2012 Summary, or, "All The Cool Kids Are Doing it."

Okay, let's keep this brief. 

Highlights:

Started out strong, met a pretty lady, spent a lot of time learning to enjoy London and trying not to be so hard on myself, learned how to cook awesome food, played The Binding of Isaac, Super Meat Boy, Little Inferno and Skyrim, made plans for a new job, watched Game of Thrones and read through a Song of Ice and Fire, quit Warhammer for Warmachine, had a great holiday in Florida and spent two weeks catching up with my little sisters in the Sunshine State. Had a bangin' Christmas and got a new green connection.

Low points:

Plans for the job fell through, bought an iPhone, lost the pretty lady and my heart got it's ass kicked. Decided to start getting counselling.

So overall, not too shabby. There are people worse off.

Thanks for stopping by!

Love, Odsox.

P.S. Happy New Year, by the way.

The 8th Anniversary

The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness. - Honoré de Balzac

Hey there.

I want to start by thanking you for taking the time to read this entry, and for suffering through what probably seems like a recurring series of self-pitying diatribes. So thank you. Thank you for putting up with me for all these years, and for being the sort of people who time and time again prove their importance without even realising it.

So here we go.

On the 18th of November 2004, my mother, Elizabeth Anne Dean, passed away as a result of a heart attack. She'd suffered several over the years, seven at my last count including the one which had seen her brought into hospital perhaps two days earlier, and had soldiered on regardless. She was, in my eyes, unstoppable. As a result I'd become over-confident, almost blithe, about her hospitalisation. Please don't read this the wrong way. It wasn't that I had become uncaring; I was confident in her strength and her vitality, so much so that I was sure this would just be an occasion where she would spend a couple of weeks in hospital and then return home, as strong as ever.

So when I arrived at the hospital with one of my best friends and my girlfriend of the time, quite chipper and looking forward to telling mum about our antics while she hadn't been at home, to discover my stepfather alone in the hallway, in tears, I was understandably shocked. No. Terrified. This was a man who simply did not, to my knowledge, cry. To see him red-eyed and shaking, clutching at a crumpled tissue and stuttering, shook me right to my bones. He gave me the news and my mind simply whirled away by itself, adrenaline rushed through me and I could feel every muscle tense and quiver. I was halfway up the first set of stairs when I was told (by whom I forget) that the lift had arrived. I walked in, my breath tight, shaking and inwardly thinking that this was fucking stupid, why didn't they just let me take the stairs? I could feel my fists clenching and simply didn't register that there was anyone else in the lift with me.

We arrived at the ward. We informed the duty sister who we were, and who I was, and were directed to a small, plain room to where they had moved my mother. I entered alone. As soon as the door closed behind me I snapped.

Looking at my mother's unmoving body, my eyes, already wet, broke into tears. That is the best way I can describe it. It was not a creeping, oh-dear-I-think-I'm-going-to-cry moment, it just happened. I could barely see. I was suddenly in pain. I can still feel the same ache that spread from my chest up through my throat, into my jaw, my eyes, my mind, right now, as I type. An agony that is physical and mental, like steel fingers grasping at my spirit and squeezing, always squeezing.

I know I didn't spend long with her. I spoke for a while, through wracking sobs and heaving, choking breaths. I told her the things I expect we all try when enveloped in the vice of sudden and total grief. That this wasn't happening, that she was fine, that she'd be okay, that we were going to look after her, that I loved her, that we all loved her, that she couldn't just leave like this... But she had. There is no doubt in my mind that my mother fought every inch of the way as she was taken, that she battled tooth and nail, heart and soul.

Anger was in me now. I clutched at my mother's hand , teeth suddenly ground together, driven by rage and blind, red fury to burn the whole place down. No. Not the place. The world. Burn the entire world to ashes and bones for taking the only person, the ONLY person, who had always, without prejudice, without question, without hesitation, been there for me, believed in me, loved for who I was and accepted all (and there are many) of my flaws. I laid my head on her chest, and, I'm not ashamed to say, spent a few moments simply crying.

