Bridges

I burn more bridges than I build. Like that DeLorean, a trail of flames often follows me. Unlike that DeLorean, I can't travel backwards in time to make amends.

Last night, at the death of Chubb and Steve's party, I answered the door, and found myself looking at to a once-familiar face. Suze. My old flatmate Paul's old girlfriend. Things hadn't ended nicely - things rarely do, I've found - and I hadn't spoken to her for years. Two years. The last time I saw her was, I think, in Starbucks on Oxford Road. I smiled at her, "Come in!"

There was a time when I saw Suze every day. She was a regular feature of the house on Parsonage Road as things there drew to an end, and the flat by the Bridge Club when things there started out. And then, when things with her and Paul drew to an end, I became increasingly hostile to her. She was, I thought then, treating him badly.

A lot has changed since then. Assuming good faith has helped me handle behaviour I don't fully understand in a more balanced and even way. But somehow Suze had slipped through the net of my zen. Somehow my stubbornness, my affinity for grudge-holding, meant she was stilled filed under *shit* in my mind. My fault.

It was nice to see her. I gave a shit about what she was up to, what she had to say. I tried to show her that I was past all that guff. I don't know what she thought about it.

I burn more briges than I build. But I tried to build last night. I tried.

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.

BGC3 Horrible Humpty

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.

Another heart attack

My dad called today. He's had another heart attack. He came off the blood-thinning tablets a couple of months ago, and the stent couldn't handle it. They've upgraded his stent now, and put him back on the drugs. It was on Monday, and he's home now.

He seemed oddly chipper about the whole thing, which made it quite difficult to guage my own feelings - he didn't really exhibit many. I don't quite know how I feel yet. It might take a little time to sink in.

The strangest thing is that on Monday I wrote a letter to Zoe, an old friend who I didn't manage to catch up with over Christmas. In the letter, I wrote, "my dad hasn't suffered any relapse of the heart trouble that he went through this time last year." I wrote it on the day of his heart attack. Erie, huh?

We're so proud

Smoking in mum’s garden, I overheard a conversation as two men walked past.

“He’s been in the paper, and now he’s fucking lots of women.”
“I bet he is.”
“I’m so proud of him”

There was a pause. The second man spoke again.

“Of course you’re proud. You should be. We’ve wasted our lives, and so now we look at him. Good for him. And good for you.”

I don't remember my dreams

It's rare that I wake up in the morning and remember my dreams. Today's was the weirdest that I've had in a long time. It was sexy and horrific and complicated all at once. I don't know who they were, but there were three women, beautiful women, and me in the dream. I don't exactly remember why, but one of the women had made a ceramic and life-size version of her naked torso, and had asked me to check its likeness aginst her real naked body. I looked out of a window, and saw the Beetham Tower, only it was creased at the top - like an open cigarette packet, the lid bent at 45 degrees. It collapsed and exploded. Nearer, in the reflection of a glass building across the street, I saw another building, curved like 3 Hardman Square, tumble in flames. We went outside, and in the streets, a massive rocket - the width of the whole road, silver and cold-looking - was moving along on the back of a vast trailer. Behind it and beyond it, as far as I could see, more gargantuan warheads rumbled on, on every road. The dream then cut to a map, as you might see on the news, with two countries highlighted. The map looked like South Africa, but the countries involved were labelled "Lebanon" and "Afghanistan." Cartoon flames burnt over a dot that meant a city. The three beautiful women and I stood in the street as the procession of missiles went on, on, on. There were missiles in the sky, shooting by silently. A building nearby burned. I woke up.

A weird start to the day. I went round to the my house in Chorlton to do some unpacking, and some sizing up of the task ahead of me. I'd been quite busy shifting stuff when I was there last, and I hadn't really noticed a few things about the room that weren't quite right. There was a lot more damp hidden beneath the curtains, and the drawers were in wrong in one of the chests. The wardrobe was much more cock-eyed than I'd first spotted, and inside, one of the doors was barely hanging on straight. I was going to have to do some DIY. I don't have any tools, so I texted Paul to see if I could borrow some of his. Yes of course, he said, come round to his new place in Didsbury and pick them up. So I did. It felt odd to go and visit Paul at his new house. I haven't ever been in a situation where seeing Paul at home wasn't in my home too. So it goes, I suppose. The weirdness really struck me as I left there.

I came home to finish packing. I've been delaying it, if I'm honest, because it's hard to think of leaving Everett and all it means. I'm scared about the new place. I felt physically sick at points as I wrapped up plates and cups. Dread engulfed me. Doom. Fear. But being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means being scared and doing it anyway. Be brave Dave.