One year later

Where it went wrong with Andy Taylor, I can't tell you any more than you already know - one day he's talking to me, the next he isn't, and there's no money forthcoming... but it's time to forget all that. The man almost died last week. And as much as I may have wished it upon him last year, the anger and the hatred pass eventually, and I'm left feeling sorry for him and wishing him a speedy recovery as a friend, not an enemy.

The spirits have a strange way of interacting between the two of us... I knew someone was in hospital for sure - I woke up so panicked and confused on Sunday, I called around the hospitals looking for a friend who I thought was in trouble. My gut was telling me that something was horribly, horribly wrong. I just didn't for one second think it was AT.

I'll never wish death on someone again.
Because when it almost happens, you wind up feeling like shit.

Strange Tales From the Towerblock

A year and a month ago I found myself sat online at 5am one Saturday morning, typing a message to Andy Taylor. I was pretty shaken up - and he was the only person online at the time... I needed to write to someone, and there he was. I don't even think he got round to reading the mail (although it was probably the last one I ever sent him that he failed to take notice of)...

I was a prisoner in my own home. The police had cordoned off our tower block and weren't letting people in or out... and there was a massive pool of blood right outside in the middle of the road...



It transpired later that a guy had been attacked and blinded. 25 year old named Lee Clark. He survived for 7 days after the attack.
(news link)

I blogged about it at the time, but the day he died, I took it down - I felt it wasn't right to be writing so voyeuristically about what the police were doing with little regard for the then nameless, faceless victim. In fact, the whole thing shook me up very badly - something I didn't realise until talking to Carina a few months later. Not because I was scared - I have never felt safer anywhere than I do in my flat here - I love Harlow. The reason it upset me so much is that I felt I was meant to stop this from happening.

I had the balcony door wide open every night April last year, it was a very fresh spring, great weather. What slayed me - if I'd have just gone for a smoke 3 minutes earlier, I would have seen the attack, and maybe I could have done something. If I hadn't turned my music on, if I hadn't got carried away with coding... it felt as if I failed Lee.

CUT TO... this very minute.

It's... just... fucking... - staggering, I think is the word.

If I hadn't lost my phone, I could take a pic, and it's exactly the same scene.

The police are parked in exact same formation.

They've put the cordons exactly where they were last time.

I am still shaking here.

But this time it looks like I'm the only witness they have.

I didn't see the attack, but I saw the attacker both arriving on & leaving the scene. So strange, I am not observant at all, but something made me clock this guy... where he parked his car, the way he looked around before leaving the car (he didn't look up & see me watching him). I am 100% sober & straight right now. I was able to talk to the police without coming across as a hysterical hormonal housewife.

The real strange part, though, is this: April wasn't so good on the weather front this year. Tonight is the first night in over 8 months that I've had my balcony door open. It's a glorious redemption. I don't know anything about the victim as yet, or how serious it is - but the truck has just arrived to take away the attacker's car.

Andy's not online tonight, though... (and nor is anyone else for that matter) - we've spent most of the last 50 hours launching our new website, with very little sleep on the agenda, so I'm guessing he's called it a day.

The website itself? I had this crazy idea last year that artists should receive 100% of the profit from their MP3 sales and also get a share of what the company makes from the people who listen to their songs.

Then AT upped the ante by suggesting we should actually share 100% of the profit that we make from listeners with the bands on the site. That was when we realised we were scaring the shit out of each other with the immensity of what we were planning.

The question was - could I pull it off?
The answer is - rockaffairs.com

From Andy's own blog:

"Not having a distributor taking around 50%+ from sales revenue gives the artist a greater margin & therefore the ability to price competitively at preferred rates... But even more fundamental it gives the audience a direct link to their artists..."
(read more)

If you're an unsigned band or artist it's a great place to promote your music and sell your MP3s. The basic account is free - the accounts with more features start for as little as £4.99 for 3 years (the most expensive being the profit share account at £9.99 for 1 year).

Please do take some time to check it out - Andy has uploaded almost 100 songs from Andy Taylor Studios Ibiza, including some tracks from his forthcoming album - and there are some fucking AWESOME unsigned bands on the site, mostly from the UK, but we're slowly getting all corners of the globe represented.

Back to the subject of events outside - the CID are here now. Another story I've not shared from last year - eager to aid the police in any way with enquiries into Lee's attack, I recalled 5 middle aged men in suits being very rowdy at 3am. Junior police officers starts taking notes, attentively... senior police officer just glares at her.

"WHAT?" she says.

"Those were our CID guys..." the other one replies.

Today, I count my blessings.

The man with the pliers

I meet my men in the strangest of ways.

At 4pm today, I realised I needed keyboard. I had to get the Rainbow Dragon's Theme online somehow, and I figured instead of programming it, it'd be quicker just to play it. Off I head to Cash Concepts where I pick up the cheapest C-A-S-I-O I can lay my hands on. However, there's the small issue of getting it back home.

I remember that there are 4 shopping trolleys lying abandoned outside of the flats, so I leave the keyboard in the shop and walk back to pick one up. They're all linked together, so I put my pound in, and try to free up my trolley of choice, but it isn't budging.

The woman in the flats above gets the wrong impression, and thinks I'm abandoning a trolley, "Take it back!" she screams from the balcony.

"That's what I'm fucking TRYING to do," I scream back equally as irate.

That's when he appeared.

"What is it you are fucking trying to do, love?" He asks in good humour.

I explain that I've put my pound in and I can't get the trolley free.

"I think I have some pliers in the house, wait there," he instructs. Five minutes later he's back with the pliers. He frees up the trolley and - as an added bonus - gets me my pound back.

"I'm Robbie," he says, offering his hand.

"Sarah," I say. Then realising I'm massively attracted to him and his handiwork, I add: "Let me buy you a beer to say thanks."

"You better go get your keyboard first," he says. "Meet you back here about 7pm?"

We meet by the remaining shopping trolleys at 7pm.

This is one of those awkward ones where, if I take it anywhere, I have to be a little serious about it. We're living on each other's doorsteps - I can see his garden from my window.

He's invited me out for Sunday lunch. Very civil. Let's see where it goes.

Turning over a new leaf

A little while before my birthday this year, something happened. I can't describe it adequately... or without coming over as a little strange... but it was like the very last barrier came tumbling down: I was finally free to be myself, all the time, every time, no matter who I was with.

No more holding back, biting my tongue - no more fear of treading on toes or saying the wrong thing... it's a liberation I've sought for many years, but I never even realised I needed it until it happened.

Bad always comes along with good. There's a family tragedy on the horizon, one much bigger for me than outsiders could imagine. I'm trying my best to bring everyone together, but that in itself could cause a lot of heartache.

I'm in good spirits though. Not battling, but gliding along. Next step is getting my health back in order, and then we'll be ready to rock.

I Can't Get No....

Stef was going to come round this evening, but I put him off. The last time he was here, he bought me flowers. Combine that with the “I can’t cope with not seeing you for a fortnight,” and the “I just want you for myself,” and that’s usually all the encouragement I need to back away. A-scurrying I go. With Zibi happily home with his wife (for now…), and Gary also on the backburner, I realised – that was it – I’d finally made my choices, and I’m back to where I was at the start of July. From four to zero in three weeks flat – there’s nobody local I can call on in those hours of need.

Not such a bad thing. I’ve been on self-destruct in that regard for the last six months, another phase I’m through and over. So it’s back to the tried and trusted methods of self-gratification: curtains drawn, candles lit (then put out again, hell, those candles could come in handy, you never know!), porn downloaded, batteries charged, candles relit (wax, baby, wax!)… who needs a man to get things sorted?

3 minutes later, the phone rings:

“Sarah, I really need some dope….” - it’s my landlord. “Can you sell me some?”

“What about Roger?” I ask.

“Roger’s been dry for the last month,” he tells me.

“Ok, sure, come round tomorrow morning, I’ll sort you out,” I tell him.

“Can I come over tonight?” He pleads “I’ve had a really shitty day…”

I tell him I have a lot to do before I go to the US. I tell him I have washing all over the place. The guy is in a right state, though, and after a few minutes I cave – he tells me he’ll be over in half an hour.

If it wasn’t my landlord, this wouldn’t have been so much of a problem, but being my landlord, it means that I have to make an effort to make the place look respectable. Back on with the clothes, back off with the candles, computer reset to some non-pornographic website, and on with the vacuum cleaner for the first time in 5 days. 45 minutes later, he turns up – I give him a baggy and go to shoo him on his way, but he’s so stressed by now, he wants a smoke immediately. An hour later, I finally get him out of the door.

Candles on, then off, then on. Porn on. Clothes off. Easy routine, easy. The porn is shit – it’s hysterical – and I’m laughing so hard I have to turn it off. Time to rely on the good old imagination, but whatever I think about, whoever I think about, it still makes me laugh. Laughing’s good when you’re with other people, but I just wanna get this over and done with now – group, anal, gay, beastiality, forced, bdsm ... nope, nothing's working... then the phone goes again.

It’s my boss. He wants an impromptu discussion about my trip, so it’s back onto to computer once again, I’m sitting there naked, talking business with my boss. Even that isn’t as hot as it sounds, despite the fact I’m getting paid more than the average hooker for this meeting. We’re talking for an hour. We’re talking for an hour and a half. Finally, the meeting is over.

I decide I may as well go to the bedroom to finish this off. It’s been four hours since I decided I needed to do this, and it’s no longer just a whim, it’s a mission. I turn the phone off. I turn the lights off. I reach for the lube and those damned candles…

And then I fall asleep, only to wake at 4am to find my sheets soaked with lube, and with a pain in my back from sleeping on the candles.

Becherovka and the spirit of Sudden

After unsuccessfully trying to stalk a blond tourist I’d taken a fancy to around Mayfair, and missing the last tube home, Lucie and I roll into her place just before the clock strikes 2. I fancy one more before we hit the sack, so she cracks open a bottle of Becherovka and pours three shots.

“Did you pour the third one for a reason?” I ask her, amused at her absentmindedness.

She’s shocked at herself, and can’t explain it away. A picture of Nikki is lying face up on the table, so I dutifully proclaim that the drink is his and she props up his picture against the bottle.

