Leaving Andy's house I was struck by the sudden oven-heat of the day. Where had this come from? Yesterday was the usual white and drizzly gloom, lukewarm and sick, but stepping out of Andy's house was like walking into the middle of summer. Hungover-hungry and riddled with hungover-indecision (I ended up buying some 50p cheese and onion rolls) I headed home.
Fortunately the bedsit was kind of tidy, and after finishing my unhealthy snack, I got into bed, pulled the covers over me and went to sleep for a few hours. It was a strange sleep though, shot through with dreams I can't recall now, and I kept waking every so often, with a sudden conviction there was something incredibly important I had to do, but couldn't remember what. This amusing, but irritating anxiety eventually led to me getting back up at about 6:00pm. I was still hungover, and felt oddly out-of-synch with my body, and, despite the fact I had spent most of the day sleeping, utterly exhausted.
I sat on my bed for a while, and wondered why my bedsit was so uncosy, so unhomely, so unrelaxing. There is a great word in the German language that sums up how the bedsit makes me feel, and that is 'unheimlich' (sp). It translates, I think as 'unhomely' but there is also a string flavour of the uncanny about it too... but it does sum up how the bedsit makes me feel, very much ill-at-ease and uncomfortable in an oddly haunted fashion.
I ruminated on such thoughts for a while before deciding to head over to Em's place, who is at her nephew's christening in Worcester for the weekend.
What a revelation.
After a shower (thanks Em) I lay on her bed by the window reading 'Living Nowhere' by John Burnside, and drinking a cup of tea and cocunut juice (not from the same cup). The window was shut, and the noises of the street seemed far, far away... Compared to the bedsit it felt luxuriantly private.
I left her place reluctantly to find a phone box to call her. It was very surreal being outside. The air was thick with that still, heavy heat most often associated with August. It was 9:00pm and still light, and the pubs and bars down Western Road were packed with drinkers... and the usual vulgarians that Brighton attracts. I saw one such specimen stagger up Western Road with those curious 'spidery' movements they do when drinking. Barechested, ridiculously sunburnt, he spat on the pavement and took a swig from his can of Special Brew.
I finally found a phone box that worked by Waitrose. Well, it didn't work actually; it took my 60pence and gave me no dial-tone, but I got Em to phone me back there. Public phone boxes are weird and unpleasant things. This one -as they all do- stank of piss and vomit, and the glass of the windows seemed to be being attacked by some kind of virulent mould. Above the phone itself there was a prostitute's card advertising a 'pre-op transsexual full fantasy wardrobe' .
I was glad to leave the phone box.
I headed down the beach, thinking a quiet walk to the garage by the swimming pool would be pleasant. Despite the gathering darkness, the boulevard, beach and lawns were packed with people. The thought of too-many people was decidedly unpleasant, and the hangover-exhaustion was kicking in again so I came back to the bedsit instead, to a dinner of
smoked mussels, boiled potatoes and mayonnaise.
And now, hopefully, the last hangover-indecision riddle of the day to solve; a last cup of tea or just straight to bed?
Another cup of tea I think, just to give me another half hour of weekend...
