Someone rings at 7.15, but hangs up when I answer. Have an idea who it is, though, so not really bothered. I m sure I have his number somewhere, but I don t want to engage with him. Why ring someone to say don t ring me? He s just a lonely fucked-up kid. Forget about him. Decide not to go to gym, even though I m awake early enough, but listen to the radio news instead. The bed feels more comfortable than usual. It s King Hussein s funeral. Other than that, a normal Monday.
Cycle to my therapist s. The air is cold, and I wear two scarves and a woolly hat. First time I ve needed to this winter. Tell my therapist a dream that I gave birth to myself, all 12 stone of me, complete with shaven head and Doc Martens. Painful but worth it, I tell him, and we smile. See you in a fortnight, I tell him, as I leave the cheque on the table. I give him a hug. Don t often do that. Two years pouring your heart out to someone means something.
Cycle to one of my jobs, and spend an hour or two there, chatting, going through some old press clippings to take home to work with. While I m there I fail to make a computer work properly, which depresses me because I m usually a bit of a whizz with them. Decide, not for the first time, that Bill Gates deserves to die. Go home, picking up a 2 kilo bag of catfood on the way. I ran out of the stuff on the Friday, and they ve not been pleased with the shop-bought substitute over the weekend. Cats really know how to let you know that they re pissed off.
At the vets the new receptionist asks me for my name, and she looks me up on the computer. I d forgotten that I d changed the name of one of my cats since they were kittens. Could I change the record? I ask. Sure. He s not Plato anymore, I say, cringing at the pretentiousness of the name. He s now Buster. He s not really a thinker, I explain. She doesn t really get it. But it s OK.
I go home, dump the uneaten stuff from their bowl, and feed them. They re looking well. I dip my toes into cyberspace just long enough to pick up some e-mails, and I respond to a few. A couple are from people I ve met from the various evening classes and groups I ve joined over the past few weeks; I m pleased that e-mail exists as a means to tentatively find out if you have the slightest thing in common with anyone. It appears that I do.
But as it s copy date, I m in limbo. Can t get on with other work; have to come up with something to say. Trouble is, no mental post-it note has been posted in my brain over the past fortnight. No angle on a story, no peculiar encounter. Some lovely people, like Kevin s Mum who s teaching me karate along with a dozen other beginners, in a lesbian and gay karate group. She s 58 and five foot nothing and a black belt. Her son runs the main group, and very well he does it too. But that s not a story, it s three sentences.
So it s that staring-at-a-blank-screen shite. Unbearable. Feel empty.
Decide not to bother for a while. Something will crop up. Have lunch. Baked beans on yesterday s heated up olive bread. Get a phonecall from a friend. We discuss the importance of doing the washing up, while doing the washing up. It s a Zen thing. We both had been thinking about it during the week. Synchronicity, she said. Another phonecall from a tutor at college to say that something I had sent her was splendid . Good-oh.
Still don t know what to write.
I m not going to get anything done. Go to the gym instead. Maybe physical activity will wake my brain up. It s quite busy. Walk fast on a treadmill for a while, then try running gingerly, as my Achilles tendons have been acting up. Don t overdo it. Try to figure out my desired heartrate according to my age and exercise level on the wallchart in front of me while I m running. It tells me that it should be 19. Doesn t make sense; but I don t want to get off the treadmill to read the small print.
Then move to other contraptions; work the muscles, feel the burn, realise that this too could be addictive. Don t connect with anyone there; this is London, after all. Eye-contact a no-no, while working out. It s a macho thing. Even the women do it. It s hard work, this working out. The music helps. Gets blood racing. Heart beating.
Look at a few tattoos around on various bodies, but still haven t found one that I covet. Apart from my friend Ed s stunning tattoo with an anchor and the word Stranger in capital letters across it. But that s an original. Looking at some so-called tribal stuff, I realise that when the 90s are history, those mock-Celtic barbed-wire armbands will still be there. I m glad I ve resisted so far.
Get out of sweaty gear, change into swimming trunks. Out to the outdoor pool. The air is so cold that steam is rising from the water. Swimming in it is surreal; you can only just see the person swimming in front of you above water, through the mist. As much as possible I swim underwater. I don t want to leave, so don t; swim up and down, up and down.
Shower feels good. Not cruisey this time. Someone Spanish is changing beside me; small, with long, curly black hair and a goatee. I look at his pharmaceuticals, lined up on the bench; deodorant, hair oil, after-shave; I don t recognise any of the brands. Feel good that Spain has resisted the multinationals. Then have second thoughts; his bag has Speado written on it. Wonder about copyright law.
Cycle home, stopping off at the supermarket. Feel carnivorous, so go for lamb. Back home, get dinner on. Radio tells me Iris Murdoch is dead. Take out the only book I have of hers, Metaphysics As A Guide to Morals , and put it by my bedside, see if I can get through it this time. Meditate for 15 minutes. Learned TM when I was a teenager; have done it for past month to see if it works to stop me going nuts. Seems to. Feel sleepy afterwards though. Wonder was it the pints I had the night before; but then remember I only had two. Can t be getting that old.
Eat a rich meal in front of television. Even make gravy. Still feel empty. Watch cookery programme and wish I had a bottle of wine with the lamb. I could get addicted to that too. Stay watching wallpaper TV for too long. There is such a thing as too much Carol Vorderman.
Sit down in front of this writing machine, and look outside. Snow is falling. Cats are sleeping. My Stepmother Is An Alien plays in the living room, unwatched. Write this. It s midnight.
A full day. nB