We talk about ghosts. As sceptical as I am, I can’t deny that, in the couple of weeks after his death, it felt like Nikki was around a lot. She tells me about some of the experiences people have had in the room we’re in - figures in the dark, sometimes fighting. It’s like brownies round the camp fire, we’re both getting the chills, and then Patti Smith lets out this god-almighty scream from the CD player and it shocks us into a fit of giggles. We decide enough is a enough, finish our shots, and prepare to go to bed. Nikki’s shot sits untouched on the table.

“C’mon mate, drink up,” I joke. “You must be a bit dry by now!”

“Yeah, he’s not very thirsty is he?” Lucie agreed.

"Just help yourself, dear,” I say, straightening his picture against the bottle. “We’re going to go and get some sleep.”

Lucie’s freaked out as it is, and we lie in bed talking about other stuff ‘til three or four in the morning. There’s a big gap between us – “room for Nikki to squeeze in when he’s finished drinking!” – and eventually sleep takes us over.

When we wake up at 7am, Nikki’s shot still sits untouched on the table.

“Hopeless!” we both proclaim.

Then we happen to look at the bottle, and what should have been a full bottle with just three shots missing is an empty bottle, with about three shots left.

An aside to this: we know that no one is going to take us seriously. In Lucie's own words:

"Yeah,shit,now I try hard to remember what my intention with those 3 shots was... I just had a natural feelin' that there were 3 of us there.. kind of a natural,reassuring ,although slightly eerie sense, but I didn't think of anyone specific,until you suggested Mr Sudden to have a sip with us. We're still sane, aren't we?... It's just that it sound comical to everyone I tell this to!! Grrr... Well, imagine people (especially the ones who know us!haha!) when we simply tell'em that we walked back to our flat after a heavy nite-out at 3 am and then,in the morning, the bottle of Becherovka was empty. It just sounds so bloody convincing that WE drank it! Ohohoh,I'm laughing desperately. This version is IMPOSSIBLE to sell !! Let's face it, sister! :)) (hopeless shrug..) "

Everyone we’ve told individually today has said “oh the two of you just got drunk”, “one of you was sleepwalking”, I’ve even been asked “how volatile is this Becherovka, could it have evaporated?”. We weren’t that drunk at all – Lu was decidedly sober. Neither of us sleepwalk. Becherovka isn’t so volatile.

I’m a sceptic and a cynic, I laugh at most things paranormal, but it's carried on from there. The next day Lucie had a dream about a light airplane crashing into a building, turned on the TV when she woke up, and it had happened. Today, at work, I found myself thinking of Spike (Ian Spice) - a guy I met once in my life, who had very, very minor success with his band, then died a few years later. It had to be the first time in 3 years I'd thought of him, and I was typing his name into the search engine to look over some old pics, then, before the search engine had thrown up the results, one of his hits 'How Can I Fall' (which made it as far as #48 in the charts in 1988) comes on the radio. How random can you get?

Following my dream last week, and what happened with Marky, I'm questioning where I stand.

Poor Lu, hope she remembers to get some more alcohol in for the weekend.

On Sex & Sexism

Sunday morning, I realise that all of my mates have been fucking, and they all feel the need to tell me about it. “I’m knackered,” Ant writes. “That young nympho wanted sex 5 times yesterday. Its relentless, I am an old man, I can't do that any more. She’s insatiable, worse than you – or maybe I’m just crap?” - so I’m writing back to reassure him that he’s far, far from crap when I get a text message from another friend of mine telling me he’s been “filling our buddy to the brim!”. Good for him. Not necessarily so good for her. Then a message arrives from Zibi – “Looks like me & Kasia are working things out, she pounced me last night!”. That’s exactly why I sent him back to Poland, but I still have to roll my eyes. Sex maniacs, the lot of them! Really, when was the last time I told anyone that I’d been shagging? It’s a bit like telling someone I bought a can of coke from the newsagents. Maybe I’m just jealous: I’m four days down here and being on my period means I’m not going to take on any newbies - I have enough difficulties remembering which of my establisheds are cool with that and which aren’t. My two remaining Prague guys are, in turn, away and MIA, so I resign myself to the fact that I have to wait – at least ‘til Monday, more likely Wedensday - then make a concerted effort to get on with my day.

Phil had suggested we meet up at lunchtime, so I drag myself off the computer and call him. There’s no reply, but I hold on hoping voicemail will kick in. It doesn’t, so I call back again, then he answers and tells me “I was just having a shag!”. Every single one of them, I swear! The reply that comes to mind is “What, you couldn’t have waited another hour?” but I’m behaving, I swallow it, and deadpan “You lucky guy”. Then I check my watch. 90 hours to go.

I shouldn’t moan so much. Most of the sex I’ve had Prague has been fraught with danger anyway. From the very first time in the 90s, on the train from Berlin to Vienna, when I almost missed the stop and staggered semi-naked onto the platform, to the most recent faux pas, when, due to the new airport security restrictions, I’d had my lube confiscated, and ended up grabbing a random bottle from a Czech chemists. I hadn’t paid attention to the flavour, and was left suffering minty-fresh-ring-sting for close to a week. Yowch. I determine to put all thoughts of sex far, far from my mind, and then, in an oxymoronic manner, I go to see Phil.

Over in the Free Republic of Žižkov, we head to a Croatian café and sit drinking coffee in the sun. Phil’s almost finished his next novel – working title ‘Stripped’ – and he announces, poker-faced, that it’s the second book in his ‘biology’. I drag him up on it and suggest it’s actually a “bilogy”. He ponders that it may even be a “bile-ogy”. Of course, the second he’s out of sight, I remember that it’s actually a ‘dilogy’. Regardless of what the dictionary says - it only acknowledges the Latin version ‘duology’ - its Greek cousin is, technically, just as viable. What does it matter? The man’s got an ‘ology’. And what an 'ology' he’s got…

Whereas before I’d tried to convince myself I was lusting over Phil because of some mental attraction, I’m now positive it’s nothing of the sort – it’s pure biology, pheromones and the like. I respond to his presence in a Pavlovian way:, just seeing him has the physiological effect many have worked patiently for hours to achieve – my body screams “impregnate me!”, which is the very, very, very last thing I would want to happen with anyone right now, but I couldn’t control it if I tried (and, trust me, I tried). I’m not so sure I’d want to control it. This must be what it feels like for a guy to get a hard-on. It’s not all so bad, pretty hilarious in it’s own way: lust at it’s rib-aching stickiest. If I could train myself to get this way over anyone, the possibilities would be endless, but possibilities limited by resolve, I leave to find some other way to kill the evening.

Back in the centre, I enroll for a poker tournament; I need to get my practice in before I hit Atlantic City. I’m still being haunted by sex, and the venue, which from the outside looks likes a regular tourist trap, is plastered with photos of naked women on the inside. Indeed, out of the 40 players, I’m the only woman playing. 2 hours and 10,000 crowns richer, I’m leaving a lot of broken men behind. Women became a fixture at American poker tables about 10 years ago, but it seems the Czechs haven’t quite adapted to it yet. No one called any of my bluffs. No one even took a chance. Candy from a baby: you bet I’ll be back sooner than planned.

I move on to the next casino just to get a feel for their card room, but it’s a Sunday night and no one’s playing. I’d bought 2000Kc’s worth of chips on the door, so I decide to sit at a blackjack table until I get tired. Although this establishment doesn’t seem as sexist as the first place, it’s still a predominantly male crowd, apart from a few couples playing roulette. Two American guys in their late-fifties join and, assuming I’m Czech, start talking about how cheap the girls are over here, even in the most exclusive of gentleman’s clubs. I check out their ring fingers, both married. In a way, I found the banter disrespectful – not necessarily to myself – who am I to get moralistic? – but their disregard for the English speaking hostess narked me. Then, in an amusing twist of fate, the Beatles come on, Money Can’t Buy Me Love – and I sing along quietly, still loud enough for them to hear “And I care so much for money, cos money CAN buy me love”. Later, when we’re talking, I can’t help but muse that, by now, even I have enough money on the table to get a girl for the evening. Their eyes widen, and they offer to set it up for me – and with no intention of following through I play with them for a while, pretending to muse about it.

Internet gambling may have ruined me, but nothing can beat the playfulness of being in a casino face-to-face with other people. I remember the first taste of that, the first time I turned round to a complete stranger who’d been teasing me for an hour about the hands I was playing, and told him he was a wanker as I took $300 from his stack. I’ve never had a serious loss in a real life game, I seem to know when to cut my losses and walk away. In a real life game, you can see how badly or how well you’re doing – you only go in with what you can afford to lose. The new legislation in the US regarding online gambling is a real step forward. Hopefully, it will save a lot of people from making the same mistake I made – and I can’t wait to see it extended to the UK.

Maybe I could even sue, the way those fat people are suing McDonalds? The two guys on the blackjack table seem to think I may have a case, and they give me their cards, offering to take me to dinner when I’m over in NY later this month. I tell them I’ll call them, like I have every intention of calling them, but we all know it will never happen.

The blue dragon of Prague surfaces to guide me home, and I drift back to the shag-pad - shagless, but with money enough to burn.

Freedom!

Have I ever talked about falling out of love before? I must have. It’s my favourite feeling in the whole wide world. I sometimes think the only reason I bother falling is for the delirious relief of shrugging it off.

Love is a heavy, cumbersome thing, fraught with uncertainty and responsibility. Bless the men I burden, they’ve always been very good to me. Without the aid of drink or drugs I’ve spent most of today laughing myself stupid – there isn’t anyone in this world who has me under their spell right now, and the freedom I feel is amazing.

I should write, I should sing, I should lean over the balcony and scream. I hit this point once a year or so – I should make the most of it. Here’s to all my friends, all my men, all you strangers who follow me so patiently through my ups and downs. Forget falling in love, try falling out of it. It’s as good as being reborn.

(Happy Birthday, Andy F - let's face it, those ten years we spent together were hell!)

The power of dreams and longing

I was meant to go and meet two friends today – we’d set the time and we were setting the place when my phone died on me. I didn’t have either of their numbers at my parent’s house, so there was nothing I could do. It was the straw that sent me back down to where I was earlier in the week.

3.30pm, close to tears, I crawl into bed clutching the shell that Alex Jalland had given me when I was 10 years old. The shell that I swear is magical, even though I try not to believe in magic. It brings me so much comfort when I’m sad, I count is as my most prized possession. I’ve never taken it out of my parent’s house since he gave it to me – indeed, I’ve never even removed it from my childhood bedroom. I don’t consider myself superstitious, religious or all that spiritual – but that shell belongs where it belongs.

