Everything will be the same after lunch


I was falling asleep on the train coming back from Victoria and my facial expressions seemed to humour two dudes sitting on the opposite seat. So I played along, waiting for the right time, slowly filling my lungs with a long discreet breath then screamed as loud as I could. Everybody on the train jumped and it frightened those two so much that a part of them may never recover.

Before that I was seeing Flo off at the coach terminal and eating the flapjack she bought me. I had been looking at her in awe, wondering if she was real. How did she know I love flapjacks so much? Seeing as I’ve experienced happiness, I figure this will be the last time I see her because she will surely die in a horrific bus crash.

She was being silly and about to get on the bus, so the atmosphere was not quite right for serious affections, but I made her promise she wouldn’t die. But seriously¬†I can’t see any reason why we won’t be together until one of us does die, which probably will be me because I’m way older and the strange sort that waits until the bus is out of sight then scurries back to the snack stand to gobble another ten flapjacks.


I came home and ate 1 litre of cheap ice cream which I had to hide from my housemates because it was made by Nestle. It was so bland I had to put 3 bananas in it and heaps of Flo’s honey which I’ve been banned from touching. I also found some chocolate up the back of the cupboard which had obviously been hidden from me so I finished it as punishment.

I shamefully sat on my laptop and played with the cat as Finn clanged around with a mop and bucket, cleaning the house on her morning off. Then Jack woke up full of phlegm and left a puddle of tea on the clean floor.

I went into Jack’s room while he was in Barcelona. It was a shocking mess, a bulging black bin liner with a frenzy of winged insects circling it. Finn and Flo went in there and cleaned it for him, which was most kind considering he’s a brat and refuses to wash his own dishes. While they were in there Finn called out to me to come look. The room looked fantastic and they’d written him a poem. Finn motioned me over towards the shelf where standing upright stood both of Jack’s rubber dildo’s. With a cheeky smirk she pointed at the smaller one which seemed to have some of his remains on it with a hair stuck to it.

Jack and weren’t talking. He’s a pig and I’m a free loader. When I went into his room to retrieve my shorts, I found myself intrigued and empathetic towards him. This was his first time living away from home, he obviously had no domestic responsibilities before.

For a gay kid growing up in Essex I assume the only way to cope is to become insolent and efficient at devaluing criticism which crosses over to things he doesn’t understand or hold importance to. On a night out recently he got smacked by another guy for some out of hand banter and I understood perfectly how he could provoke that. They did call him chubby however.

I saw almost our entire collection of bath towels on the floor, empty booze cans, all sorts of grime and debri, evidence of independant sexual activity, scattered change, his drawings on the wall – one which looked a fine piece of draftsmanship done without lifting the pencil from the page.

He complains about being the only single person in a house of eight and at least was, spending a lot of time on grinder. Since I’ve known him, his increasing sexual exploration has entertained my own curiosity, his frankness around homosexuality is refreshing since it’s not typical of my upbringing.

He came into our room the other night and woke us up crying and saying he didn’t want to drink anymore, something which he denies while sober.

There’s no denying the allure of self destructive person, but it’s a lot less irritating from a distance and when you don’t have to wash his dishes so you can cook.








London doesn’t look the same in the darkness of 3am, there’s no people anywhere and all the restaurants along the South Bank have their outdoor tables and chairs neatly stacked and chained to the wall.

I’m wearing everything in my backpack and I’m still cold, laying here on the Victoria Embankment on part of the Thames River Wall. It’s overlooking the downward ramp entrance to RNLT Tower Life Boat Station which is a stones throw north from Waterloo Bridge. I’m on a granite block elevated to about head height of the passing pedestrians, it’s dark enough for them not to notice me but anyone with street eyes would spot me.

There’s rats running around and I can’t really sleep because the slab is cold and I’m freightened of rolling over the edge. Surreal moment : Am I actually doing this? It’s a section of time when you are sort of detached from the reality of your geographic location, so far away from home in a situation your mother would never have wanted. I understand why people talk to themselves, it’s like your the centre of the universe, everybody else is frozen and your walking around looking at whatever you like in Murgatroyd’s Garden.

I moved heading north toward Blackfriars Bridge and saw a little round man walking toward me with a shopping bag. Anyone walking around this early is a nutter so I held a reserve of tense curiousity.
I could smell his cologne and he invited me to sit down. There was not much space on the part of the bench he suggested and he did not move over despite the contact of our legs. He was from Romania and I didn’t feel like talking but he said he was starting a company and had some big plans. He asked for my email address which I gave him, then he left.

I crossed the bridge after looking for a better spot by walking into the tiled subway entrance to Blackfriars London. It was drenched in tuscan light not a sound at all, there were some people under blankets just outside.

On the South Bank on the otherside of the river almost directly opposite my previous spot I found Bernie Spain Gardens. I was so tired, I hadn’t slept for 48 hours since hitching from Glasgow.
There’s a bunch of scattered green benches there, right up the back of the small park I can see a white face supine on a bench facing me asleep in an eskimo rimmed sleeping bag. About 30 metres away to my right a man is sitting on another bench slumped with a big hood over his head shadowed from the garden lights by trees. He has no blankets.
I lie down and pull my sleeping bag over me which is only half effective now since washing it in a machine (it’s duck feathers.)
I look at the back of my eyelids, wondering if those sounds I hear are people walking up behind me with a bat about to bludgeon me for assaulting this public space with my seemingly worthless presence.

I hear the sound of jogging feet. I peak out of my sleeping bag and the black has turned to pale colour as people run past with their headphones on and men in suits walk to work not even looking at me. Those other two guys have gone.

Bernie Spain Gardens


Black Friars Bridge

RNLT Tower Life Boat Station