The highlight of my journey to work on the Motorbike is passing by Lambeth Cemetery. It’s a very beautiful plot and has a wonderful sense of gothic otherness about it, especially in winter when the mist seeps between the snaggletooth graves, in the spring the flowers beam through the silence of death. I find it absurdly comforting.
This morning I nearly found myself in there. As I was approaching the grand entrance a fucking Hearse began to perform a right hand turn cutting directly across my path, at the last moment he saw me (how on earth he failed to spot 2 large burning headlights is of concern) and braked sharply. I too braked hard and as I passed by was in the perfect position to hurl a tirade of abuse at the gormless driver, this was negated on account of the fact the Hearse was with a stiff passenger and following it were a pile of dour looking relatives. See? I do care.
I don’t have a hangover this morning and I’ve no idea why. Last night I met my mate from up the road and we enjoyed a few pints, chatting about the Budget, slavery –in its contemporary incarnation- and discussing other words for knobcheese (He-dam, Purple Leicester etc.,) Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a couple eating. First off, unless it’s lunchtime and one is desperate, eating in pubs is weird. I don’t care how fucking good the starter is, how many times the words ‘gourmet’ and ‘gastro’ are used in the menu it’s a strange, weird even obscene thing to do. Pubs are for getting pissed in, bag of crisps maybe, not adverse to the odd roasted peanut but pan-fried scallops in a balsamic jus, up your arsehole.
This couple were eating. They were in their early 30’s late 20’s at a push, fairly average looking pair; she had the upper hand in the aesthetic stakes dressed in black (which probably means she had an arse the size of Croydon, I couldn’t see as she was, a. sat on it, b. it was dark) and he looked like a wanker. What was remarkable about this pair is that they ate the entire fucking meal without speaking. Not a word.
I’ve chosen to be single, now at times I do question this decision but observing a couple eating in silence and not saying a fucking word acted as one of those little epiphany moments. They’d obviously had a row or were about to split up. He was eating like a Russian peasant who’d not seen bread in a week; she presided over her meal with the same expression as if picking snot off her tits, probably. Whilst discussing bullying with my mate I ran through a short spontaneous list of reasons to be single and had the foresight to note them down when I arrived home.
There’s one right there, being able to come and go as one pleases, sleeping alone in a double bed is fucking brilliant, especially in the morning, having a loud poo without so much as a passing thought to the sensitive ears and noses of others, eating what one wishes as and when, no rows ever and not having to appease oneself, 24 hour masturbation schedule, free use of the remote, hi-fi, radio etc., I could go on, actually I will. Making plans without negotiation, negotiation, period. Periods, having to deal with spontaneous acts of irrationality/hostility, expense, awkward silences which is just one of the things the couple sat eating in the pub were experiencing backed up by a selection of the above.
I left the pub feeling rather pleased with myself and celebrated (again) with a drop of wine and a spliff. Better still, it’s Friday and the weekend’s plans are becoming apparent. Doubtless I’ll update the blog on Sunday so you can read all about it then. Right, I need a shit so leave me alone.
