Viewing #6 - Withington

An hour before I was supposed to go and meet the housemates at the mansion, the landlord called me. The room had been taken by someone else. I might have smelled a rat yesterday, when my appointment to meet them was suddenly postponed by one day. It was, I conceded, ten days since I’d viewed the place. Then again, it was the landlord who’d suggested waiting that long before meeting the housemates. What a shame. I’d liked it a lot.

Back in the saddle

Coincidence

Lindsey from work is going out with Dave Shmoo! Nuts!

Kate, Paulina, Ryan and I went to Blowout with Matt and Chaw to watch She Keeps Bees, who are going to be at the Green Man Festival this year. As we were chatting, Kate pointed out Dave Shmoo. As he came over, Lindsey said "Hello!" to me. We know Dave Shmoo from Sol's and Fuel. Tiny world.

I was half-pissed when they walked in, and ended up ranting about Moss Side to Lindsey. I'm sure she was baffled by my ramblings.

Woody and Clare

I met Woody and Clare for a couple of beers after work that developed into a Rain - Temple - Cornerhouse - Solomon's session. "I don't see enough of you mate," said Woody. And it wasn't just the beer talking. I miss my Parsonage crowd really hard sometimes. Evenings and weekends mostly. I should try harder. Do more. Text better. Call more regularly. Share more time.

I don't. My own fault.

Getting things done

I had a good day of getting things done today, getting things off my chest and taking steps towards solutions.

My boss asked me what I'd thought of the training that we had on 3rd. I said I'd thought it was okay, but that it didn't really answer the question that we'd asked, about making spontaneous presentations in an informal setting. I'd actually thought it was dogshit, but I'm more subtle than that. Well, sometimes. The conversation soon shifted to a one-to-one about me, the team, various niggles that we both had. We had a long grumble about each other to each other, and ended in a really positive and hopeful way. I'm newly motivated after starting my course, and after acing my conference, so I was glad we were able to shift the overall tone of the meeting in a a good direction. And if I work hard on Tuesday and Wednesday next week, I can have Thursday and Friday off. Bingo!

I got back to my desk, and drafted a letter of notice to my landlord. Nothing special, a combination of two or three templates from the web, but enough to do the job. I contacted him to arrange the inspection we'd discussed yesterday. He's coming by tomorrow. I can't wait.

Later on, I met K___ from work to talk about my research project. She's not easy to get answers from. Does an empty pot ring loudest? In this case, it seems so, yes. Gently, gently, slowly, slowly, I managed to squeeze the information I was looking for out of her. "You can't evaluate my work," she said, "you just can't." That kind of attitude, I thought, is what I need to change.



Kate, Dunk and I went to Fuel and Indigo for some beers, and to meet some of the old Sol's girls. I spent a long time chatting to Laura, and ended the night rather drunk. Then again, I felt like today I've earned it.

I went to the opticians, and guess who I bumped into?

Everybody.



Two-and-a-half happy years ago I became a customer of Guy's Opticians in Withington. I love the glasses that I've worn since then, rimless, square lenses, a good fit to my face. But they've seen better days. Time to upgrade.

"Better with lens one, or lens two... lens one, or lens two..."

The eye test is very intimate. I can't remember where, but I once read that the blinding of Oedipus represented a castration. For eyeballs, read just plain old hairy balls. And to have your balls examined, something so delicate and vulnerable so near to someone else's face - it's odd, to say the least.

"Have you ever tried contact lenses?"
"No."
"The fitter is here today. Would you like to?"
The fitter? It's a specialised job?
"Erm...."
"No obligation. Just try them out?"
But what if I become an addict?
"Er... okay."

A greasy man with a nasal voice and a limp handshake welcomed me into his private room. Row upon row of minute plastic shelving - the kind that an over-eager dad would separate different gauges of screw in - lined his walls.

Chit-chat: "What do you do? Oh that sounds very interesting," he muttered, "I had no idea." Building a rapport wasn't the guy's strong point. Nor, it seemed, was fitting contact lenses.

"You've got very strong eyelids, some of the strongest I've ever seen..."
...don't worry, we're in no rush, I'm very patient...
...can you just TRY to relax your eyes PLEASE Mr, Mr...
...oh, there we are, oh, NO, NO, NO, DON'T BLINK, oh no...
...can you PLEASE turn your eyes and not your head...
...right, DON'T MOVE, okay, they're in..."

All this as he's poking my eye. It was like he was prodding my balls, and I was flinching each time. I didn't like him. But I didn't mind the one lens he's managed to get in. My other eye is too mongy to be in stock, they said, could I come back next week? I don't think I want contact lenses.

"Sure, is there an appointment available around 10am?"

There are places I remember…

I went round after work to help Pip with an application form for a new job. Catching the Wilmslow Road bus rather than the Chorlton bus felt strange – familiar, but not quite right at the same time. It isn’t that long since I rode that route twice a day. I struggled to think of when I was last at Pippa’s house – apart from delivering her Christmas card – was it when I first met Bruce? Did we eat a cheesecake that day? Did we go to the Friendship? Most of the form was covered by what we’d written before, so it didn’t take too long. Afterwards Pip drove me back through West Didsbury, past my old house, and past hers too.

Slumdog Millionaire

Danny Boyle’s films and I have an odd relationship. I loved Shallow Grave and Trainspotting, but I wasn’t that impressed by either a Life Less Ordinary or The Beach. I enjoyed 28 Days Later, but I loathed Millions. Most of all I loathed Millions - its sugariness stuck to the roof of my mouth. So when Slumdog Millionaire’s bus advertising campaign described it as “the feel-good film of the decade,” my heart didn’t exactly race. Not for me, I thought, not that film.

Che wasn’t showing in the 6pm slot at the Cornerhouse, so Liz and I considered our options: The Reader, starring Kate Winslet or Slumdog Millionaire, by Danny Boyle. I was all for the erotic psycho-drama*, but Liz was more in the mood for the feel-good film. Slumdog it was.

Wow! I was really impressed. I liked story and I enjoyed the way in which it was told. I thought of City of God, only told with the interrogation structure of The Usual Suspects. The story was a feel-good story, but not in a schmaltzy way. The poverty and brutality of the slums, and the savagery of some of the criminals were a tangy pickle that offset the cheesiness of the central premise, and led to a balanced flavour overall. I loved the look of the film, and its music. I loved its acting, in particular Anil Kapoor as the gameshow host. But most of all I loved the story. Excellently written – well done Simon Beaufoy! – and superbly told - well done Danny Boyle!

After the film, we went to Kro2 for some food, some wine, and an acoustic guitar duo serenade. I think next time I go to Kro2, I’m going to have the ribs that decorated the plate of our neighbour. I had massive dinner envy. We finished at the Railway, passing through Withington on the way. Oh Withington, old friend! When had I been there last? Well, last Saturday for the Liverpool match, as it happens. But it felt like I’d been away longer. A lot happens in a month, I guess.


*A friend later told me, “Kate Winslet spends about half the film [The Reader] with her tits out.” Delicious as that sounds, I’m still glad we chose the film we did.