In which The Author is undecided
Since I posted my thoughts earlier on the unexpected death of Rob C., yet another friend who was taken from us far too young, (see Death of a Clown) I’ve been in a bit of a strange mood. Part of me feels like going out and getting totally shit-faced drunk. I don’t especially want to go to the Prince, as it’s Thursday, and that’s usually Lunatics Day in the Valleys (see I Don’t Like Thursdays.) Then again, it’s Karaoke in the ShiteLighthouse. Since Rob and I first met at a karaoke night, albeit in a different pub in a different town, I’m tempted to go along and give National Express a blast in his memory.
When I say we met in a different town, I don’t mean that we were on a day trip somewhere. I mean that Aberdare was a very different town in those days. Everything’s changed. All the pubs have taken a change for the worse, and there probably won’t be anyone around whom I know. The gang who’ve gone to Rob’s funeral in Sussex won’t be back for ages, even if they come home tonight. It’ll probably be a shit Thursday night, just like all the others I’ve tried this year.
Part of me feels like going home, locking the door, making something to eat, and going straight to bed. As Tony Hancock didn’t quite say, I’ll take two of my pills and wake up on Saturday. The trouble is, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon. 30mg of Mirtazapine is enough to fry my brain on a normal evening. Double the dose could be a recipe for disaster.
It’s curry night in Thereisnospoonorwifi, so I won’t even bother looking through the door. It’ll be especially crowded tonight, with the post A-Levels and pre-university crowd getting pissed together before they go their separate ways in a couple of weeks’ time. I remember doing that (just!) Every so often I meet someone who recognises me from school, and who mentions a load of names I remember only vaguely, if at all. It happened a couple of weeks ago. I ran into someone from school when I was passing the Library, and he dredged up some memories which I’d much rather had stayed buried. Next time I run into him, I hope I’ll be in a car.
Then there’s the possibility of a day out. My proofreading invoices were finally paid earlier today (see The Perils of a Proofreader, so I’ve got some cash for a change. Mind you, by the time I pay back Gema and Rhian and Rowland what they’ve subbed me recently, there won’t be much left. (I’m fairly sure I can pay Rowland back a portion of his loan for now, and give him the rest again.)
But there’d still be enough spare for a quick day trip. The British Library is currently hosting an exhibition on the history of propaganda, and it closes in a fortnight. I had an email from them earlier, reminding me that it was coming to an end. I’m very tempted to go up. There are fairly cheap coach fares from Cardiff to London, and I’d have a few hours in London to take in the exhibition before coming back down. I could go up early in the morning and come back in time for the last train.
Alternatively, I could go up in the morning, visit the exhibition, maybe go to see some live music (in a place which opens till fairly late), and then walk around London taking night photos.
I haven’t been in the centre of London late at night since 2001, when a gang of us went to see The League of Gentlemen in the Theatre Royal. Before the minibus picked us up, I walked down to the river and stood on Waterloo Bridge like Terence Stamp, looking at the fantastic skyline all around me. I could probably find an all-night café and kill a couple of hours before catching the early coach back. I’d be back home by lunchtime the following day. Not a bad plan.
So, what do I do for the next six hours or so? Decisions, decisions? Even now, I can feel those parallel universes branching out ahead of me in all directions. Which one will I end up in? Watch this space, folks…
An Autobiography in Random Chapters 