Vin's sister emails

"Right, for all those relying on outbound or return travel by car for the holiday, you might want to start planning a contingency.

"There is currently ‘a bit of a situation’ developing throughout France, as you might be aware. Estimates on the wires are that the petrol supplies in France are only going to last another two or three days if current levels of striking continue (those on flights might want to check them too as apparently some are being cancelled).

Sam, Jacqui, and so it goes...

I went to the Briton's with Sam and jacqui for a catch up. It was the first time we'd talked over the plan for Japan. Sam would have been my first choice for a reference, but - based on what I'd asked the JET Office - I chose not to ask her. "You're not allowed to ask a friend," I explained.
"Charming!" said Jacqui.
"It's not like that Jacqui, I promise."
"So I'm not your friend?"

Interview Swings and Roundabouts

At 9.30am I got a call about the Research Officer job that I’d applied for, and – in my opinion – interviewed well for. “You were good enough, but not the strongest candidate.” Rubbish!

At 4.45pm I got a call about the Policy Officer job that I’d applied for. “We’d like to invite you to interview next week.” Excellent!

As the Dude says, strikes and gutters.

Murder!

"MURDER! There's been a murder!"

The Lovely Jane's voice echoed down the stairs from the middle floor landing. I dashed up from the kitchen. Charlene had been butchered* in her bed between the hours of three and four in the morning. So it goes. A silent figure had come into her room and stabbed her to death. Hannah or the Lovely Jane had found her bloodied corpse. So it starts!

*Chaz had woken up to find a note and a knife on the bedside table. She watched the whole investigation 'as a ghost.'

Who was where at the time of the murder?

• Charlene was in her bed on the middle floor.


• Hannah and Tom were staying in an adjacent room, to the west.


• The Lovely Jane and the Lovely Colin were also staying in an adjacent room, to the east.


• Vin was alone in the room he normally shared with me on the top floor.


• Jamie was also alone in a room on the top floor, a room that he normally shared with his brother Dom.


• I was in the drawing room drinking port with Dom and Skinner.

Nobody had a decent alibi. Vinny was alone. Jamie was alone. The beautiful symbiosis of coupledom means that Tom could have slipped out of bed without disturbing Hannah, and her him, and likewise for The Lovelies. All of the late drinkers slipped out to use the toilet at least once. On grounds of opportunity, nobody should have been beyond suspicion. Such rational thought, however, was far beyond the groupthink of the hivemind.

What do I remember? Nothing incriminating. I was last to bed, as ever. Skinner went up before Dom and I, who shared a last Drum Gold moment on the balcony before bed. It could have been Skinner, in that gap. It could have been Dom, who left me for another five minutes as I looked at the mist curling in the valley. It could have been me. But I didn't think it was any of us. The three of us talked about spectacular ways to commit a murder over the port, and I doubted that Dom or Skinner would then follow that with such a prosaic MO. Unless it was a colossal bluff, of course.

Dom and Skinner and I more or less put forward the same opinion - it could have been any of us, but we thought it probably wasn't. Was one of us duping the others?

Tom had vanished first thing in the morning, to go fishing. Was he getting himself as far away as possible from the body to put himself out of the frame?

Vinny took a pad, and started to draw out a chart of who was where at what time. Was he blustering to take the heat off himself?

The Lovelies, The Lovely Colin and The Lovely Jane, were oddly bickersome that morning. They seemed intent on stitching each other up. What had gotten one of them so riled?

Hannah had gotten up in the night and come down to the kitchen for a glass of water, and then refused to enter it because she remembered there was a dog. "I'm scared of dogs," she said, "and I don't drink bathroom water." Oh, really... how convenient.

Jamie was quiet. He'd been quiet all week. Thoughtful. He's a buddhist these days, nothing out of the ordinary there.

Discussions continued into the afternoon, and into the evening. Hannah's tale of an aborted attempt to get up in the night wasn't holding much water with anybody. Most of what she'd said smelt strongly of bullshit. Getting up for a drink when you have a tap in your room? Because you don't like bathroom water? Really? making all that effort to get out of bed, then turning back empty handed out of fear of the most placid dog I've ever met? Hmmmmm...

Skinner's comatose hangover led Vin to declare Skinner was out of the picture. I was in the clear too - "DTR wouldn't go into a girl's bedroom in the middle of the night with a massive knife unless he knew that girl quite well, and he only met Chaz on Monday. It's not him."

There was more from the great detective. "Because I was sharing a room with DTR, and because Jamie was sharing with Dom, and because there was no way we'd be able to predict how long the bottle of port would last, neither Jamie nor I could have planned to wake up in the night and kill Chaz. We couldn't risk setting an alarm in case it woke up our roommate.