I spend five hours clutching the shell, fitfully snoozing and dreaming the strangest of dreams. This voice kept on telling me: “There’s someone you’re forgetting” over and over and over. Then, I was dreaming of chocolate, lots and lots of chocolate. “You’d be surprised what happens when you buy yourself some G&B,” one voice had told me. I figured it out eventually. Green & Blacks – that organic chocolate company. I find the stuff a little dry, it isn’t my type of chocolate at all. I’m not much of a chocolate eater anyway. I go through phases, but I never crave

I wake up craving. I drag myself up at 8.30pm, pull on a very old pair of blue work trousers and a smelly old black hoodie, then without washing, without cleaning my teeth, without brushing my hair, I head up to the newsagents just two minutes up the road. I need chocolate. I see a box of Green & Blacks. I pick it up, unthinkingly, and it’s only when I get to the counter it dawns on me that I’d been dreaming about it. Still – what gives? You dream about chocolate. You buy chocolate. No big deal.

The only other thing I need is milk. The woman in front of me is buying five pints of the stuff, and it’s the last five pints in the shop. I moan at the guy behind the till after she leaves, and he sympathises. Then there’s the voice: “C’mon BB, stop holding up the queue!”.

I turn around - it’s Mark E.

Was there someone I was forgetting? It’s been two years and two months since I saw Marky (the blog entry is still there for all to see) – he never had got in touch with me. I was sad about it for a while, but when a man has a baby and a wife to attend to, you can’t get all that disappointed.

“You want milk, I’ll drive you to get some milk,” he sighs.

“Mark, I look like shit,” I sigh back to him, like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“You look worse than that. The bouncy braless look suits you, but you need to put some jam on your shoes and invite your trousers down for tea."

“Mark!!” I scream – about seven people in the shop have heard the comment, most of whom I see around all the time although I don’t know them from Adam. “How could you… dahhhhh!!!” I’m giggling like a madwoman, swinging punches at him before we’ve even hugged. I really, truly am at my worst. Like that counts for anything. Mark's seen me there before. Others worry, he just finds it funny.

He drives me two miles to get some milk, with the insane reasoning that it’ll be cheaper from this other shop he knows than the garage. I’m still barely awake, so I don’t argue. “If you’re not in any hurry you can come back to mine for a drink, and see Eleanor,” he suggests. I haven’t seen Eleanor since she was 6, and now she’s 12. As she’s stands to inherit the lump sum from my pension when I die, I decide it may be an idea to go and see her. So we head back to Mark’s, but then I realise we’re not heading back to Mark’s.

“I thought you were living in Northfield,” I say.

“I got divorced,” he tells me.

“Yikes,” I say, and that’s about all I can say. He’s living less than three minutes walk from my parent’s place.

Eleanor is as pretty, and funny, and clever, and spirited as she always was. She’s one of those special people who vibrates with life. I’m not into kids, but she won my heart when she was little, and it’s still there.

“Got you a box of chocolates!” I say as I walk through the door, handing her the Green & Blacks.

Mark stares at me blankly. I just shrug. “I don’t like Green & Blacks,” I explain.

“Why did you buy them, then?” he asks.

I shrug again. Amazing how things work out.

I chat to Eleanor until she has to go to bed, then Mark and I settle down on the couch and spend an evening listening to music, drinking cider and catching up on things. He’s been putting the pieces together after his divorce, adjusting to being a single dad again, doing his best to ensure the best for Eleanor. He’s still working for the same company he has since he was 18. Things aren’t brilliant for him, but they’re getting better. I tell him about my job, my friends, my guys – the usual stuff.

“I’m so down in the dumps though Mark,” I confide in him. "I'm in love."

“No you're not. You just want to fuck whoever it is.” He laughs.

“Stop that!” I laugh back. “I’m in love! I am. Really! I'm in love!” but the more I try to explain it, the more comical the whole thing becomes.

“Yes, Sarah, really, you’re in love I wish you the very best in your endeavour,” he surmises after 7 minutes of useless reasoning that's bought tears of laughter to both of our eyes.

“At the very least he’s knocked your position from ‘the second biggest crush I ever had’ to the third so nyah nyah nyah...” I grin at the end of it all: touché!

“Oh yea?” He says, and leans in, and kisses me.

“Mark! That’s cheating!!!” I protest. He kisses me again. “Ahhhhhh!!! Stopppppit!!”

“Who’s the second biggest crush you ever had?” he asks. “Hmmmm…. who, who?”

I give in.

“YEAH, ok, you win!”

“And we’re both single now,” he teases. “Who’d have seen that one coming?”

Things felt just a tad uncomfortable for a second after he said that.

“What do I even DO with that, Marky?!” I ask, still giggling like I haven’t stopped giggling all evening.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “You can stay over if you want. Stay in my bed.” - and then he gives me the hottest, most amazing kiss I've had all year and suddenly giggling isn't on the agenda anymore. "We are both single now, Sarah. There's nothing stopping us anymore."

I think about it for a short while, but I know that I have to go home. Eleanor had forgotten to do her French homework and, as Mark’s internet connection wasn’t working, I’d promised to do it for her. I roll home at midnight and set to work: she had to write a short essay about Gérard Depardieu – it was probably a very bad idea to let me loose on that. She now has a poem written in French that can, with a little improvisation, be sung to the tune of ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’.

I walk back half an hour later, and drop it through the door – I think about ringing the bell, but even though the lights are still on, I decide against it. There’s no urgency anyway. I’ve known Mark for 12 years now. I don’t think another couple of weeks will make much difference at all.

Chasing the dragon

Vlad has a good grasp on the rainbow dragons. At times, he's more enthusiastic about them than I am. There's something not quite right here and he knows it - I've been walking around Prague for 3 or 4 days now, and I can't find the blue dragon.

"That's because you came here with the yellow dragon," he explained seriously. "You need to send the yellow dragon back to St. Petersburg before you'll find the blue dragon of Prague!"

The yellow dragon haunted me all night, but I think, finally, I've shook him off. Today I'll find the blue dragon, and all will be well in the world once again.

A letter to Lucie

Hey Lu, had such a lovely evening with you, but the most horrible ending you can possibly imagine :(

I got to Tottenham Hale with a good 12 minutes to spare for my train, so I went to the loo, where I met a very drunk pregnant lady, who asked me how to get to Stamford Bridge. I told her I didn’t know; she tries to explain to me where Stamford Bridge is, and eventually, I went to ask a member of staff how to get there. She’d yelled at me “no, no don’t bother, I will pay a stupid amount of money for a cab!”…. almost instinctively (and you know I’m not aggressive) I yelled back at her “just you stay right where you are, I’ll find out how you can get home”.

I walked up the stairs to ask the stationmaster how to get there – he said that she needed to take the tube to Seven Sisters and get a bus from there. I said that she was quite drunk and she may need some assistance. He said that it was ok, he had two female members of staff on hand to help. So, as I was waiting by the back door of the office for them to join me, another lady from the platform rushes up to me and says “your friend has just fallen down the steps”.

I sprinted down there – she was lying with her leg twisted up against her, her bag around her neck. It didn’t look serious. The other two ladies from the office came rushing down as well. They radio for assistance. I ask if we should move her into recovery position, but the ladies say no, because of the bag around her neck. The guy on the other end of the walkie-talkie asks if there is any bleeding. I say 'no' (I can't see any), the woman holding the walkie-talkie says 'yes, she's bleeding from her head'. I shrug. I still don't see anything. Then, I step backwards, and there's a pool of dark red blood growing and growing around her head. I say "OH MY GOD," and the woman with the walkie talkie tells me to shush and motions me away. She's talking to the pregnant woman trying to keep her conscious.

I walk away, slightly, and just burst into tears. There's an ambulance on the way, I know, but a few minutes later the pregnant woman stops talking, and loses consciousness. God bless all the station staff, they're talking to her, trying to bring her around, but she's stopped breathing. My train arrives at the same time as the ambulance - at the moment, I have no clue what happened next, but the blood was so thick and there was so much of it, and she wasn't breathing or anything...

I ended up calling Carl and talking with him on the way home til my phone ran out of charge completely :( Still crying! I hope I can get in touch with someone tomorrow and find out what happened to the woman, although maybe I’m better off not knowing….

Love you, thanks for such a great evening….

Sarah xxx

A snapshot of the week just gone

I have a memory that will stay with me for life from Berlin. A night where I cried tears of laughter, and where I bought a blush and a smile to the face of a man I could play with forever.

There's so much more to tell, for now that will suffice.

Promiscuity

I always go through a promiscuous phase when I move to a new town. I like to know what’s on offer. I like to shop around. It’s the philosophy of “more for less” driving me on – where can I get the most satisfaction for the least expenditure?

This promiscuity isn’t limited to the men in my life – it infiltrates every aspect of my existence– I have no loyalties in where I shop, where I drink, where I eat – I have no set routine, no ‘favourites’. I just go with the flow, until, eventually, I decide what I want.

Asda vs. Sainsbury’s vs. Tesco’s.

Water Palace vs. Nandos vs. Harlow Tandoori vs. Pizza Hut.

Yates’ vs. JD’s vs. Jumping Jaks vs. The Greyhound.

Zibi vs. Stefan vs. Gary vs. Mark.

It’s been almost a month now. I should have a clearer idea of what I want. Really, I’m just as clueless as I was at the end of July. I could happily carry on like this: no favourites, no loyalties, no routine – but there’s something that wears you down when there’s nothing definite to hold on to. I haven’t even got the certainty of being able to find a Diet Cherry Coke and a vanilla tobacco ciggie in the mornings.

Oddly, the closest thing I have to security is Zbigniew, and his insatiable appetite for sex. Whereas the others have gone a bit soft on me now (mind out of the gutter - I mean in the emotional sense!) – Zibi’s known me for many years, he knows how changeable I am. He learned the hard way not to take me for granted, and he really is trying to make an effort to get out there and do things with me. Never doubt that I love Zibi – I love him so fucking hard – I just don’t want to end up hurting him again, which I doubtlessly will, being the careless schmuck I am.

It has to be hormonal...

