the Daily Grind: September 2003 Archives

Living out of a college house means that I do an awful lot of my indoor activities in my own room, at my desk, in front of my computer, and, since I share with a number of people who seem to have been house trained by coprophile gibbons, this usually includes - run in, hold breath, cook, breathe once, clean up, get out - eating my meals.

Which sees me sitting in my room this morning, at my desk, in front of my computer, eating my secret, guaranteed-flat-stomach brekkie of beef sausages (x4) and a sweet pepper, mushroom and burned cheddar, two-egg omelette; scrummilicious. It's gorgeously sunny outside, not a cloud to be seen, and it's past 0900. I have myself a day off; the power supply to our Institute is being upgraded today, so we are all, on pain of death, to keep away.

Such hardship as this is a terrific blow to my routine; I got up at 0630 for a swim, and since I didn't have to be anywhere, anytime, I was able to do lengths from the opening of the pool, through the pre-work rush of people, and on until it was once again quiet. And now a leisurely breakfast of animal protein, three litres worth of fat, and some really tasty peppers to boot.

The weekend was pretty enjoyable too; I caught up with said let-me-crash-my-car-today friend, who happened to bring along a mate who I've not seen since 2001. We had a great time catching up, and reminiscing over our crazy school moments now long since past.

This third chap, who we call "Parky", was always pretty masculine, overt but genuine, and slightly loopy a character back then. He would, on rare occasions, go through phases of flirting outrageously with me just to see how uncomfortable he could make me feel. He fared pretty well. The most famous occasion came whilst I was leaning against a cupboard, one day, chatting to a friend in his room. Enter Parky, who brings talk around to girls, and eventually, to guys.

"What kind of guy do you tend to go for?" he asks. I reply vaguely, expressing a lack of preference for particular types. He steps in front of me and rests one hand on the cupboard to my left, making suggestions of what hot guys he thinks I might be into, during which time he brings up his other hand to rest of the cupboard on the other side of me.

Hello, I appear to be trapped. The spectator giggles.

Wearing a cheeky smile, he then steps right up; pressed against me, his face about three inches from mine, he asks whether he does it for me. At which point I am thinking "Oh, MyLORD!". We go all sexy and hold eyes for a few seconds, and then both collapse in hysterics. I'm glad that didn't happen often as he'd have killed me through hormone imbalance.

Most of my longterm friends are straight blokes like this - which of course makes more sense when you bear in mind that I went to a boy-only borstal - and none of them would give a flying monkey's whether I was attracted to men or wildlife. I never used to take this for granted, which is a failing on my part perhaps, as they've never shown me anything other than warmth, trust and dependability, but I'm grateful all the same, whether or not I should be.

Sunday was hot as hell. To go blading in Hyde Park was the only thing to do, and I made the novel discovery that it feels even better without your shirt on. I will miss the summer; with the passing of the recent equinox, it is officially Autumn.

Today I began a general-distribution work email with the following:

Greetings all,
I've had the particular pleasure of discovering some misplaced foetal tissue in the leftmost -80 C freezer on the 4th floor. The contents of the clip-lock bag would appear, on close inspection, to consist of brain matter.

Now you understand why I love working where I do. For a plant-science department, you do find some funny things in the longterm storage facilities.

As it turns out, the piece of brain came from a sheep. Better when fried with onions.

This morning saw my sleepy person at the public pool, bright and early, where a great swim was had. There was, however, minor drama when I paused for a breather to chat with a girlfriend of mine who was there too. An older gentleman splooshed up to me and accused me of not getting out of the way before turning to swim back down the length of the pool (a circular lane system is in operation during busy periods).

I would have entertained his accusation had it not been an impossibility; I had been swimming two lanes over and meandered through rope and flesh to 'Hello' my friend, so I told him lightly "that might have been the case were I actually swimming in this lane," at which he looked around and pointed at the next nearest young person, "well then, it must have been him!"

Said young person - having only just entered the pool himself - was far less patient than I am, and told him where to take himself with his false accusations, and berated him again for accusing me in the first place - thanks, kind stranger who set off every gaydar I operate. Mild swearing match ensues, which I watch silently with more than a little delight, before a guard comes over to make sure that everything is alright. Continue swimming, that be that. Sigh, little old men can be awfully interesting; I hope I'm a lively character too when I'm pushing for retirement.

On a different front, I discovered that one of my dearest friends was in a serious car accident up in Scotland last week... "I went round a corner, avoiding something in the road, and on glancing in the mirrors to see what it was, I clipped the verge... it basically pulled me off the road, and I went head-on into a tree. The airbags went off and all, before I landed in a ten foot ditch on my side. I crawled out and managed to call my parents; someone who drove past called the police and an ambulance; I was taken to Aberdeen for x-rays as they thought I might have broken my neck."

Sigh. I've had enough of my list being added to without losing someone I really care about. Given, he is alive, and though he's not in a particularly good way, I am immeasurably relieved that his 'coming close' was not quite close enough.

This is the straight friend I confided in about my sexuality, during my early teens, when a tough situation had driven me unexpectedly into a really dark place, the one who, when I broke down, put his arm about my shoulder and made sure I knew that everything would be okay. He was perhaps the first friend that I knew I'd love forever; I'll be damned before I have to see him go.

I wonder whether stumbling forth into the open after work on a Friday will ever feel anything other than a release. Admittedly, there are professions that I could genuinely see myself enjoying - running a tropical nursery, travel writing, botany and forest research - but that is not my present, and where I stand now, the passion just isn't great enough for me to want to be there, day in, day out.