"Neither Colin nor the Lovely Jane remember their partner getting out of bed in the night. Tom, however, does remember Hannah getting out of bed. Hannah's story isn't convincing. In fact, it keeps changing. For a teacher, who speaks in front of people all day, she's really struggling to look anybody in the eye. I think it's Hannah."

Everybody said who they thought it was at the penultimate stage, and why. Most people went with Hannah, but I suddenly thought it was Tom, based on what Hannah had said about how his occasional lies present themselves. There were a couple of other curveball ideas, but nothing substantial. It came to the vote. I voted Dom. Skinner voted Jamie. In the haze of wine, looking back, it seemed that everybody else voted Hannah. So she was hung.

"Will the real murderer please stand up?"

Chairs moved. An arm stretched out. A hand pressed on the table. Everybody was looking around at everybody else. This is the best part of the game by miles. Who was it?


Jamie.


"I decided to kill Chaz in the middle of the night. I knew that an alarm would wake up Dom, so I conducted a series of tests. I set my watch alarm to go off, put it under my pillow, and listened from Dom's bed. It was too loud, so I put it inside a sock and tested it, again listening from Dom's bed. Still too loud, so I used another sock. Much better - barely audible from Dom's bed, but loud enough for me - after all it was under my pillow. I took the knife to bed with me, and even wrote the note in advance. I woke up with the alarm, and saw Dom's bed empty..."

"Because I was drinking port downstairs with DTR and Skinner."

"...yes, and so I went into Chaz's room. And the rest is violent, bloody history."

Such dedication to the cause is commendable. I think Jamie deserved to win. Chaz - who'd been silent since her death - asked if we could draw cards again. And why not?

Joining the dots

Had I not gone to Didsbury last night, I'd have got to work before 9.20, but I would have missed Miriam Brown in the street outside the C_____, and I wouldn't have been invited to the pub with her after work. "It's someone's fortieth, you should come along."

The Peveril was rammed. "Hello Miriam!" I was introduced to people left right and centre, typically in the form, "This is _____," he works for the C_____," or "This is _____," he also works for the C_____." A trickle of fear snaked down my spine, as the wheels of my tiny mind turned.

"Miriam," I asked in a rare quiet moment, "does everybody here work for the C____?"
"Yes, yes it's a work function, so yes, they all do."
My heart stopped, and my mouth went dry.
"Is Liz going to be here?"

Liz, you see, works for the C____ too. Liz and Miriam used to work on the same desk island. I know Liz partly because of Miriam. Liz and I haven't spoken for months. It's like that with some break-ups - most, in my experience. Whilst it might be quite nice to be friends, things haven't taken that route. So it goes. And there I was, in the middle of a work function that she might be at. Yikes.

"No, she's away at her sister's wedding."

Phew! I have no beef with Liz, but it would have been awkward for both of us if we met by surprise, especially on "her turf."

The evening developed into one of the best nights I've had in ages. The company was wonderful. Like musical chairs, I found myself sitting next to a new face every ten or fifteen minutes. Stories of volunteering, of Lagos, of poo flying twelve feet, or dogs being put down as a smokescreen. A riot of conversation. As various names were attached to faces around the table, I started to remember some of the stories Liz had told me about her colleagues. In incompetent temp here, a married man having an affair there. Pulling up their file from my mind once I'd identified them made me feel like I was Robocop, or The Terminator.

Congratulations John

My friend John just announced his engagement through his Facebook status. I thought about commenting...

And I've passed my exams too!

...so that everybody who leaves a comment saying congratulations to him in one way or another is also inadvertently congratulating me. Having not yet got my exam results, I dare not tempt fate in this manner.

EDIT: 22:30, and 27 comments later, I wonder if I made the right choice. Gems of comments like...

Congratulations to you both. Great news. Hope you are very happy.

oh my god never thoght i'd see this day. way too grown up to compute but congratumalations

Wow, guys thats awesome news!! Congratulations to you both

I can only echo the shock and well-wishes above... Congratulations!

...make me wish I had posted the comment. Well done John, and boo to me, DTRMCR, for listening to my conscience at the expense of a gag. So it goes.

Liz and Liz

Liz B, my first ever girlfriend, got married yesterday. I just saw the photos on Facebook. It made me think it'd be a good idea to tell Liz S, my last girlfriend, that there are no hard feelings on my part. I like the idea that you can be friends with your exes.

I'm only really friends with one of them though.

So it goes.