Zach came to visit this weekend – he was flying out to Dublin on Sunday and decided to use my base in Harlow as a halfway house. I’ve known Zach for about 5 years now. We met in Prague, on one of Alex’s impromptu group trips, and had one of those mad, memorable weekends that bond you to someone for life. I’d always liked him, even though we never really kept in touch. He was part of a very coupley-couple, so it didn’t surprise me not to see him – he and his girlfriend Melissa were too busy living their idyllic life in their idyllic house in the Middlesex suburbs. They split up about 6 months ago, and since then Zach’s been travelling around as much as he can, making up for lost time. I cook him some food, let him take a bath, and we decide to go for a drink.

So, we’re walking through the underpass on our way to the bar, both very sober and very straight for a Saturday afternoon, and the conversation lapses. He fills the gap by proclaiming, in a very matter of fact manner: “We really should fuck each other sometime, S.” – the same way someone may say that we should really go and see the latest exhibition that’s on, or we really should try out a new restaurant that’s opened.

“Yeah, absolutely,” I say, the same way someone would reply to such a proposition – that same measured enthusiasm, that same matter-of-factness. Then I realise what he’s just said, and scream “Wot???!!!” (which echoes rather loudly, due to us walking under the underpass).

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all month,” he says, very seriously, as my jaw starts to drop to the floor.

Sam warned me about this a couple of years ago, and I didn’t believe her. Back then, I’d lost all interest in sex, to the point where I’d declared myself as asexual to a few new people in my life. I was depressed, I was ill, I had a lot of other things to worry about. She’d told me that, shortly after you reach the magical age of 32, no matter who you are, or what kind of mess you’re in, whether you’re married, whether you’ve got six screaming kids tagging along with you – when you reach that age, you start getting bombarded with propositions of a sexual nature. She swore that it had happened to each and every woman she’d ever known, but I’d laughed at her - it was the most ludicrous thing I’d ever heard. Now I’m actually here, I’m beginning to think she may have a point. Let’s look at this week alone, shall we? Ian, Zibi, Alex & now Zach had all made advances of one kind or another… that’s not including the nameless, faceless three who’ve bought me drinks in the past 7 days (nothing in a drink, is there?). I’m far, far from anyone’s definition of ‘attractive’ - I can turn it on when I need to– but out of the blue declarations of lust aren’t aimed in my direction all that often.

“Actually, I think that’s a really bad idea, Zach,” I start. “I mean, I’m flattered and all…” but wait. Why do I think it’s a really bad idea? I mean, really, I should just go for it. I don’t want Zibi to start thinking we’re exclusive or anything. It’s been a good 72 hours since I last saw any action, strange town, strange people, always better with someone you know and trust. There’s that small matter of self-respect, but I respect-myself-very-much-thank-you. I like sex, I want sex, he’s offering sex, I like him – “but I can’t.”

What? What do I mean, I can’t? Why can’t I? There’s some psychological block there preventing me from taking this fine specimen home with me for experimentation, but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. It can’t be Zbigniew. I’m not particularly ‘shagged out’ or anything. Then it hits me. Ouch. It hits me hard.

“I can’t sleep with you.. because… I want to sleep with someone else?”

“OhhhhhKayyyyy,” he says, like I’ve just said something really dumb.

That was painless, I think, as we’re walking on. Pathetic, but painless. Walking, walking, walking…

“Who?” he asks.

OUCH. There is no ‘who’. There’s a few. There’s one or two. There just isn’t a ‘who’.

“Ermmm… you don’t… know… him,” I stumble.

“Is it that guy?” he asks.

That’s a good one.

“Yes!” I say. “Yes, him…”

Yes, who? I get the feeling that I’ve just dug myself a very big hole, and that I won’t be able to escape.

“Oh, yeah. I could tell you liked him,” Zach says.

Right. Good. Who? “Yeah. I really like him,” I agree.

We get to the pub, and we talk no further on the subject.

I end up fucking him later that night anyway.

Vindicated!

I put off telling Keith about the little chat Marie and I had in Worcester for a couple of months. Not through any girlie loyalty - my loyalty to Keith is 15 years solid, I'd never put her needs above his. I put it off because Keith's loyalty to Tommy is also 15 years solid, and I knew whatever I told Keith would get back to Tommy.

I don't have to deal with Marie anymore, she's effectively out of my life. Three months down the way, the whole thing seemed a lot less important than it did at the time. So, when Keith and I relaxed for a drink and a chat over the weekend, and he got me drinking fruit cider with brandy chasers, I told him all the stuff that Marie had been saying about Tommy. Straight away, he said "I have to tell Tommy this," and although I objected, I simply didn't have the right to stop him.

Today Keith wrote to me. Tommy told him that the stories Marie had fed me were a bunch of lies. I should have known it anyway, Tommy's women are unfailingly blonde and barely out of their teens, Marie is neither. I didn't even mention the stuff she'd said about Karlos - and now I don't know whether to believe her about that, either. In fact, it doesn't matter if I believe her or not. Those negative vibes I was getting off her over the last year were vindicated.

I get gut reactions to people. I like to consider myself a good judge of character. I believe I know who's on the level and who isn't.

Another point in my favour.

The bond that will never be broken

Had a long chat with Ben tonight – isn’t it amazing how things never work out how you expect them to? This time two years ago, Matt and I were the best of friends, Ben and I hated each other, and the only common thread we had between us was that we both counted Matt as our closest companion. Now neither of us talk to Matt, and I’d go slaughter some innocents if Ben said he needed me to. He’s the first guy in my life I’ve had a true ‘mentoring’ relationship with, and I’m honoured that he turns to me for advice.

He’s so talented and unique, I actually had tears in my eyes when he told me he got his first proper paid writing position (and what a great position he bagged for himself – the dream job). We rarely go out together - despite almost being neighbours our social worlds are so far apart that it just wouldn’t work - but when it comes to long conversations about the things that really matter in life, we turn to each other. It’s the whole thing about getting an outside perspective from someone who knows you well enough to see the situation without worrying about the personalities involved.

We’ve got the big party coming up in September. It’s a little strange that we’re sharing a room, but it feels right. He’s on a mission to get laid, I’m on a mission to make sure he gets laid – whereas I’d never fuck a Duranie, even if they were the hottest, sexiest person ever and you wired a cool million to my account, he’ll be in his element amongst the female dominant crowd. He’s pinned such high hopes on the night that I’m going to make sure he doesn’t fail. It’s like being a student again, plotting rigged games of spin-the-bottle down to the finer points such as which girls I’d happily snog to get things rolling and which I wouldn’t. It’s silly, but silliness has a habit of turning to reality in my world.

That whole crowd – I’d bail on the whole thing if it wasn’t for the fact that everyone has stood by me through my five year rollercoaster I may hate Duran Duran now, after all that’s gone down, but the friends I’ve made through the scene - the real ones who weren’t in it for the fact I could get backstage passes or free merchandise – they’re some of the best people I have in my life: Lisa, Aub, Gerard, Jo, Darran, Vez, Jen, Taylor, Derek… Ann and Sara. Kris, Tammy, Lily – Dani, Teri... where is she? Sam, Amber, Kian, Lisa H. Val. This reads more like a ‘to do’ list than anything sincere.

It’s when I get reflective like this that I realise that I’m not such a good friend after all. Cindy, Robbie and Joe. Veebs, and Nicole. When I went into hospital, these people put together a care package, everyone contributing one item – I got this massive box delivered with mouthwash, hand wipes, books, crosswords, earplugs and blindfolds – everything you forget to take with you when you’re in a hurry to get yourself well. I just cried and cried for hours. There’s only a few amongst them who could say they know me really well, but they all pulled together to help me through my crisis, it was the most wonderful, touching thing that anyone has ever done for me.

Collectively, between the aforementioned, we must have a cashflow of over £10K between us: borrowing and lending, comped hotel rooms, flights paid for on other people’s card. In five years I’ve lost three digital cameras that people have given me for gigs and events, and it was only a few months ago they saw the insurance money come through. It’s like I’ve inherited this extended family, and taken up the role of the little tear-away sister who everyone needs to look after before she comes to serious harm. The way Cindy turned on me when I started to get dependent on the more serious stuff is testament to that. I’m not quite the ‘baby’ I’m used to being in the groups I associate with, and I’m one of the most balanced when it comes to drama and personality clashes, but still, they’re all there, and they’ve got my back.

I want to forget Duran Duran. I really do. The question is - how can I, when almost everyone I care for in my world has some sort of connection to that scene?

Hello, Harlow!

Moving to Harlow hasn't exactly been easy. I was up all night sorting out boxes and bags and things I'd forgotten... taxi came at 5.30am, took twenty minutes to load... clear run down the motorway... then, when I get there, the lift is broken. Very glad I went to see Zibi last Sunday, cos I knew who to call straight away.

"Get your ass over here, and help me sort this out..."

Guess he must still like me, cos 45 minutes later, he turns up. Don't think I've physically exerted myself so much since I did the fun run a few years ago - 6 flights up, 6 flights down, over and over and over and.... ARGH! Thank God he came.

The problem with Zibi is that all he ever wants to do is fuck.

"So, now we fuck!" He proclaims as I carry the last box through the door.

"Now we abso-fucking-lutely do not," I growl, close to collapsing.

Later, when I tell him I'm going out to see Instant Flight (Lucie and Marco's band, from last weekend), and ask if he wants to come with, he says he'd rather we just stay at home and carry on. I remind him that it isn't his 'home', and there isn't a 'we'.

It was the same for all the time I was with him back when - he never wanted to do anything but stay in. We only ever saw each other at the weekends, and when you work Monday to Friday, that's prime going out time. Sure, I got my Sunday lunch cooked for me, but he never wanted to do anything else. I think that's why I ended up drifting towards his brother in the end. Why I ended up getting my heart ripped in seven...

I asked him about Marek today. He told me that he hadn't spoken to him since we ran off together - Marek hadn't even gone to the wedding. I feel so bad about that. He asked me if I'd heard from him, but I haven't spoken to Marek since that Christmas Eve, two and a half years ago. Over two years, you'd think I'd have gotten over it by now, but even with Zibi today, I found myself thinking about Marecki. That's why I don't think this is gonna work out. The more I see of Zibi, the more I think of Marek. Considering I took six months sick leave from work when me and Marek split up to get my head together, it's not healthy.