Of course, I probably would have stayed with her until an orderly was sent to remove her body, but, after the anger and fear began to ebb, my stepfather entered the room. I remember him being there because I remember a strangely distant part of my mind being fascinated that this man, who I had for a long time simply disliked, then resented, then despised, was also the only person who could reasonably expect to get any kind of sense out of me at this point. He spoke, briefly. I forget now what he said, but it must have had some effect. I told him I would be out in a bit. After the door closed, I stood at my mother's side. By now rationality was starting to return, and I could feel that detached feeling again, a sense that it was looking at two other pieces of my mind which were bitterly at war. The rational, logical side was trying desperately to explain that this was simply an empty vessel now, a thing which must return to the earth and which would only cause me pain to linger by. The other was a screaming, mad thing that simply refused to let up, insisting that to leave mum here would be horrible, monstrous, that I was a terrible person for even thinking such a thing. Some kind of agreement was reached, though, because I remember leaning down to kiss my mum goodbye. Once on the forehead, and once on each mercifully closed eye. I cannot remember why but this seemed incredibly important at the time.

And then I said goodbye. And then I left.



Not a single day goes by that I don't miss my mum. I've said it before and I'll say it again; the loss of a loved one is something you learn to cope with, but never really get over. Hell, I've been on the verge of tears while writing this whole thing. And I've had help.

Which is the other thing I want to write about today. The people who have helped me along the way. Now don't get me wrong; I'm fully aware that I haven't had some terrible wasting disease or horrific stigma that's prevented me from having a life, but I have my problems. I want to thank my Auntie Gill, who has been a constant comfort to me, even before mum's passing. My Auntie Gill, for those of you who don't know, is my mum's younger sister and a wonderfully accepting person. I don't stay in touch as much as I should, but I am constantly aware that she is there for me should I need someone to speak to about anything at all. She is a legend whose love of family, cats, good books and nerdery is an inspiration to someone like me.

And I also want to thank some mums, who are, let's be honest, deserving of far, far more praise than they get.

I want to thank Allison Colchester, who is my friend Chris' mum, and has put up with me and my sporadic visits since I first met her son at school almost sixteen years ago. She is a vibrant, constantly chipper person who is more than capable of brightening my day within the space of five minutes. She is also extremely generous with home-cooked dinners and has been a key element in my gradual acceptance of Colchester as a place to live rather than a place to resent.

I want to thank Lou Joyce, my stepmum, who couldn't be more of an opposite to an evil stepmother if she tried. Lou is a brilliant person, Essex at heart, quick-witted and with an infectious laugh. Lou has been keeping my dad in line for a long time, putting up with my virtual absence from the family unit and raising my little sister Paige to be a perfect, if a bit odd, sibling. And by that I mean Paige tends to have a snappy comeback for most of my insults and is always ready with a sisterly shriek of fear when I threaten to wake her up by pouring a glass of water over her head.

I want to thank Ellen Salmon, known by just about everyone I've ever had a drink with as "Mum", for  being, bar my own, the mumsiest mum I've ever met. She makes a mean mac and cheese, drinks Baileys like a boss, taxis her daughter just about everywhere without complaint, deals with intermittent but noisy invasions by her daughter's friends, and (this is VERY important) makes certain you are aware that, if you absolutely must put your puke-stained jeans in with the washing, she does not do pockets.



So if you've made it here, through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, having fought your way to the castle bey- sorry, to the end of this post,  I thank you again, and urge you to just give your folks a bell. Or send a quick text. Something. Just to let them know you're alright.

Oh and one final note to some people who have just arrived in the glorious, pastel-coloured hall of motherhood (a rather cosy hall really, with fancy marble pillars sculpted to look like piles of dirty washing, mother-of-pearl coathangers - the bloody things get everywhere - dangling from the chandeliers, and where the slightly grubby but well-used hallway rug is watched over by little golden statues of Yorkshire terriers):

Jesamine Cripes Atkinson, Holly Fitzgerald and Rachel Ambrose, you are each the most important person in someone's life now. No pressure. Just carry on being awesome.

Thanks for your time.

Love, Odsox.

"Prey On The Faint Of Heart!"

I can't sleep, so rather than read a book or pursue a less polite method of inducing sleep (hope I don't have to spell that out for you), I have decided to inflict bloggery upon you, my faithful, ever-watchful minions.

Let us speak of dreams. Rather, let me speak of dreams while you read attentively and loyally.

