friends?" I asked, being my usual nosy self.

"I don't know," he said.

"You can come and visit me," I said. Yes, I know it's a bit of a long way for him to travel, if he's going to stay for less than two days, and I'm going to see him on Tuesday anyway, but it sounded like a fun spontaneous plan to me, and he agreed. I said I'd ok it with my parents when I got home and felt all yojful!

Tony and I tried to go to his house again, but his parents were still awake, so we went to this park I'd never been to before. In fact, I'd only ever seen it once, and had completely forgotten it existed. Considering I live in a town the size of an amoeba, this is quite an achievement, but I've hardly ever had reason to set foot on the council estate. I had a few driving lessons on it, and once I went to visit the sister of one of the workers at my parents shop, who gave me some fish (which died within a month), and that's about it. Anyway, it was a lot niftier than the park nearest to my house. It had a zipline!

Of course we went on it!

Tried to go back to Tony's house again, but his parents were still presumed up and about, so he walked me home. I relayed the events of the evening to my parents. "You've heard from all the men in your life," Mum commented. Chris, the ex (at the time of our involvement, by way of explanation, I said told her we were "sort of going out"; this explanation kind of failed when she learnt that he was actually going out with Michelle, though). Bryn, the boyfriend. And Tony, the friend I see most often . . . although no one else seems to believe there's nothing else going on.

Chris, always one to advocate dodginess, regardless of circumstance, asked, "Why not?" Bryn verbally fantasized about our deeds. (He is a strange, strange boy.) Tony's parents are convinced we're involved, and according to the girl who works in Old Spar, who's another Twisted Wheel attendee, some bloke there was convinced Tony was hitting on me. So I wouldn't be surprised if my parents suspected more than friendship, since they probably think I'm a moral-less geen.

Ok, our deeds may be open to misinterpretation. And everyone believed me and Will were more than just friends, long before we started going to the cinema together, so I know it doesn't take much to give people the wrong idea. But hello? He's gay and I'm steadfastly otherwise involved. And even if this wasn't the case, aren't a male and female allowed to be just friends? Heurgh.

(Speaking of otherwise involved, some bloke who calls himself "A Lonely Guy At UKC" and "Mr X.XXX" appears to be hitting on me via e-mail. This is very weird, not least because he found me through Yahoogroups. There's a link on it to my homepage, so he could know something of who I am - but one of the things it says in my Yahoogroups profile is that I'm in a long term relationship. Does he really think he has a chance?)

Anyway, I asked my parents if Bryn could stay and miraculously received their permission in an instant. But when I reported this to Bryn, he changed his mind, and said he couldn't really afford it. Sensibly, I pointed out that it may also tire him. Part of the reason we're not seeing The Cure on Saturday (the other part being the astronomical cost of tickets - they're £35, and I refuse on principle to pay more than £20 for a gig, unless there's going to be a terrific stage show. And I didn't even want to fork out £20 to see Rammstein for a second time (properly; it would be the third time I'd attempted to see them)) is because we're going to Eurorock the following Thursday, and don't want to be exhausted. (Since seeing The Cure would definitely mean Slimelight afterwards.) Extensive travel is draining too.

Still. Blarg. I was looking forward to an impromptu visit. Oh well, I'm meant to be seeing my dear wife Smillurrr at some point in the next three days, so I suppose I'll live. If I must.

Friday 26 July 2002

Managed to sleep till 11.10. Wrote dream, went to work. Did some filing. This was such a novelty that when I was forced to do more anti-filing an hour later, I accidentally kept on filing stoof instead. It wasn't too disastrous, though. Went home, went online. I haven't completely abandoned my reclusive ways, you know.

Saturday 27 July 2002

I spent all day writing journal entries. In the evening, denied of my two most loyal AOLIM chatting companions (Bryn was roleplaying in a field with some old friends of his, and I only talk to Twi every other day), I decided to log onto MSN Messenger.

This is not something I do more than about once a year, for the simple reason that I have about forty contacts on it, and chatting to more than three people at once makes my fingers fall off (I've become such a wimp - I used to be able to manage seven conversations at a time) and the likelihood of finding more than three of my contacts online is fairly high.

Somehow, however, I managed to converse with Tony, Ben, Carey and Mikey for a little while without loss of digits. Then, fortunately, they all started to abandon me, except Carey, to whom I happened to mention that there was a rock night about to take place at The Twisted Wheel.