The other problem with Zibi is that, during my absence, he's forgotten one hell of a lot of English. Which means he won't be reading this anytime soon. For once, I'm thankful about that.

I finally got to wear the clothes I bought last week in Camden, and I surprised myself - I looked okay for the first time since the op. Feeling 100%, I headed on out, and left Zibi to his own devices.

The club itself held a certain fascination. For a start, everyone was older than me, as far as I could tell. For a second, everyone was far more off their face than me. One girl, who found me in the toilets, asked if I was the receptionist and if she could book a room. She kept on moaning "I'm SO stoned! I'm SO Stoned." Her friend told her the solution was to get so pissed that she didn't realise she was stoned anymore.

I saw Lucie and Marco, and chatted to them for a while, but had to leave just as Instant Flight took to the stage to catch my last train home. I did see Interstellar Overcoat, though, a Syd Barret era Floyd tribute band. Although I know a lot of Syd's solo stuff, and although I enjoy other 'psychedelic' music - particularly Robyn Hitchcock and The Soft Boys, I've never put the time aside to get to know much Floyd. In fact, the only two songs I knew well were 'See Emily Play' and 'Bike' - so I don't really feel qualified to write a full review.

Of course, I never got my last train home, because the tubes were messed up. I took myself off for a Chinese, and sent James a text message to see what he was up to. He texts me back saying he's in Ibiza, but Stephen is in the Costa Del Pimlico and I should just head on over and help myself. I get there just as Stephen's arriving from the usual gay club circuit he frequents.

I like Stephen a lot - he's the one I fancy the most out of all James' gay mates. Sadly, he's avowedly batting for the other team, and all the charm in the world isn't going to get me anywhere. We crack open one of James' bottles of Veuve, and sit out on the balcony doing lines and talking shit 'til I have to go. I get back at 6am to find Zibi still snoozing in my bed. I leave him to it, and unpack some of my things.

My first night in Harlow, away from Harlow.

Happiest in Forever

Long, busy weekend, full of fun, with a few emotional moments thrown in for good measure. Most of all, it was great to spend so much time with Carl. We haven't really hung out like we used to these last few years; first I was always in London, then I was always with Andy, and most recently, I've been keeping peculiar hours. When we do get it together, it's usually a good 'un. Seeing him on stage was really strange -we'd both distanced ourselves so far from the music scene, I didn't think either of us would pick up a guitar again. He did, and he loved it, and I was really proud of him.

We drove down on Friday - Carl had to go to rehearsal at 3pm, and I took myself off to the pub to wait for Keith, but he pulled out of coming at the last minute. Poor guy was exhausted. I went round Camden and treated myself to some really nice clothes with the intention of wearing them later, but, as things spanned out, I never did - it was over 90 degrees and making myself look beautiful took a backseat to making myself feel comfortable.

The tribute gig was so touching, and so good, and such a memory - I'll hold it dear forever. My review entry outlines the order of events, but it was so much more than that. I was in for a really big personal surprise... Sharon mentioned she'd try to come along, I honestly didn't think she would. Yet, there she was. My old best friend, looking glorious, so much happier and brimming with confidence. I hadn't seen her since 1994, she'd fallen out with Max, I'd fallen out with her. We had a lot of catching up to do, and despite the noise, we managed to get the bases covered. I love that girl, always have, I was stupid to lose touch with her.

She had to leave for the tube at midnight, and I killed the rest of the gig with Steve - a big Nikki fan from Chicago. He bought me drinks for most of the night, bless him. Also caught up with Glenn and the family Twist. When Nikki's parents, Trevor and Lois, came on stage to make the presentation - for the very first time since Nikki died - I just wanted to bawl my eyes out. I didn't, and that's had the knock on effect of me getting all teary every single time I think of them up there. They are such lovely people, so strong. I just wanted to hug them both forever after that presentation...

Carl, Tetz & I went back to Paul Caton's place after the show - he'd kindly offered to put me up. Carl's foot was giving him grief so he went straight to bed, and Tetz drifted off pretty soon after, but Paul and I stayed up til 11am, killing a bottle of vodka, learning about each other's lives. He's a top, top guy, and someone I hope to be spending a lot more time with when I move down. I had one of my 'dream songs' come to me when I was sleeping in his room, all about him - I freaking LOVE it when that happens! I was in some cave in the dream, trying to make a figure from wax.. and this came outta nowhere:

The man who built a fence is sitting in his studio,
Burning toy cars in the attic,
Trying to clear out all the static in his head -
There's clearer days,
There's better days he used to know,
But he likes things twinged with sadness
It adds colour to the madness that's outside...

Outside the window is the other world,
The world where he built his fence.
He's got his songs that no one's ever heard -
And the fence is so symbolic,
but the world outside just think that it's a fence!

(and yes, there was even a second verse which I scribbled down in my half sleepy haze, but I think it's getting too cheesy to continue).

Saturday was Phil's show, and how great was that? With Max on the drums, and Pavel playing his violin, it worked really well - again, the review that's here isn't the half of it. I stayed up on the balcony 'til Gerard turned up, then we went up front with Carl, Paul & Tetz and we all really enjoyed it. Phil's got the reverse-rock-star thing going on. I love his music, and I love the live sound, but he loses every ounce of his physical appeal the moment he sets foot on stage. Statistically (it's proven!), if you place someone behind a bar or on a stage, they become around 20% more attractive. Not Phil. It was only when he came and sat down with a beer after the show that I realised everything was ok and he was just as fucking beautiful as ever. Perhaps he should give bar work a go...

We all sat around drinking and talking after the gig - Carl and Paul lost the car, there was this guy with an amazing 'burning wallet' trick, and some drunk Australian guy who really, really, really wanted my email address. Terrible shame I couldn't find a pen (uh HUH). We left there around 2am, and Gerard and I hit Chinatown and went to a late restaurant.

My favourite food ever is Char Sui buns... but when you're trying your hand at being a vegetarian, they should be strictly off the menu. Note the 'should'. I persuaded myself that after 10 weeks of avoiding it, a bit of meat wasn't going to kill me. How wrong I almost was... if you're not familiar with Char Sui buns, they usually come with rice paper on the bottom. You eat the paper and the bun. I took a massive bite, and this Chinese girl on the next table goes beserk: "No, no, no!!!! You're eating the paper!!". Indeed, it wasn't rice paper at all, just normal every day notepad paper, and I'd just swallowed a whole sheet of it. Serves me right for eating meat. Bizarrely, I'd accepted a leaflet from a lady outside the tube station earlier that day (I usually walk past 'em), and I found it when we got back to Tooting. It was a ridiculously cutesie leaflet from a religious society promoting vegetarianism: there was a little cartoon pig saying 'we love you', alongside a cartoon chicken with chicks saying 'we pray for you' and a cow saying 'thank you. I'll give as much milk as possible'. I wasn't all that drunk, but at 5am, I found myself apologising to a cartoon pig. "I'm sorry, I love you too."

We got the nightbus back, and when we arrived in Tooting at about 4.30am, there was some massive party going on (yet, there was no one really drunk or abusive - it was a really good vibe). The problem was that Gerard's settee is in the front room. The police came to break up the party at around 5.30am so that stopped me from getting to sleep before then.. and then, at 6.30am, the neighbours' kids started playing right outside Gerard's window. This one little mite had obviously learned a new phrase: "I got a good idea!!" - and he screeched it out, constantly, for three hours. I wanted to go and throttle him, but the maternal instinct (and lack of keys) prevented me from doing that - they were just kids, making good use of the fact that it was a glorious day and they lived in a safe street (apart from the polce having to break up the odd party here and there). I wanted to be mad at them for depriving me of sleep, but I couldn't - I was just so, so happy. When I heard Gerard moseying around I resigned myself to the fact I wasn't going to get any kip and we talked for a couple of hours 'til he had to shoot off. He left me in his flat (bless him) so I managed to grab a bath and make myself feel human again - and when Carl failed to return a text message within the hour, I assumed he was sleeping - so I made an executive decision to go and find myself some fun.

It took guts, but I did it. I paid Zbigniew a visit, and I found him as I'd hoped - alone and vulnerable. Result. I guess I was a little rude, I ran off within the hour to go and find Carl, but it was a much needed hour. I hadn't seen him for a couple of years, since he married Kasia... he's almost 30 now, but as hot and as good as ever. He wanted to know if I'd be seeing him again. I asked him when he was planning to go back to Poland to his (relatively) new bride. He said he didn't have any plans. Last time he didn't have any plans to go back to his (first) wife, we were seeing each other for 3 years... it's certainly an option.

I headed to the north soon after - Carl and I grabbed a coffee or two, and did some internet stuff, then headed up to Lucie & Marco's place. I still fuck up every single piece of music I try to play - if I manage to hit the right chords on a piano, I'm doing well  - but after a few drinks I already felt comfortable enough with them to happily perform some of my old band's screamier stuff. It was a lot of fun, they're a nice crowd. Hoping to go and see Instant Flight next Saturday but a lot depends on when I move. Funny part was, when Anastis turned up, I'd heard so much bad press about him I was on 'ready to ignore' - but he turned out to be one of the most fun guys I met all weekend. I feel rude for not knowing the names of everyone there... I had such a good time and I'm sure I'll see them all again at some point.

Carl drove us back and I said a sad goodbye to Phil - Phil who, unbeknown to him, had driven me fucking crazy all weekend. I would have asked him to stay with me, but that remains uncharted territory for now - I'm happy to take in the view and play the game, but I guess I better let him know what's going on in my head at some point before I try and pull a move like that, if Carl hasn't already. I want this guy more than I've wanted anyone in the longest time, but there's no reasoning behind it. Love his company, want to fuck him senseless, probably will at some point, but there's no urgency. Carl, in all his wisdom said - "I know you, and I know Phil, and I know it's going to happen.". Maybe it will, but it wasn't going to be this weekend.

The B&B was a mere £25 a night. Initially, it looked shit, but when I pulled the pink lacey covers off the bed, there wasn't a thing I could complain about. OK, the light above the bed was only about 6 inches from the pillow... but I just slept the other way round. I killed the remainder of my half bottle of Bacardi talking to Zibi - he wanted to come over, but I had so much to do the next day... then I slept - PROPERLY slept - for the first time all weekend. I woke up at 9am, in time for breakfast (included in the price), and when I told them I was a veggie (you liar!), they only went and cracked open their veggie sausages & 'cheat' bacon for me.