My dreams have of late revolved around two or three recurring themes. The first of these, or at least the first which springs to mind, is that of hope.

Don't worry, I'm not going to get too mushy.

If you've been keeping up with my recent return to the Book of Odsox (and if you haven't, don't worry, I forgive you - I am constantly aware of how tedious these rambling diatribes can be) then you should be aware that I have, against all odds, been chosen as the consort of a beautiful woman. This has resulted in my more, shall we say gentle?, emotions blearily opening their eyes and then suffering a stuttering form of cardiac arrest as they suddenly realise that not only was that old story about something called "hope" in fact true, it left out some vital information; it changes your entire existence at a fundamental level.

Anyway, this newfound hope has been encroaching on my slumbering mind in ways which are alternately shallow and heartwarming.

Over the past three months or so I have found money in my dreams. Never the overly dramatic "big score" kind, mark you, but amounts which cause a tremor in my dreamscape as the groggy logical side of my brain gets a jolt that pushes me closer to wakefulness. Things like finding a £20 note on the floor, or going to a cash machine (gosh, my dreams sound exciting, don't they?) and discovering that someone has left their money in the slot, almost £150, and there is no-one around to see me take it with a massive guilt-free grin. I'm not  sure what this is a metaphor for - if it is a metaphor at all, of course. That is to say, I am already well aware that I need money. It's annoying how it keeps cropping up in my dreams though.

The other form this dream of hope tends to take is that of a specific woman - I'm not trying to be mushy here, I'm being honest. In the occasional bad dream there are these flashes of her, sort of like looking at the dream through a zoetrope, that instantly change what should be a saddening or horrible experience ino just another manageable fantasy tinged with foggy pink bliss. I catch sight of her in my peripheral vision, just the briefest glimpse, and it sends a pleasant sort of thrumming through whicever dreamscape I'm in at the time. Usually this also leads to my overcoming (however temporarily) any obstacles I might be facing.

Now, the second recurring theme is one I am happy to mention, simply because it strikes me as absurd and everyone should be able to find humour in absurdity.

In my flying dreams, which occured only rarely for a while but are now making a comeback, like Yu-Gi-Oh! cards or sushi, I do not simply soar aloft of my own volition of with wings of any kind; I have a jetpack. Not a swish Iron Man jetpack either, no, an old-school James Bond number with joystick controls and temperamental thrusters that need extremely cautious gunning lest my portly body be smashed into the ground and rendered into nothing more than a sort of chunky red paste full of gritty white bits and glimmering shards of my once-marvellous flying machine.

The jetpack is a wonderful toy and I constantly find my dream self hurtling through cityscapes and towering forests of lurching trees that shake their branches in frustration as I roar through their midst without a care beyond finding somewhere relatively clear for me to try some daring aerobatics - which, incidentally, I have never found the courage to attempt. The cityscapes are a far more forgiving environment, save for the occasional Thing that I suddenly realise has snuck up from nowhere and is now tearing a path through the urban jungles as it pursues my stuttering, jinking flight path in a series of disturbingly predatory leaps and dives. Just to reassure you, I have yet to be caught by one of the Things, though once I did gun the wrong thruster and end up flying straight back at one of the horrible shadowy bastards. I am genuinely ashamed to say that I have never actually seen one of the Things up close, always squeezing my eyes tight shut and miraculously avoiding doom somehow.

The jetpack is an incredibly good bit of fun on the occasions when I get to really muck about with it, sending me rocketing skyward for an unparallelled view of my dream cities and panoramic forests, and the lurch in my stomach when the speedy descent begins is something I've learned to savour.

Enough of that though.

The final theme which has been in my dreams for years uncounted is one that truly plagues my sleeping mind: Pure, merciless, physical pain.

Not so unusual, I think, even for someone in my position, whose track record for serious injury really isn't that remarkable. Sure I've suffered plenty of head injuries, broken a couple of bones, still have a piece of graphite in my foot and earned my share of cycling-related scars, but there are people out there missing limbs, for fuck's sake. My dreams should not involve these levels of bodily harm, surely? Unless it's the old Catholic guilt ramping up again.

There's this particular one which has happened several times, and it never ceases to send my dream-self into a spiral of pain-induced insanity. You may have heard it before, actually.

