I make no apologies for not blogging yesterday. There was literally nothing to write about, unless you're interested in a blow-by-blow account of my time at the gym, the description of a lovely chord progression I found and utilised for Em, or a sensory account of the charming evening walk I had across the Heath, which, in fairness, was the highlight of an otherwise desperately dull day.
Today hasn't been a great deal better. I wasted most of the morning watching telly, panicking about money, and trying to work out why I felt so cold.
I got some good writing done in the late morning, the early afternoon and in the mid evening. My target is to inch Em forward in some way every single day until the show is ready.
Our local post office is being done up at the moment, so I was forced to go up into the village to buy a stamp. Everything is so antiquated up there. There's a proper stationers next to the flower shop, which immediately transports you to the 1950s. Heaps of paper, envelopes, card, pens and sundry other items which would get a Virgoan's pulse racing, are crammed randomly onto the shelves in a way that a Virgoan would find most unsatisfactory. The man behind the counter had run out of first class stamps, but he very kindly spent ages going through a little envelope and pulling out three individual stamps which, he assured me, added up to the value of a first class stamp. I didn't actually know how much it cost to send a letter and learned with horror that it's 64 pence, which strikes me as ludicrous. They were 24p when I wrote letters in my sixth form which constitutes a massive rise in cost. I'm sure a pint of milk didn't cost a third of the price in 1992.
I went from the village to the gym and instantly bumped into our new favourite character there. He doesn't seem to be that odd when you initially look at him. He's about 40, rather handsome, I'd say, but watch him for a short while and he reveals himself to be a very strange creature, who spends long periods of time crouched over the cross trainer whispering words into the control board. His eyes follow you around the room like Frank Hals' Laughing Cavalier.
Anyway, we discussed him yesterday, and Nathan used the word "mental" to describe him, which was so fabulously un-PC in a properly 1980s way, that I snorted with laughter. Unfortunately, the bloke was getting changed at the same time as me, today, and every time I looked at him I started giggling, whilst the childish words "you're mental" bounced through my head like a playground bundle. The more I tried not to, the more I laughed, to the extent that I'm pretty sure he would have described me as mental to anyone passing. As I tried to take my trousers off, I caught my leg, tripped over, and ended up in a little heap of indignity at his feet. Karma! I apologised profusely and ran...
When I emerged from the gym, some twat had parked his car right behind me and blocked my exit. I'm sure Nathan would have been able to wiggle his way out of the situation, but I tried for about five minutes and decided it was hopeless. A man came bounding over who said he knew whose car it was, and, sure enough, about five minutes later, a beef cake bounded his way out of the building.
"That's an awful bit of parking," I said, which, of course, was the wrong thing to do, because it instantly triggered an aggressive response from his testosterone-packed, steroid-addled brain. He went on the attack, "you can't get out of this space? They should take away your fucking driving license. Why don't you get out of your car and let me move it instead?" Frankly, I should have let him. It's a massive regret that I didn't. I should have filmed him trying to get out of the space and then published it on YouTube as a warning to dick heads across the country who arrogantly park where they shouldn't. Men are so stupid sometimes. Anything which challenges their masculinity can make them apoplectic with rage.