After breakfast, I went and sat in Tufnell Park for a while, with a bottle of water and a can of Diet Cherry coke. Watching the kids play in the playground was so amusing. This one lady was trying to oversee 5 children - probably between the ages of 6 and 10, none of whom wanted to play with each other. They all ran off in different directions - stressed lady trying to recon - me, on my bench, observing. It was one of those rare, reaffirming moments that maybe I don't need to have children after all. Then, I headed over to Harlow and to the library for some serious househunting.

Viewed 5 properties in total. There was one which was only 10 minutes walk from work, but it was a ground floor flat, and the landlords were only allowed to cut the grass once a year because there were orchids growing there. The grass was up higher than the window, and although I liked the idea of being able to make a side-income from selling orchids, the walk to work was down a half-mile overgrown alleyway, which would probably be a nightmare in winter. There was a nice property right in the town centre, but it was a two-bedroomed place... and two-hundred pounds a month more expensive than the place I have finally (after talking to EVERYONE I know who's opinion means anything to me) accepted.

Why was it such a big deal? The place I've accepted is in a tower block. People have such preconceived notions about towerblocks, and my middle class upbringing (and also the fact that my grandparents were in a towerblock, and my mother hated that) set me totally against the idea. There was just so much space, though - and the view was tremendous... I didn't agree immediately, but the next morning I called up the landlord and told him I wanted it. If the neighbours turn out to be nightmares, I can terminate with a month's notice - and he's a private landlord, so I don't have to pay any agency fees.

Is my happiness contagious? I had four strangers strike up conversations with me today. I used to be able to go for weeks without talking to anyone except the newsagent, but as much as I enjoy that kind of solitude, this was a real pleasure. One of the guys, Ian, has asked me out to dinner when I move down here. He's a single dad, a Morrissey fan, a Spurs supporter. I have nothing at all in common with him, but fuck it, he's attractive enough to see me through a night or two, something I'm going to need as a stranger in a strange town - he's well up for it.

So now it's 4.30am Tuesday morning, and I'm back in Birmingham at the parent's place. I'm not sleepy, but maybe I should go to bed, because Death is in the garden. First he was a ninja carrying a spear, then a cross appeared beside him, and now he's in full muslim garb with a gigantic shotgun. It's a freaky one: it's been there for 2 hours now. I keep trying to tell myself it's a giant wheelie bin with a rake beside it, but mom & dad don't have a giant wheelie bin. It's getting light outside, and it still looks like a person. If you paid me a fiver, I wouldn't go down the garden right now. Which reminds me, I wonder how Nowhere Near The Garden are doing? Must reply to Rog's mail this week and go see them play...

Junkie Self-Love

I read a lot of books, so I can't fathom why it was Phil's that bought back the ghost of Screaming Red Tigers. I guess there was a degree of self-indulgence in his writing that reminded me of my own tale - that self-indulgence that most publishing houses tell you to edit out, but which often makes for the most fascinating of reads when executed correctly. I've always been somewhat obsessed with my teenage self anyway, I often wonder where that person went - that crazy, fearless fuck-everything-take-everything party girl living off speed and Diamond White, dealing drugs for drug money and stealing food for friends. Secretly, she liked nothing more than an evening in front of a computer with the geeks – the guys who’d christened her ‘Redsexy’ - they were her real friends. To the rest of the world, she was the social butterfly they called the ‘Speedbunny’ (and she still is, to many people).

I think when Max died, she died too - I stil find it very strange that Andy F and I met just a month after Max's death - the 10 years me and Andy F lived together turned me around. I've been moving back to the middle ever since then, regaining some of the edge that I lost when I blurred myself into our suburban-coupley-hell – but I’m never going to fully get back there. So, I spend an unhealthy amount of time re-reading my diaries from those days, trying to remember who I was, and how I got there – and, finally, today, the temptation to re-read Screaming Red Tigers became too much, and I went and dug out the manuscript.

There’s so much padding, so much drivel – but there’s some sparks of pure brilliance, too. The smoking tree, accidentally making Russ OD, killing Tanya, killing Michelle, Helen’s acid trip, the screaming red tigers… then, when I got to the end, the last page was missing! I still have the original disks… I wonder if it’s worth picking up an Amstrad PCW (they’re only around £30 now) and trying to edit it into something more accessible? Since Nikki died I’ve made a point of writing, and writing, and writing – his journal is one of the most valuable, precious things that I have to remember him by – and I want to leave something like that, too. I have handwritten journals, but those would probably stay within the family if I die. I want something durable, something all my friends can see should they wish to do so.

Junkie Love itself is a great little book. Phil Shoenfelt is an interesting guy, and this chapter of his life is very readable. I strongly recommend you all pick it up.

Happy Birthday, dear Gringo…

Carl’s been bargaining for a birthday BJ for a few days now, but I’d already planned to go over to Worcester with Andy and oversee the gig he was playing. I hadn’t seen Andy since Gary Numan, the day of Nikki’s funeral. Keith in particular had been encouraging me to stay away - so away I’d stayed. I drop a card into Carl’s place on my way over, then head off to see Andy, and work out if there’s anything worth salvaging from the last 12 months.

We go to Clive’s place to recon, and who should turn up there, but Marie. There you go: There’s the band. There’s me. And there’s Marie. Looks like I’ve got company for the evening.

They jump in one car, me and Andy in the other, and it’s on the drive over to Worcester we have the fiercest argument we’ve ever had. He’s upset that he’s missed the turning into the club twice, and decides this is justification to yell at me about being a cunt for 15 minutes. Anything worth salvaging? I think not.

When we get to the club, Marie needs food, so I take her to lose her Subway virginity, just happy to get away from the monster. I used to live off the steak and cheese subs when I was in Texas and on Atkins. Take the bread away, and you’ve got the ideal fast-food low-carb meal. I detest Atkins, and all that it stands for, but it’s a good way to lose a quick stone when you’ve got 4 days of intensive sex awaiting you and you need to rgain your stamina… so, I find myself thinking about Mr. Enigma, and wondering what he’s doing as I munch on my vegi-deluxe. I’m being super-nice to Marie: I’ve apologised, and I’m trying to put the past behind me. She asks me what it was all about, and I explain as best as I can, not wanting to offend her – I talk about Tommy, and Karlos, and Keith, about the night of my accident, avoiding the over-obvious - and she takes it at face value. We head to the club, some bridges repaired, to watch a very polished band by the name of Sarge perform to an audience of at least three, and wait around for the guys to hit the stage.

There’s no audience, and Andy can’t be bothered to perform: he’s just speaking the lyrics, deliberately fucking up for the hell of it. Marie’s cringing at me, and I feel her pain. The guys from Sarge have hung around to see the show, and Andy’s lack of appreciation for their effort stinks. I chat to one of the guys when I head out for the toilet, and it turns out they’re from Cirencester. How world’s collide… that’s where Mr. Enigma was living when everything was going down. Later, when I write to Master Engima Jnr to enquire, it turns out that he’s mates is with the singer of the band, and his daddy knows their manager. Although his daddy is fully aware that I’ve fucked his son, (on occasion just hours before) - his son has no idea that I’ve fucked his daddy. His Mummy is blissfully unaware of any fucking whatsoever. He invites me over for his 21st birthday, and as tempted as I am, I respectfully decline.

Andy drives me back home in silence, without even realising he’s driving me home. As we arrive in Sutton Coldfield, he says: “I assumed you were staying at mine?”

I politely tell him he assumed wrong, and I know I’ll never be staying at his again.

The secret history

I spent most of the morning trying to work out whether it was – once and for all – over between me and Andy. Carl joked that I should call him and tell him: “I had sperm for breakfast… and it wasn’t yours!”. I decide it’s better just not to contact him at all. All the years I’d known Andy, before we got together last year, I’d thought he was a maniac – people actually changed their opinion of him when I took him in – but today, I was feeling nothing towards him at all. Not love, nor hate, nor pity, nor disgust. I literally had no feelings for him, one way or another.

I talked through a lot of things with Carl, about times gone by. I finally told him about my affair with Max, which was happening right under his roof. I told him about the night I felt compelled to sleep with five guys at the same time. I told him about my nights with Marky, which also happened right under his roof. This was before Marky went totally off the rails, when I could control his drinking. I always used to wonder why Marky got so stroppy with me, and it was only today it occurred to me that he may have been jealous about the way I’d always go back to Carl. I had such low self-confidence back then that it simply never occurred that someone could get that way over me.

In fact, the only housemate of Carl’s I never touched was Glenn – I always assumed Glenn wasn’t so interested in sex, but Carl told me in turn about some girl that he and Glenn had been seeing at the same time, and ended up sharing one evening. He told me about the way Clare never talked to him anymore, how she used to have a penchant for anal sex. I reminded him about his nights with Debbie. I think he wished I hadn’t reminded him about his nights with Debbie. He talks about Phil – tales of prostitutes and shagging on the road – and when the words I was trying to say fell out of my mouth as “I still wanna sample that vintage,” I almost burst my stitches open through the laughter.

We decided to drive on up to Twisty’s place and see if they were still around – Carl wanted to take Phil to the airport - but they’d taken themselves off into town. So, he drove me back to mine, and then I finally slept.

I say: Goodbye, my love.

As I’ve not quite accepted the fact that Nikki is dead, it’s kind of hard to explain what we did today, but it involved singing some hymns, saying some prayers, and lowering a box into a deep, deep hole. Then I walked up to a police car with a spliff in my hand and told them I hadn’t seen the kids they were looking for. Then I had a few drinks in a strange pub, in a strange town with Keith and Martin. Then I realised that Marie was once again pissing me off and I left in disgust. Then I went to see Gary Numan and saw Andy and Clive for the first time since my operation. Then I realised that Andy hadn’t got a clue how to handle me. Then I left, and I caught up with Carl and Phil and… yes, wait for the punchline – Marie. I think I was civil, if not charming, as the occasion dictated. Then Dave Twist joined us and we went to some late night bar, and we drank and talked, and drank and talked, and Phil and Dave left, and I found myself apologising to Marie for all the shit that had gone down between us. Then I realised I’d really had far too much to drink, because I wasn’t all that sorry at all. Let’s look at the list of people I don’t like in my life: Simon and Marie. It isn’t particularly extensive. But, but, but….

