I wrote this the year before I met Sean, a homage if you will to Helen Fielding but a slightly different perspective and obviously seasonal. It's in three parts, so I shall post them consecutively before Christmas.
Tuesday 24th December – Christmas Eve
Weight: 13.10 (De-hydration) Calories: 1,800 (most of it chocolate coated) Fags: 25 (am saving myself) Alcohol Units: 0 (excellent) No. Of Boyfriends: 0
9.10am Oh dear. Have woken up on sofa with empty bottle of vodka and surrounded by pine needles. For some reason I feel remarkably lucid although I am a little flummoxed as to why my Jesus Action Figure has a Radio Times picture of Brad Pitt stuck on it’s face at the top of the Christmas tree. Am seriously troubled by what various psychiatrists may also make of this. Fortunately none are expected for breakfast.
11.20am After a long bath and refreshing breakfast of warm orange juice I decide I really ought to go to bed early tonight in order to be bright and breezy for my Christmas Day chores.
12.50pm Flat is looking particularly tidy at the moment and the tree makes the whole room smells of pine. I decide that now may be a good time to set video for all the programmes I will miss over Christmas Day. Ooo, a phone call.
1.15pm That was Euan who has returned to his parent’s castle in Scotland. Says he is bored already and did I want to fly up to meet him. As tempting as that seemed I reminded him of my duties to the homeless of London. He was very sweet and told me to fly up for New Year’s Eve. I doubt whether I will though, as it tends to get pretty nippy up there and may seriously hamper my chances of pulling somebody who might be more than a one-night-stand.
5.50pm Have spent the last hour trying to decide what to wear tomorrow. They suggest that you dress warmly and with layers that may be removed should you get too hot when working in the various areas of the hostel. Eventually I settle for something that fits. I had better check my e-mail for some last minute seasonal messages.
6.15pm Gahhhhhhh. I have an offer of a lift from a charming woman from Carlshalton who is passing through Streatham on her way to the centre. She will pick me up, along with two others, at seven in the morning. Bugger. Now I will have to go outside in the rain and cancel the taxi. Still think of the money I will save. I grab my cigarettes and hurriedly run down the stairs as my mobile rings downstairs.
6.30pm In hurry to get to mobile I fall arse over tit down the stairs. Swearing, I answer to hear gunfire in the background.
‘Dylan? Are you alright?’
‘Marsh? Hello? Where are you and what’s all that noise?
‘Oh, just fireworks. I just wanted to say happy Christmas before the big day.’
‘I fell down the stairs. You sound like you’re in a war zone. Where are you?
‘Norwich, of course. Have you been drinking again?’
I explain that I just slipped on the stairs and he says he has to dash. Ohhhhh, I think I pulled something in my back. Am v. suspicious of Marshall’s whereabouts over the holiday. He says that he is in Norwich but I sense that he has been flown to sort out terrorists in anti-capitalist state. Story about being football journalist reporting on Norwich City match simply doesn’t ring true. What do gay men know about football apart from usual Beckham trivia?
7.40pm Must sleep now as I have a really early start in the morning.
No comments:
Post a Comment