His response was along the lines of, "There's A ROCK NIGHT Happening At THE TWISTED WHEEL, TONIGHT? Why Didn't You Tell Me?" I explained that 1) there's three every week so it's not that big a deal and 2) the one on Saturday night costs £3 to get in (while the others are free) and isn't very good, but I said I'd go if he wanted to, and, desperate to shed his Wheel virginity once and for all, he agreed.

As I got ready to go, Ben came back online, so I asked if he wanted a lift there. He ummed and ahhed and we made hazy arrangements for about twenty minutes, until seconds before I left, when he said no, he wouldn't go, he didn't have anything to wear. This situation, I am told, is apparently quite normal of him. Oddness.

Met Carey, stood in corridor and talked (as it's too noisy in the nightclub itself), danced to "Linch Pin", "Shinobi Vs Dragon Ninja" and "Toxicity" (somewhat embarrassing, since most of the conversations I have with Carey revolve around the general pantsness of nu metal), and ran into someone I went to school with. Although he'd heard I'd gone goth (from who, I'm not sure, since none of my olde skool friends know anything of the extent of my goffeekness) he was rather astounded to see me at a rock night, and me even moreso to see him present. Further oddness.

Unfortunately, after about two hours there, I started having difficulty breathing. This was really weird, because I can't think what caused it. It can't have been cigarette smoke, because whenever I go out, I'm surrounded by it, and it's never caused a problem before. It can't have been the smoke machine, because at The Pit, Bryn aims to prevent anyone from seeing their own hands, and that night, I was a long way away from it. It can't have been the cold I had, because I had it worse three days earlier when I went to The Wheel and was fine. Whatever it was, the only reasonable plan was to leave the club, and after that, I started to feel better. Odd, and most unwelcome. I prayed for this not to happen again, since, as you can gather, rock nights are my life so becoming allergic to them would suck. But I ended up being fine at Eurorock (except right at the end), the Beercart Arms twice, a concert in a very cosy venue, Slimelight and The Twisted Wheel twice, so I think it was a one-off thing, fortunately.

Sunday 28 July 2002

Went round to Tony's house for a bit, where I made a surreal Lego sculpture, got very disturbed by one of his parents' fish (the front half is bright PINK and the back half is yellow - as if bring PINK wasn't a disturbing enough colour for a fish in the first place, the whole entity looked Very Wrong, like the front half of one fish sewn to the back half of another) and watched a bit of a pants horror film called "Carnival Of Souls".

Then I went to Carlisle to meet Smillurrr!!! Despite my departure time not accounting for the fact that 1) I'd have to fill the car up and 2) I'd lose the car keys and spend three minutes searching for them, I arrived at the cinema before she did. On my way there, a boy who looked about ten asked me out. When she arrived, there was still half an hour before the film started, so we went to the pub next door, where we got hit on by a bloke who thought we were lesbians, just because we'd arranged to meet each other in Carlisle. Riiiiiight. He also refused to believe that Camilla was Smill's real name. I successfully managed to get him to leave us alone by pointing out we used to go to the posh school, though. Works every time. We talked for a while, then saw "Austin Powers 3" which had funny moments, but was generally complete pants.

Monday 29 July 2002

Worked at shop.

Tuesay 30 July 2002

Went back down south, to stay with my beloved until his parents were due to get back from holiday (22 August). Spent the train journey reading Nick Cave's biography (which Ibid lent me about ten months ago) and spent the evening watching Dragonball episodes. And stuff.

Wednesday 31 July 2002

While Bryn was at work, I messed around on the computer, and prepared for Eurorock, which we'll set off for the next morning. In the evening, we went to the cinema, to see "Men In Black II". Bryn was very enthusiastic about this - not so much the film, but the fact that it would be shown on screen 2 of Sittingbourne cinema, which he really wanted to show me, on the grounds that it's the pantsest cinema screen ever. Unfortunately, when we arrived, we discovered that it was actually only showing on alternate days, and today wasn't one of them. On the other days, "Stuart Little 2" was showing, and we decided that even the prospect of getting to see The Glory That Is Screen 2 didn't make this worth viewing.

Despite meaning to get an early night, we didn't end up going to bed until 11.30, since Bryn decided to see if "Army Of Darkness" worked. It should be pointed out that we have been trying to watch "Army Of Darkness" ever since October 2000, when we found a copy on the university shared network, but only the first two minutes worked. (This didn't prevent Bryn from watching them about twenty times, though, in the hope of getting to see minute three.) He's recently got a copy off KaZaA, which also seemed faulty, but this time, all was good . . . but he ended up watching the first half hour. I tried to sleep, but the sounds coming from it made it slightly difficult.