Today was all about Nikki. Which is why I swallowed it and apologised. Today was a day for love, and what better time to forgive and forget? I was surrounded by people I love, and Marie probably felt the same way. So, I apologised.

I stand by my assertion that whatever I have, she wants - but I don’t understand for why. She’s an attractive girl, far more confident than I am – if anything, I’m the one who should be wanting what she has. I’m a human train-wreck right now. There were 100s of people at that funeral, so why cadge a lift off the guy I arrived with? Why the intense interest in Andy since we started fucking, after having known him for 7 years previous? We have so, so many acquaintances in common around the world - in another life, we’d be the best of friends. I apologised, but I don’t feel that much better for it. I just feel drained.

I can’t equate the fact that Nikki’s gone with everything that happened today – if I were writing an entry in a small journal, I’d just write: ‘Went drinking with my friends today, feel like shit.’

I went back to Carl’s place, and made myself feel not so shit.

A bottle of red...

Ok, you try killing half a bottle of red, after 4 weeks of not drinking, in an apartment like this, after almost a fortnight without sex, with a guy who you really shouldn’t want for any number of reasons, but you want him just the same. Try it, and see if you’re capable of stringing a sentence together…

I wonder if this is Nikki’s idea of a joke, a revenge prank for the number of times I teased him about his seniority. I’m lusting over someone who’s older than my natural father, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.

So, instead, I listen, and I gain a friend, but the sheer force of what I’m feeling is overwhelming and I can’t find anything to say; I’m not even making sense to myself.

I guess it’s the drugs, or the drink, or the isolation of being here alone – maybe a combination of the three - but – at this very moment in time – I’d marry the man (if he weren’t already married). At the very least, I’d impale myself up on him like an overeager bunny rabbit, and waggle my nose. Yep, it’s been one of those nights, carved out by God and the Devil for their own amusement, a joint venture in driving me out of my tiny mind. I need to cash in a reality check at the bank of life tomorrow, and get myself out of this headspace…

All that said, I had a lot of fun. I’ve discovered some great new music, and learned a lot about his truly fascinating past. The wine didn’t do me any favours, and I currently feel as if I’ve been beaten over the head repeatedly with a baseball bat – but without the wine, I’d have probably just spent the evening purring.

I reply to Carl’s mail, I have to get this out… and he doesn’t even take the piss out of me for it. “Phil’s a top bloke,” he writes back, and promises me a lot of tales on my return.

Hopefully he'll have one in there to break the fucking spell I'm currently under.

Video Nikki

The strangest thing happened today. Gerard took himself off to get a massage, and I couldn’t handle any more MTV, so I left the TV on a random Czech channel. I don’t understand Czech, so I'm half listening, and I'm sending mails to friends to make arrangements for the Thanksgiving Service next week, when this familiar whine comes from my television set. I recognise the voice, and I look up. And what do you know: there's Nikki on my television set, and they're playing his "Looking At You" video.

I'd never seen this video before. I watch, half in disbelief, wondering if I'm hallucinating, half in tears, knowing it's real.

I write to tell Carl about it, and he doesn’t think it can be true. He didn’t even know that video had been made – and knowing how my prosopagnosia plays me up, he said: “Are you sure it wasn’t one of Phil’s videos?”

It was definitely Nikki. And I still can’t cry… instead I’m laughing. In the 16 years I knew him, I never saw him on television once. Even in death, the man never ceases to amaze me with his ability to get in touch…

Gerard comes back and we head to his favourite Czech restaurant, which isn’t Czech at all, but Italian. He has to fly back straight afterwards, so we stay in there, drinking coffee and waiting for his taxi.

I thought I’d kept a poker face at the Vagon, but Gerard’s parting shot to me is: “Good luck with Phil!”

“What???!” I call after him, in the most incredulous voice I can summon, but his car has pulled away, and the little git deliberately turns his mobile off when I try to call him. Gerard obviously reads me a lot better than I'd like to believe.

Enter the Vagon

I had a bad night last night, and, after pleading with him like a junkie needing a fix, Herbet doubled the dosage - I've never been so glad to feel a needle in my arm. He's putting me on to pills tomorrow, just one a day, time release capsules. He thought I'd be overjoyed at not having to endure any more injections, but in my own perverse way, I've been happy facing up to the phobia - even happier at the bliss and relief that each shot has bought.

Gerard came over at midday and, whilst I sat around in my dreamy drug-induced state trying to get my energy up, we watched some MTV trash: a program called ‘Date My Mom’ that was actually quite amusing once you settled in to it. I show him some stuff I’ve done recently on the net, and we grab a light lunch downstairs then take a brief walk around the square, me clutching on to my stitches, desperately trying to ensure no one came within a meter of my personal space.

I’d written to Phil Shoenfelt earlier in the week – I’d seen a memorial message from him on Nikki’s webpage, and discovered that he was based in Prague. When I looked on the net, sure enough, he had a couple of gigs coming up. He’d recommended this particular night, as the other show was an acoustic set in a small venue. Gerard and I spent some time listening to the four tracks on his MySpace page, and also the tracks by the support band, The Prostitutes – I liked what I heard, and the ghost of Nikki was telling me that we had to go along, so – after a nice Chinese meal at a restaurant Phil had recommended - along we went.

The Vagon is in the basement of a shopping centre, which I would never have found without Gerard’s acute sense of direction. Going down the stairs was a nightmare, I needed a double shot of something as soon as we made it to the bar, but of course, I wasn’t allowed to. We walked in as The Prostitutes were rounding off their set, and caught the last 4 songs. They were an absolute riot, I really loved what they were doing up there – and I promise myself I’ll see them again properly at some point.

The seated area was right at the back of the club, which meant I couldn’t see the stage at all – a little problematic when you’ve said you’ll introduce yourself to someone, and you suffer from prosopagnosia. As I can’t even recognise my own mother out of context, I wasn’t very likely to recognise a stranger from a photograph. I set Gerard on the case, and he ventures to the front – then comes back with the helpful information that Phil is wearing black. Yeah, thanks mate...

The show was surprisingly good. I’ve never been a big fan of any of Nikki’s music or that of his friends, but here was one of his friends who wasn’t playing middle-aged-man rock. He dedicates a song – Love & Destruction – to Nikki’s memory. I get the most emotional I have been since he died, and my mind conjures up the ghost of Nikki once more, who’s wearing purple and pink, and taken the spare seat at our table with a glass of port. It’s so, so real, but I don’t believe in ghosts.

I find Phil after the gig with surprising ease, despite the crowd. Being a friend of Nikki and Carl’s, I was bound to like him eventually – but eventually didn’t even enter into it. Within a second I was ready to kill for him, skip the country, hand in my notice to the Gods - the usual sort of thing. The worst part is, I’m sober. The best part is, his wife, Jolana, is lovely, so I find myself pleasantly grounded. He grabs a quick drink with us, and then the pain gets too much for me and I have to leave.

Later I write to Carl: "Good job I'm not drinking or I could have walked out of that place with a serious crush on a married man”.

He writes back, and although he thinks he’s giving me some good news, and although I laugh for quite a while afterwards, I’m at a loss as to where I should store this new information.

I decide not to store it anywhere, and I write and invite Phil & Jolana over for drinks sometime before I head back.

At last - a visitor!

I tell Gerard he may as well stay at my apartment, but it's too late, he's already booked a studio of his own. As I'm not allowed to climb the stairs, he could have taken all three beds in the upstairs area for himself. I'm currently spending my lonley nights on the leather settee, and being woken up by the cleaning boys in the mornings. The cleaning boys - that's equal opportunity for you. They're two teenagers, maybe in their early twenties, and being disturbed from my dream state to the vision of them cleaning my room is quite a pleasure.

I meet Gerard at 11am in the coffee shop downstairs and we play catch-up with each other. He's concerned and worried about me, with the op, and with Nikki dying. Really, there's nothing to worry about, I'm dealing with both in my own little way. I managed to take a short walk yesterday, despite my stitches - and I have this strange feeling that Nikki's staying in the apartment with me, which is comforting, even if it is the first sign of madness.

I want to take Gerard over to my favourite Prague restaurant, but it's a long way to walk, so we jump in a taxi. He's the fifth person I've taken there in the last year, I'm obsessed with the place - and I introduce him to the delights of having "three courses on one plate" (as Tina screamed when our dinner arrived some months ago). I feel quite lively afterwards, so we actually walk back - and on the corner of Namesti Republic and Jenka (I think it was), there's a shop selling the type of clothes that Nikki used to love. Elegant materials in blues and purples and reds... I almost go in and buy something, but my body's swollen to about 3 times the size it's meant to be right now and there's no point.

We kill the evening in a place across the road called 'Coffee and Cigars'. I get some vanilla tobacco, and start smoking again - Gerard also has a few. I don't want to start seriously, but there was something about it that helped ease the various pains. It was great to see Gerard today. I love the man very dearly.

My own, personal, shagpad

How ironic, that now I am physically incapable, I’ve ended up in an apartment that seems to be designed to cater for every fantasy I hold dear. The wooden rafters and risers, the winding staircase, the balcony overlooking the main living area, the lighting, the leather couch – even the kitchen is designed for fucking. Give me a playmate and some accessories, and I’d be in my own personal sexual heaven – were I able to perform.

Knowing there’s at least one person in my address book equally frustrated as me, I write to tell Carl I’ve run away from the hospital. He suggests I indulge in some DIY, but even that’s out of the question, ‘til I remember I have my electric toothbrush somewhere in my suitcase, and improvise a little.

“You couldn’t use that on a guy though,” Carl writes, in that endearing, innocent way of his.

I deliberate for a while, trying to work out the finer points, and then I reply to my dear, sweet Carl, telling him exactly how to use an electric toothbrush to bring a guy to orgasm.

I don’t think he’ll be trying it soon.

She's a little runaway

I have no idea what Herbert said to get them to agree to it, but I’m being handed over into his care. I’m absolutely NOT meant to fly, but for the sake of two weeks in Prague, even if I am going to be housebound, it’s a risk I’m wiling to take – I know I’ll have some shit hot painkillers waiting as soon as I land. I’m packing Kafka as my tour guide and Baudelaire to sooth my soul. I’m also taking along the book that Nikki urged me to read – I, Claudius. I found the first chapter a battle, but I’ll carry on fighting, for Nikki’s sake.