Well, a year and a half to go, roughly; it has been great, and very interesting, but next time I undertake a Ph.D., it will have to be rather less molecular, and rather more substantial. I was offered the perfect job recently, in Sri Lanka, but it won't be mine because this is something I am determined to finish.

It's 0840, and I've just showered. I'm ensconced in a dressing gown and somewhere on the way to getting ready to head into London with Phil. We've a dinner party to head to at QUOD's Red Room, Haymarket, come the evening, followed possibly by pyrotechnics at the Jubilee Gardens, lunch with my bestest gal (mum) and my favourite gay 'uncles' in the mid-afternoon, and somewhere before that I was hoping to head into Camden market to rummage. So I'm on the way to being tardy, but I'm not going to rush; there was enough of that during the week. Here's to a gentle weekend.

Today has been one of those days in which I've found myself absent-mindedly looking toward my watch in the vain hope that I'll suddenly find myself at the Weekend. Until half way through the afternoon, I even had it in mind that it might still be Wednesday, which, of course, it most certainly isn't.

And while my brain falls to pieces, I note a distinct chill in the air, which bodes well for the lovers of Autumn; it is, by all accounts, one of the most atmospheric seasons, beautiful in its rush toward austerity. Especially so in a place such as this, which looks its best in the softer lights that subtend the blinding rays of summer.

Nonetheless, I'm not entirely ready for chills just yet, and have partaken in a pagan ritual to bring about at least a few more days of sunshine. I'll know by tomorrow whether that works or not; all I need is a little extra cheer this weekend, and then I'll be set to slog through six months of the cold, soul-crushing, joint-killing, perpetual rainy-night that is the British Winter.

It is better for outdoor sports though - a personal preference - and that makes me happy.

Just back from the naked-Greek arena* and my legs feel like jelly; the last trip to a qualified physio left me with the knowledge that I must not run for at least six weeks in order for my injury to heal; aggravate it now and I could cause permanent scarring which, in turn, might mean an operation. This is no biggie in terms of fitness, as I can cycle lightly, swim and do leg exercises - plenty this morning, hence the jelly - in the gym, but part of me died at the news, as running is one of my all-time favourite releases, and really keeps the stress, lethargy and excess energies at bay.

Yesterday saw a couple of us fishing on the River Cam; the weather was perfect for it, though we were somewhat underdressed, but the fish really didn't agree. Even the angling competition that was going on downstream looked depressing. Today is all sunshine and warmth, so we're trying again, in a different, more secluded location. Fingers crossed that someone will catch at least one fish. Most of my friends don't enjoy fishing - it's boring/it's not "very gay" - but if you like reading or chatting, and doing something therapeutic at the same time, then this is an ideal sport.

And hey, remember the singing bowls? I got up at 0500 this morning to see to an auction on eBay that I had been watching, and got this beauty for £22.00 from Nepal. She's 7" across, weighs 685 grams (that's 1 lb 8.2 oz), is way older than I am by a couple of sums, and is worth £80 on the Western market. God bless the internet - if only children were so easy to acquire.

* the gym

Just a note, seeing that I've had a couple of confused messages through my inbox, to say that if you meet with strangeness on accessing this page (Apache Server SSL/TTL notices and the like) that all is normal.

My hosts are migrating to a more powerful set of servers, and this has meant updating my nameserver details; in summary, the site is being moved to new servers, the nameserver address of the site is being updated, and since these two processes are not interdependent, some minor interruptions are inevitable. Since your day does not centre around being able to "access me" freely, it shouldn't bother anyone unduly.

I seem to have missed out a couple of days of worthy inanity for a number of reasons, notably being absent, having read three fiction novels in the last week and a half at the expense of life, having plenty of work to do both at work and at home, and a minor need to avoid stringing full sentences, with which I've been having some trouble recently.

I was caught, rather spectacularly, in the massive blackout that brought London to her knees last Thursday. Scariness. Actually, not at all; it lasted less than an hour, and only affected a band across the Southern parts of the city. It did, however, mean that my fifteen minute ride from Vauxhall Station to Wimbledon took almost two hours as a result of the considerable delays brought upon the overground train services. Heavy rain, no taxis, and too far to walk. Groovy.

I would have granted the occasion the full brunt of my considerable apathy were it not for the fact that I had an appointment with a physiotherapist. Which I missed. Not so groovy. Hey, groovy is such a dated word - old enough for me never to have used it before.

Heck, this was a day for bad-jokes-by-God; even before reaching Vauxhall, a passenger pulled the emergency cord on the Victoria Line, bringing the Underground train to a halt for five minutes at a station, Oxford Circus, perhaps. Then on we went until just after Pimlico where, as we travelled under the Thames, the train made some crazy banging noises and jolted to a stop (cue the power cut), and then started to lunge forward in hopeful little spurts of reserve power driven optimism until we finally lurched into Vauxhall.

The station lights are extinguished, alarm bells are sounding, and the eerie glow of reserve lighting brings everything on the platform into soft relief. We are told that we will not be able to alight at this station, at which point the doors open anyway and we all pile off. Walk up the lifeless escalator, enter the mainline station, learn that no-one is going anywhere fast because there's no power.

No power? How is it that some of the trains are still moving? That all the lights in the tower blocks nearby continue to bless the immediate scene with their benign, cheery glow?

We're dismal at power failures, people.