The House That Marky Built

Yes. It seems like I, the last great advocate of living with parents, will soon be moving out. To a flat of my very own, well, aside from the fact that I'll be sharing it with a lad I work with, it will still be my flat. He's just a lodger there. A vital lodger because there's no way I can afford the rent and the bills and still be able to feed myself.

It has sort of come out of the blue. The Guv mentioned it one day and it has just snowballed from there. One simple suggestion from her and it's become reality. I've filled in the application for today so we should be moving in by the end of the month. It's kinda scary, given that I'm nearly 27 and aside from those six months I spent living in Gateshead I've never lived on my own, but it's something I think I need to do. And it's exciting. I'll actually have a living room for living in. I will no longer be living out of my bedroom. I'll have an entire house to fill with books and DVDs.

But it's unfurnished. And how expensive are some things? I've been lucky in that pretty much everyone has been donating odds and ends (a table here, a bookcase there) and Florence still has a lot of stuff kicking around. My Gran's old dining room table, for instance, will be travelling with me, as will the old freezer and a bunch of other stuff. But I need a bed and a whole load of bookcases. Beds (along with tables and sideboards and sofas) are ludicrously expensive, for what they are.

So I got a loan from the bank to cover the bond and some furniture. God, I feel so grown up now. Peace out.

The Architecture Of Morality

The Natalie Situation

Okay. So there was I, the doyen of singledom, out on a date. With a girl. That I liked. How did I get there? Well, as with the whole Alison debacle, it was down to Andrea. She got me to ask Natalie out (not that Natalie from earlier in this blog, but another Natalie - it seems to be a ridiculously comon name among the younger generation, like Clare was among my peers) and we ended up going to Newcastle together on the 23rd December. We looked around shops. She had a little bit of Christmas shopping to do. We did that. Had coffee (I paid). Almost went to the pictures (there was nothing on at a reasonable time). Talked about bands (she's into heavy thrash rock) and what have you. Didn't kiss, didn't hold hands. But that's fine. She's the shy sort. I was happy enough just talking to her. We got the bus home together, she got off at the Mow. I said goodbye, we said we'd see each other later. Saw her the next day when she came into work, exchanged a few words. I texted her on Boxing Day (I had intended to text her on Christmas Eve but I kinda forgot about it and texting Christmas Day - I thought - would seem a little weird and verging on the loony). She never texts back.

I'm still waiting for the reply. She's been in the shop plenty. Said hi, been pleasant enough. But not a word about my text. In fact, after being quizzed by Andrea (you've got to give my boss points) she said I'd never been in touch with her. Then the other day Shaun was talking to her and she was, apparently, saying something about how she wants to get to know me better, blah, blah, blah. Well, what better way to know get to know me than to actually reply to my texts and go out with me? I don't know. Andrea is now firmly of the opinion that she's a bit of a freak and while I still do fancy her (she was in the shop the other day and I couldn't help but stare at her arse) I just don't have the time or energy into chasing after someone who blatantly doesn't know what they want. I'll keep you updated.

School Reunion

Christmas came and went like it most often does with a faint air of disappointment and malaise. Got most of what I wanted, barring a dressing gown. Clare and Richie got me Mass Effect despite saying they hadn't (and leading me to almost buy it for myself the previous Friday) which is occupying most of my 360 time at the minute. Doctor Who was good. Christmas Eve at the pub (the Beamish Mary this year) was not as drunken and revelly as usual, but was a nice catch up. The big surprise this year was a Burnmoor Primary School reunion which was arranged over facebook (ah, the wonders of modern technology - it makes you wonder how people stayed in touch before the internet and how it's made shows like Cilla's Surprise Surprise almost completely redundant. Lost cousin in Australia? Just log on to Facebook, he's probably on there. You can friend him, fight his vampire and poke him all in the space of five minutes). Despite a massive response on Facebook in the end only Blades, Emma, myself (obviously), Gemma, Jav and Mesh turned up. Now Blades and Emma I still see regularly enough (although not nearly as often as I would like) but I haven't seen the other three since we left 6th Form, possibly even - in the case of Mesh - since we finished our GCSE's and it's a sobering thought to realise that that was eleven years ago now. Gemma is back up home after living away whereas we've just lost touch with Mesh and Jav. It was a lot of fun, more fun than I thought it would be. I was approaching the evening with a sense of anticipation but also dread (mainly due to the possible attendance by people from my past who I would rather stay buried, but who didn't, in the event, turn up anyway). There was still my ever-present depression at the evidence that these people, who are the same age as me and went through so many of the same formative experiences (I mean, I remember Jav's terrible homesickness on our first night in France during the top year juniors and I remember spending the night at Mesh's house - he was one of the first people I knew who got Sky and I became obsessed with Clarissa Explains It All, this was back when it tooks years - not months - for shows to come across from America) have made so much more of their lives than I have. Jav is living with someone in their own house. Gemma has been married and divorced (and is far fitter than I remember).

The only black note on the evening is that when we got home, Emma texted me and told me she could tell I fancied Gemma. Very true. She's emminantly fanciable. I then went on to state - not in a self-pitying way, I have to say - that she would never go out with someone like me. This whole conversation (which was reprised at the weekend following a trip to the beach to celebrate New Year before everyone went their separate ways again) descended into Emma basically trying to convince me that there's someone out their for me and me wallowing in a pool of misery wondering why - if there indeed was someone out there for me - hadn't I found them yet? Later, after the beach, Emma claimed that I fancied everyone (blatantly not true) and how was anmyone to know that they were special if I was perving over everyone anyway and that I should go for someone in my league. Which is a polite way of saying that I'm too ugly to attract someone like Gemma and that I should set my sights a little lower on someone uglier and more desperate.