I went to Blackpool, and it was shit.

Rather than go to the pub with Dunk and Ryan last night, I opted to get an early night and get off to Blackpool first thing.

"Why are you going to Blackpool? It's horrible."

My colleagues, my friends and my housemates all asked the same question. I didn't know what the answer was. I'd never been. Perhaps that was it. What could be nicer than a sunny August day by the sea?

I didn't get a sunny August day by the sea though. I got cold, heavy rain. I made a mistake - I made several, as it happens, but this was a big one - by getting out of the train a stop early for "a quick look at the Pleasure Beach." What looked like light drizzle from inside the train was far from that. Horrible icy rain. I put on my jumper, but it didn't make much difference. Within fifteen minutes I was soaked. Rain had soaked through my cargo shorts, through my underpants, through my jumper, and through my bag. My trainers sloshed with every step I took. I ducked into an arcade and tried to use my phone's GPS to find my way. My phone was wet. My beautiful new phone. Oh fuck. Should I continue to wander blindly around town, and get wet, or try to dry off in the amusements? What a predicament. Water dripped from my elbows. I saw a TK Maxx sign, and decided to head into the shopping centre. I headed for the toilets to try to dry off a bit. Not good. I put my phone in the path of the hand dryer and left it there. When it stopped, I put the phone back underneath. Three times. Four times. The dryer shorted out. I moved onto the next one for more of the same. Still no joy. Shit. I was sort of dry from the wrist down now, having tried to rescue my phone. I tramped to Primark, and bought a new t-shirt and a hoody to wear to keep me warm. I asked for a plastic bag, to transplant my wet gear into. "We only do paper I'm afraid mate," he said, "a bit daft for somewhere as wet as Blackpool, eh?" Very daft, I thought. "Thank you," I said. Back to the toilets to change out of my dripping uppers and into the new gear. My mood still stank, thinking of my phone. My underwear was still wet too. I wanted to go home. Where was the bloody train station?

I stepped out of the shopping centre to glorious sunshine.

It was half twelve. If I'd have gone to the pub with Dunk and Ryan last night, I would be arriving around now. So it goes. I got on the train.

"Today I didn't even have to use my AK"

Durex gave me a lift to Bolton in the morning - I was off to get my stitches out. Finally! An end to all this root canal rubbish! Lucinda, as always, was brilliant. I'm hoping I don't have to go and see her again - that my teeth won't cause me any more problems - but at the same time I was a little sad at the thought of not seeing her again. So it goes, I suppose.

Back to work, and - luckily - my idiotic transgression from yesterday seems to have borne none of the foul fruit it could have. I must give the impression that I'm expecting a gun rack shipment via eBay. I'm glad it was kicked to the kerb, and that it doesn't looks like there'll be any kind of awkward meetup as a consequence of my error. Phew, what a relief! Case closed!

I bought Persepolis for Tracy at lunchtime - a birthday gift. I called her - and she was just around the corner in town. Brilliant! As I headed round to meet her, I strolled past Vicky and her David. I'd finished on the phone, but I kept it by my ear. Case closed, I'd said, so let's leave it that way. Tracy was very pleased with the book. It was lovely to see her.

I met the casual sex girl from work for Friday pint after work club - just the pair of us, as usual. After a bit of a catch up - we hadn't hung out since she and I had a bit of a to-do about her wanting to date me - her ex showed up. The poor lad is taking their recent break-up pretty badly, and now he's been made redundant. He was only dumped by her a couple of months ago. We left the Lass to hide out from him in Odder. Halfway down our next pint, he showed up there too. Oh dear! So we turned around and scooted into the Thirsty Scholar. He didn't find us. I enjoyed re-acquainting myself with her on entirely non-romantic, non-sexual terms. Win!

On the bus home, I leafed through the new Economist, a Friday pleasure like no other. China's trade in South America, US air-bases in Columbia - all pretty standard (interesting, but dense) Economist fare. The obituary was for Benson, a carp, and was exquisitely written.

PETERBOROUGH, in the English Midlands, is a red-brick town, best known as the midway point on the line between King’s Cross and York. But from the bottom of Kingfisher Lake, just outside it, urban toil seems far away. There, all is most delightful silt and slime. A push of your probing nose sends up puffs and clouds of fine mud through the water. A riff of bubbles rises, silvery, towards the surface. The green reeds quiver, and sunlight ripples down almost to the depths where you are lurking, plump and still.

Nothing I read about Michael Jackson was as eloquent. What a fish, and - oh my! - what a newspaper!

