After a year away I have come to the decision to stop writing an entry every day. This has come about twofold; one, because I’ve fallen into something of a rut and have very little interesting to say, and two, I’m boring both myself and you, dear readers, with trivialities. Therefore in an effort to improve the quality of my writing, from now on forth I shall limit entries to interesting days. Interesting days like last Friday.
Remember my friend James Peter Alden? Well he’s not my friend, because he’s me. Rather he is an extension of me, an alter ego if you will. I can make him do what I want, and protect myself at the same time. I’ve either been inspired by Bukowski, or I’m doing it to look cool. That and it allows me poetic licence and plausible deniability. If I say that Alden has had a sex session with five hookers fueled by a diet of booze and cocaine, then it probably didn’t happen.
So my creation met a really nice girl. Was it real? Well. I suppose in order to explain quite simply the best date I’ve ever been on, I’d better come clean. Only there is a slight problem, in the time it’s taken to see her again, I’ve been told she’s in love with some other dude and there’s no point. She refuses dinner, but somehow she agrees to go for a drink with me. It’s time to pull out the big guns.
On the Thursday night I fell into a hole. I’ve gashed my right hand and scraped filth down the side of my jeans. Consequently a new pair is required, however, my sister has managed to send me through the wrong debit card, so I’m living on borrowed funds until the new one arrives. I need to get new jeans and survive the date with little money. Somehow this turn of events has coincided with the need to do some off feet sweeping. Anything less just won’t cut it.
I’m running around like a headless chicken looking for a good bottle of wine, strawberries and a pair of jeans. I’m also not thinking at all straight, jittering nervously and doing bizarre things like staring at tins of olives for five minutes with a blank look. I’ve gone into the shower with my toothbrush. This can mean only one thing. I’m nervous. I’m never nervous.
So the plan is meet her for drinks, then whisk her away to the park for a midnight picnic. I’ve borrowed a blanket, corkscrew and single candle from the hostel, and managed to buy jeans, strawberries and a nice red. A friend in a local bar lends me two wine glasses. I’m all set. I’m pacing the room. As an afterthought, I bring my guitar. The last time I did something remotely like this I dated the girl for three years. Not to hex it or anything. Hopefully she’s not a Gemini and her parents are still together.
It’s all or nothing. She looks at me with a little mistrust as I’m carrying a rucksack and a guitar. I’m either going to blow her mind with the romance of it all, or it’ll go down like a lead balloon. She tells me the guitar brings bad memories of her real father and she’s recently been attacked in the park. At least she’s an Aries.
Nonetheless she decides I’m not a serial killer, and following a couple of drinks and entertaining conversation we make the short walk to what turns out is her favourite park. It’s a clear and relatively warm night, and the lights among the leaves are adding to the ambiance. With her refusal to come to dinner, out comes the mysterious bag of goodies, flourishing with sticking the candle in the grass to bring dinner to her. Well, strawberries and red wine at least. Removing the cork from the corkscrew, I’ve also pulled out a biro pen to write the date on it. OK so I was bordering on some serious cheese, but the wine wasn’t helping. I’ve asked her to describe the night with one word, then I let her keep the cork. “Perfect”.
As dates go, it was the best I’ve ever had. I’ve finished with playing her my favourite song on the guitar, just for maximum ham and cheese, but in spite of this it’s clear she’s had a wonderful evening. I walk her home hand in hand through the trees and a hedgehog crosses our path. I hope they’re as lucky as black cats.
The perfect date
After a year away I have come to the decision to stop writing an entry every day. This has come about twofold; one, because I’ve fallen into something of a rut and have very little interesting to say, and two, I’m boring both myself and you, dear readers, with trivialities. Therefore in an effort to improve the quality of my writing, from now on forth I shall limit entries to interesting days. Interesting days like last Friday.
Remember my friend James Peter Alden? Well he’s not my friend, because he’s me. Rather he is an extension of me, an alter ego if you will. I can make him do what I want, and protect myself at the same time. I’ve either been inspired by Bukowski, or I’m doing it to look cool. That and it allows me poetic licence and plausible deniability. If I say that Alden has had a sex session with five hookers fueled by a diet of booze and cocaine, then it probably didn’t happen.
So my creation met a really nice girl. Was it real? Well. I suppose in order to explain quite simply the best date I’ve ever been on, I’d better come clean. Only there is a slight problem, in the time it’s taken to see her again, I’ve been told she’s in love with some other dude and there’s no point. She refuses dinner, but somehow she agrees to go for a drink with me. It’s time to pull out the big guns.
On the Thursday night I fell into a hole. I’ve gashed my right hand and scraped filth down the side of my jeans. Consequently a new pair is required, however, my sister has managed to send me through the wrong debit card, so I’m living on borrowed funds until the new one arrives. I need to get new jeans and survive the date with little money. Somehow this turn of events has coincided with the need to do some off feet sweeping. Anything less just won’t cut it.
I’m running around like a headless chicken looking for a good bottle of wine, strawberries and a pair of jeans. I’m also not thinking at all straight, jittering nervously and doing bizarre things like staring at tins of olives for five minutes with a blank look. I’ve gone into the shower with my toothbrush. This can mean only one thing. I’m nervous. I’m never nervous.
So the plan is meet her for drinks, then whisk her away to the park for a midnight picnic. I’ve borrowed a blanket, corkscrew and single candle from the hostel, and managed to buy jeans, strawberries and a nice red. A friend in a local bar lends me two wine glasses. I’m all set. I’m pacing the room. As an afterthought, I bring my guitar. The last time I did something remotely like this I dated the girl for three years. Not to hex it or anything. Hopefully she’s not a Gemini and her parents are still together.
It’s all or nothing. She looks at me with a little mistrust as I’m carrying a rucksack and a guitar. I’m either going to blow her mind with the romance of it all, or it’ll go down like a lead balloon. She tells me the guitar brings bad memories of her real father and she’s recently been attacked in the park. At least she’s an Aries.
Nonetheless she decides I’m not a serial killer, and following a couple of drinks and entertaining conversation we make the short walk to what turns out is her favourite park. It’s a clear and relatively warm night, and the lights among the leaves are adding to the ambiance. With her refusal to come to dinner, out comes the mysterious bag of goodies, flourishing with sticking the candle in the grass to bring dinner to her. Well, strawberries and red wine at least. Removing the cork from the corkscrew, I’ve also pulled out a biro pen to write the date on it. OK so I was bordering on some serious cheese, but the wine wasn’t helping. I’ve asked her to describe the night with one word, then I let her keep the cork. “Perfect”.
As dates go, it was the best I’ve ever had. I’ve finished with playing her my favourite song on the guitar, just for maximum ham and cheese, but in spite of this it’s clear she’s had a wonderful evening. I walk her home hand in hand through the trees and a hedgehog crosses our path. I hope they’re as lucky as black cats.