None of which I agree with, by the by. I've never gone for any of this league bollocks. You're attracted to who you're attacted to. It's got nothing to do with leagues or anything rational. Beauty, as the age old adage goes, is in the eye of the beholder. And anyway, foregoing any of the 'superficial' arguments for the minute, I know I'm not fantastic looking, but I'm not too bad.

Moving On

The biggest news in my life at the moment, and the thing which is occupying most of my non-working time, is the fact that I'm moving out. To the flat above the shop. Brad is moving out this month and Iput my name down for it, along with Shaun, because I couldn't really afford it by myself (I could pay the rent and all the bills but I wouldn't be able to buy food). It's a good thing. I'm finally getting my own place, so I'll have freedom and be able to do whatever I want to do. Not that I'll be having women over every night simply by virtue of having my own flat, but it feels good, to know that soon I'll have my own space and I won't be answerable to anyone. Going to work will also be a doddle and there's a night bus which runs between Chester and Newcastle that would facilitate proper nights out.

I feel like I need this. I'm going to be twenty seven in just under five weeks. Thirty is just around the corner and I'm too damn old to be living with my mother. Strictly speaking I'm too damn old to never have had a proper long term relationship. Which reminds me. Valentine's Day. Fuck. There is a certain someone who I was going to send a card to but Andrea quietly pointed out to me that I have no real reason to believe that she even likes me that much, let alone fancies me. One drunken boob flash might be enough to give me a crush on her, but it might mean nothing to her. God knows. So, it looks like I'll be having another lonely VD. But it can't get worse han last year with my text to Stef and her non-reply leading to my ten mile trek around the wonders of Co Durham, culminating in a trudge through the woods at the back of Penshaw Monument in the middle of the night, when it's pitch black only for me to go into work the following day, find out she had no credit on her phone but that she didn't want to go out for a drink with me anyway. And don't get me started on her slow puncture 'I'm sorta seeing someone' bollocks rejection, because I know for a fact she wasn't seeing anyone. A couple of weeks beforehand I made some subtle investigations into her relationship status.

It's just me. I'm constantly attracted to women who treat me like crap. I mean, take Alison. I really thought we had something - there was talk of holidays and stuff. I gave myself (emotionally) to her more than I had thought possible. And then she goes and dumps me by text not once, but twice. The first time because she thought the age gap was too much and the second (the text received when I was in Oxford with Blades waiting for the coach to London, leading to a night of drunken bitterness with Blades, Amy and Ali in Maida Vale, public urination following a large Sprite from McDonald's and a conversation with an equally drunk lesbian on the Tube - I spent much of that day wandering around in a daze, ready to burst into tears at any point, I had to sit down in Tate Modern because it was all just getting too much for me. Blades, for his part when I confessed this to Amy said that I'd seemed okay all day - there's something to be said for being taciturn) because she thought I was more serious about the relationship than I was but which, I think, can be traced back to a very late night conversation over the phone - possibly involving some small measure of phone sex, I don't really care to remember - which, when we were saying out goodnights, an 'I love you,' slipped from between my lips. She said nothing for a few seconds and then said 'I don't know if I can say that yet...'. What blissful irony, being that it's usually the man who hides his feelings. Which leads us to...

You Can't Get There From Here

Why did I tell Alison I loved her? Was I being honest when I said it? Well, it just came out, and I'm of the opinion that if something slips out like that, then it's generally meant. Like a Freudian slip (which always reminds me of Meg Ryan in D.O.A., back when she was still young a cute - well, this is supposed to be a film-y blog, I have to get some stuff in somewhere otherwise it's just my boring-ass life). But the truth is, I don't know. She dumped me soon after so all my feelings for and about her are messed up. But I think the intent was there.

And you know why? I think it's because I've been without anyone for so long (before Alison my last experience with a woman was a couple of fumbles with my sister's friend Karen back when I was living in Gateshead - three and a half years separate those two women and there's a mammoth gap of eight and a half years between Sarah and Alison) that I latched on to the first person who showed me a bit of attention. It's a long tradition with me. I've always crushed on people who were nice and compassinate to me, and it's gotten so bad now that most of the time I can't tell the difference between a girl just being nice and them fancying me. Mostly I think they're just being nice. Take Stef for instance. The very first shift we ever worked together, in the dim and distant past of October 2006. We got on great and when I had locked the shop up, before we went to our respectives lifts, she hugged me. Hugged. Me. Let us pause for a second to let that sink in. People generally aren't very tactile with me. My mother isn't a touchy-feely person and neither is my sister. I like being touched though and I like touching people. Emma would probably, at this point, interject with some smart arse remark about groping, but it's not about groping, it's about contact with other living beings. It's about know, on a physical level that you're not alone in the universe, which is something I feel an awful lot.

I would, at this point, point out the wonderful irony that my relationship with Alison ended because I told her I loved her and that my relationship with Sarah ended because I couldn't tell her that, but it's late and I'm already fucked off enough as it is. And, to be honest with you, it's my life, and as much as it might resemble a French farce or one of the pretentiously grim student films where nothing ever actually happens, it's my fucking life and I'm sick of it.

Peace out.