I don’t know Herbert well at all, but he’s the only guy who’s ever been able to inject me. I’m not proud of the fact, but I’ve attacked medical staff on three occasions when they’ve tried to come near me with needles. They’ve been exceptionally nice about what is really an unforgivable crime, they tell me it’s a natural reaction to overwhelming fear – fight or flight – it’s noted everywhere on my records… but then, I met Herbert, after a Duran Duran gig in Prague – a qualified doctor – and I wasn’t that afraid of needles anymore.

I’m not telling anyone I’m going, for now, except Gerard. He’s agreed to come and visit me next weekend, to help break up my stay. He’s such a good friend to me, god knows what I’ve done to deserve him. Aubs is still waiting for us to realise we’re in love with each other, but he’ll be waiting a long time yet… there’s three men in my life I will never find myself fucking through boredom: Aub, Mark and Gerard - Gerard’s more like my twin – and as we were born on the same day, I guess there is some cosmic thread that draws us together. The last time I caught up with him was in Chicago, almost 8 months ago now, so it’ll be good to see him again.

I fly in the morning.

Post-op blues

My body has changed. It’s changed dramatically. I’m pumped full of surgical fluids, swollen beyond recognition. My upper abdomen is puffed out like a penguin, bruised black and blue. My waistline has vanished. That’s not the only thing missing.

“Ok…. Where the fuck is my my bellybutton?” I enquire, a little disturbed. Where the bellybutton once was is a vertical slit, making my bloated belly look like an additional bottom that’s been surgically attached to my front of me.

“It will heal.” The nurse explains, nervously. “In a year or so…”

“Great. That’s just fucking great,” I sigh, sinking back down into the bed.

So, not only am I physically incapable of fucking, when I do get round to the next guy, I’ll look like a freak.

And blah, no, this isn't an April Fools' Day joke.

Asshole-a-rama

Andy's the typical example of why I should stay away from men. Once my loyalty is established, it's unfailing, even when they're total assholes. Andy has his moments when he's not a total asshole. He can be the kindest, funniest guy. He also has his moments when he's the biggest asshole I know. Today was one of those moments.

He'd decided he wanted to come to London to see me before I went into hospital. That was a nice gesture on his part, it showed his commitment, showed that he cared. I was happy about that. There was a gig going on at the 12-Bar which Nikki was meant to have played, but which had turned into an impromptu last-minute gathering of his friends, and so we decided we'd go along to that. All sorted.

Then he calls me at 1pm and says he's not sure he can be bothered to come. You know, I guess that's not so bad either. I was a bit put out by the whole thing, for sure, but it wasn't a biggie. He'd got stoned early and wasn't sure he could handle the journey, so I rolled my eyes, said "Typical! But ok, I'll see you tomorrow before I go in anyway" and set about my day.

Then he called me at 2pm and said he was gonna come after all because - get this - Marie wanted a lift.

"And that would be the same Marie who wrote you that suggestive letter last week?" I enquire.

"It's not my fault she wrote that letter!" He exclaims.

"If you're coming down with Marie, I'm not going," I said. This wasn't a threat - it was a fact. I didn't want to be in the same room as her right now.

"I'm not going to do anything with her," he said.

"That isn't the point Andy," I said. "The woman just wants whatever I've got... and you're another acquisition she's trying to make. If it wasn't for me, she wouldn't be interested in you."

"She's just a friend! She just wants to be a friend!" he screams.

"Uh huh, I send all my male friends letters like that," I drawl, sarcastically.

Andy is a slammer of phones, and true to character, he slams the phone down on me. Why he bothers, I'm never sure, because he always calls back in the space of a few minutes. He calls me back six or seven times. I finally answer him an hour later.

"I'm coming down. I wanna see you. I'm not bringing Marie, that was stupid of me. Can you meet me in Golders Green so I don't have to drive across central London? I'm leaving the house now.... so see you in a couple of hours."

You see, if that was the end of the story, I'd still not be labelling him an asshole. But, 7pm, sat in the Costa Coffee in Golders Green, realising he's about 45 minutes late, I decide to call him to see where he is on the motorway, and the fucker hasn't even left his house in Birmingham. He'd smoked another joint and fallen asleep. He couldn't be bothered to drive down now, he said. Too far. Too much effort. Cue my turn to do some screaming. I'm in the suburbs of London carrying a very expensive laptop computer and lots of other heavy bags - all the coaches back are booked up - he's effectively left me stranded. I call him every name under the sun. Only then does he leave the house. He gets there at 9.30pm, we get to the venue at 10.30pm and we've missed half the set. He stands there and watches, whilst I drag Keith into the kitchen of the venue for to moan about what an asshole Andy is.

"I have to get away from him," I finally conclude.

Keith is furious with Andy himself. He was waiting on me at the venue, wanting a familiar face to talk to about Nikki, to share in his grief. He knew I'd never be that late without a good reason, and because the reason I was so late was Andy, he was ready to fly off the handle. His solution to the problem was more dramatic than mine, but it made a lot of sense: "You don't just need to get away from Andy, you need to get away from Birmingham, Sarah - that crowd aren't doing you any favours."

When I'd spoken to Carl earlier in the day he'd said the same thing. "Get away from Birmingham." Even though he was in Birmingham himself, and one of my closest friends, he always seemed to know what I needed to do.

It was an interesting idea, for sure.

What I saw of the show itself was beautiful. Dave, Paul and Darrel gave it their all – the crowd were in it, heart and soul - and a giant poster of Nikki smiled out at us. I spent most of the night huddled with Keith, Martin and Andy. Unable to drink before surgery, I alternated between smoking joints and snorting K in a vague attempt to mask the pain. I was so mad at Andy for almost making me cry. Any tears I shed that day should have been for Nikki, now, try as might, I couldn't cry over him.

The very first time I'd fallen out with Andy, Nikki was the one I asked to come for a drink with me. Carl rarely leaving the comfort of his house, Nikki was the natural choice. Nikki never said anything bad about anyone, and he had a lot of time for Andy, but his words kept ringing round my head today: "You’ve got to be careful with Andy, he’s got his own brand of insanity. He’s emotionally chaotic." Having picked up one of Andy's ex-girlfriends once, many years back, I guess Nikki knew what he was talking about. I guess I should have realised this earlier on in the relationship, for example, on the night Andy started to stir his friend’s pint of beer with his cock for no apparent reason. I’d just raised an eyebrow and bought his friend another drink. It seemed simpler than asking for an explanation at the time, but really, the warning signs had been there since the beginning.

Everything Changes

Slightly less than 24 hours ago, I put over £100 on one hand of cards. Whether I won, or whether I lost - that's beside the point. It's £100 I could have spent on something else. Had I spent it on something else, it would have most likely been a weekend on the Costa Del Pimlico, sat out on the balcony each evening with a few bottles of champagne and a few grams of speed and coke for company.

I'm meant to be there right now, staying with James. He doesn't know it, but I'm writing this in a B&B less than 1/2 a mile from his place. I'm gonna take myself off for some food in a bit, get some water inside me, and try and get a decent night's sleep. I'm delivering myself from evil.

You see, I hear that Nikki is dead. The man who had such an impact on my life that he may as well have been my brother. Nikki's dead, and they're saying it was drugs. And sure, we did drugs last night, but he wasn't meant to die.

Drugs aren't really my demon... they're part of who I am, but they're not a problem in my life, not anymore. Nikki's dead, and everything changes now.

The world's lost a great man - one of the greatest. He was such a kind and charming soul, so boyish and mischievous, so eloquent, so caring. I liked him a lot. I liked how he made me feel. Whenever I was in danger of turning into another rat in the race, he'd write or say something that would reignite my passion for life, he'd do something to remind me that I was unique, and special, and loved, despite my shortcomings. His gentleness sent waves of warmth through me whenever we touched. He’d take great glee in teasing me about that, deliberately misinterpreting my body’s response. I’d get snarky and embarrassed, wonder out loud how he managed to get so many women, talk about how I could never fuck someone over the age of 45, over-compensating in the worst possible way for those mostly accidental brushes that sent me completely off-kilter. I can’t explain it any more than I can explain why he was taken from us so early, I honestly never did fancy Nikki, but even now I can feel the shiver he gave me with our last kiss goodbye.

Love him. Miss him already. Good God, this is hard.

R.I.P my dear friend.

2006: The prophecy

2005:
Take a look at my face, for the last time -
I never knew you, you never knew me, wave hello, goodbye.

Whatever you resolve at the start of 2006 is actually going to happen, because there's a New Moon. So, be careful what you wish for.... 'cos it will come true.

What do I want?

I want to get out of my job.
It's too stressful, it doesn't suit me.
The people don't suit me and the town doesn't suit me.
The money is the only thing I like about the job, and I don't actually need money to be happy.
I've always been happier when I've been poorer.

I want to wish someone out of my life.
He won't ever find a way to put as much into my life as I do into his.
So, bye-bye.
I can do that.
I'm taking steps to do that.
He's gone already - now it's just the fade sequence.
I am resolving NOT to hurt over it: I'm better off out & away, and always have been.

IN FACT: I want to wish a group of someones out of my life.
I've done my time.
I've made some friends.
The circle's complete.

I know who my real friends are.

I want my family to make it through another year happily and healthily.

I want my creativity to come SHINING through. I've been dead this past year. I had a shimmer of light towards the end, a friend of mine finally broke the barrier again (thank you), but I wanna make that shimmer into something BIG and BOLD and BEAUTIFUL.

I stopped smoking, but I started SMOKING again, so this year I stop SMOKING, too. Unless I need things to be BIG and BOLD and BEAUTIFUL, in which case, hmmmmmm. Maybe just a wee drag.

Now I've got it under control, I am going to keep my drinking under control.

Now I've got it under control, I am keeping all other substance abuse under control. In fact, I'm not gonna touch coke or speed all year. There! Or pills or anything. I'll be cleaner than Clean Steve (better watch out all you space-cats: Clean Steve is a mineral man).

I also resolve not to cut or dye my hair for yet another year, for the 3rd year running!

I have no need for a relationship, so I'm not gonna go looking for one. The men who are already in my life are more than enough to cater for my (many and varied) needs. Why fix what isn't broken?

Thinking about Jools Holland sexually is just plain WRONG.

I'm going to write a lot, lot more than I did this year.