When I got home, Kate was watching TV, but with no real purpose. QI wasn't on, nor was Jonathan Ross. I flicked a bit, and found something about allotments. "Oh wow," said Kate as she came back into the room, "this was the film that I worked on!" It was called Grow Your Own, and I thought it was pretty good. Kate was full of little nuggets about what she'd done during individual scenes. It was like having a director's commentary, only with the costume department. I only wish I'd seen it all.

All in all, I have to say, today was a good day.

By not paying her.

Odd day. I felt on a massive downer for most of it, and I’m not sure why. Hormones maybe? Do men get moods based on hormones? Probably. I met Tracy for lunch, and was a bit quiet. She mentioned it, and I said that nothing was wrong. Nothing was, really, nothing specific anyway. Nothing I could put my finger on.

In the afternoon, I checked out Ben’s wedding website. I’ve not been invited. Until now, I’d thought that was because the wedding was a long way off. Turns out I was wrong, it’s in four weeks. Guess I’m not on the list. So it goes. Lewis called as I was trying to find a present for Emma. He told me not to worry about the wedding invite. I wasn’t worried, just surprised. We talked about how strange it is that Ben’s getting married in the church that held my friend Sam’s funeral back in 2000. It’s a beautiful place.



I wasn’t looking forward to birthday drinks at Emma’s, mostly because of my foul mood. A quick solo pint loosened me up, I hoped, and I trudged around the corner. Misty made me laugh. He’s such a decent bloke. Lorraine, back from Australia, barely said a word to me all evening. I wasn’t asking her many questions either. So it goes.

I felt a bit teary in the cab. Hormones? Yes, I think so.

I'm a walkin' in the rain....

Matt and Chaw were out, and Kate was working, so I spent most of the day to myself. I read the end of Pollen by Jeff Noon, which dragged rather towards the end (weird, in that I really struggled to put it down when I first started to read it - like an amazing first date then a terrible second one), and got through the rest of the Economist from the day before.

For want of a little entertainment, I threw some borrowed tools in a bag and strolled down to Clare's to give them back to her. She was watching the Wire with Tom, and we had a cup of tea or two and chat. Ollie came round too. It was Bettsy's stag do last night. I wasn't invited, for obvious reasons. So it goes. I walked home in the rain.

Only one more day of antibiotics to go. God I miss booze!

I’ll miss Ryan, I won’t miss Ben

Ryan came by on Monday. We listened to Wu-Tang, to Last Shadow Puppets, and to Nine More Lies. Ben has solved the damp in my old room, said Ryan. He’s solved it by painting over it. Right then.

"You have received a message from..."

You have received a message from... WHO? Wow, I thought she'd disowned me... oh... it's a group message

Company and a crowd

I met Liz after work. We went for noodles, then met Ryan for a few drinks in Dulcimer.

It was an odd evening. I think you have a different kind of conversation when there are three of you. Its intimacy retreats to the level of the least well acquainted member of the party. It would have been rude for Liz and I to talk about anything too personal in Ryan’s company, and definitely awkward for Ryan. For that reason, it was a little unsatisfying. On the other hand, it was very nice to see her. I was balancing what was going on in my head, when Liz decided it was home time for her.

She stood. I didn’t get up fast enough to hug her goodbye, and it must have seemed to her like I wasn’t going to get up at all. She looked a little hurt, and came over. We hugged. I felt sad.

“Maybe she’s not a keeper.”

"Maybe she is."

As I arrived at the Sand Bar, Ed was chatting to some strangers about Kraftwerk. He looked well, all smiles and little boy haircut, and collar sticking out of his jumper. When was the last time I’d seen him? For some football in the Vic, maybe three months ago? Wow. We had a couple of beers, and caught up. The saga of Ed and Miriam goes on. I think it will go on and on, and I believe it will end in a good way too. A few words of wisdom really got me thinking about some things to do with me. I bloody love Ed Padmore.

Cargo Pants / Karma Pants

Back in August, Phil had told me that my cargo pants weren't appropriate for the Lime Tree. I went and got changed. It was funny more than anything else, but on the other hand, I've not forgotten it either. It's not a scarring type memory but... anyway...

After watching the Wales v Ireland game in the rugby, Phil, Pervy, Simon and I went on a little tour of Withington, and then headed into town. It was late. Nowhere was open. We went to the Press Club. Phil tried to convince the doorman that he was a surgeon. No chance. We were about to be turned away, when I showed the doorman my work ID. He looked at it, at me, and said, "Okay. Seven fifty."

"And my friends?" I said, pointing at the other three. "Them too?"

He nodded. We all went in.

Cargo Pants: 1 - Press Club: 1