All I can see is my left hand. There are leather buckles strapping down my forearm, holding it rigidly in place, and several extremely tight circles of what look like fishing wire wrapped around the top segments of my fingers, which are protruding over the edge of some kind of metal table. I can't move my hand. When I try, all I get is a vague tremble in response. I can feel the dread rising when, out of nowhere, a sledgehammer slams down and snaps all four of my fingers at once, right where they join my  palm, and the pain is almost indescribable. It's a lightning bolt of agony that flashes up my arm and into my suddenly shattered mind - I can feel the rest of my body writhing and roaring, I can feel my right fist repeatedly slamming into whatever surface I've been secured to, but nothing distracts from the burning, ruinous pain coming from my fingers.

That's nice, isn't it?

There are other pain-dreams that haunt me. The one where I feel a kind of pushing pain in my teeth, then go into the mirror, is a good one. On closer inspection I can see my teeth moving in my gums, and as I raise my hands to probe gingerly at them, there's a horrible crunching sensation and the two parts of my jaw suddenly snap against each other, tearing away from my skull in a spray of splintered bone and hot blood. I would note that rather than simply blacking out here, I reel away from the mirror clutching pathetically at my ruined face in terror and sheer agony, only to collapse onto a gritty, grey surface that scrapes at the remnants of my face and all over my skin while I give a kind of gurgling howl, unable in any way to stop the pain.

Anyway, I think I've written enough for now.

Thanks for stopping by.

Love, Odsox.

"I'll Take All The Blame, The Front Page And The Fame..."

Afternoon.

Let's get right down to it, shall we?

Those of you who've suffered my ramblings for this long will be aware of how much I love writing and more - I hesitate to associate myself with the word for fear of arrogance - creative pastimes and occupations. While I don't hate my job exactly (there are times when I genuinely get a chance to do some good, even as a desk monkey), I yearn for something where I can flex my meagre mental muscle beyond tracking down an errant Staff Nurse who expects me to pinpoint a specific person when given nothing more to go on than the name "John Smith".*

Now I'll be the first to admit that I've got precisely fuck-all in the way of qualifications or degrees, but I do have a boundless enthusiasm for words and their arrangement on page, screen or shirt. So I'm trying to come up with a reasonable way of making some extra scratch off of that. I doubt anything I can nail together is going to be as popular as the sort of stuff you'll find over at SplitReason, but by the Ruinous Powers, I aim to try.

So with that in mind, if you have any requests or ideas towards shirts or hoodies or hats that you'd like emblazoned with one of the little doodles from my sketchbook (and I'm sure that the few people who actully read this will at one stage or another have been subjected to a forced viewing), give me a shout over on the Book of Face or at my email address, which you should already have.

Onto less horrible, moneygrubbing subjects.

I've been spending a lot of time online lately, and as a result I've been falling behind with my other projects, you know, the horrifically nerdy ones that involve videogames and modelling little plastic soldiers. This isn't a bad thing; in fact, I've begun to feel slightly less sociable, both online and in person. I do still have the occasional pang of regret that after that first time using something illegal and bad I came out of my shell. I miss my shell. It was small and dark and protected, with only the other voices for company. Anyway,  the reason I mention this is because, as a result of some ill-advised (Shall we say fumbling and leave it there? Let's.) fumbling last night, I took a leisurely midnight walk along Creek Road and around the Greenwich Market square. Obviously this was well past the market's opening hours, and as such the only real company available was sporadic collections of drinkers casually hurling bottles at cars and being given a stern talking-to by equally inebriated but opposing groups. I never seem to have any trouble when ambulating in the vicinity of these particular examples of humanity, and tonight was no exception. I rather enjoyed the sense of detachment, truth be told. I suppose my bulk, the large, tattered fake-leather jacket with hood and half-smoked rollie hanging from the lips on my generally sour face may have contributed to the anonymity.

We really are terrible creatures, aren't we? I don't normally harp on about the state of the world (too big, too many people, not enough sacrificial altars to the Google Gods) beyond my standard phrases, ie "Bloody humans!" or "AUGH, mortals.", but it is becoming a bit much now. I don't have a nice big Tower of Doom to lock myself away in while I hurl burning crucifixes onto the Great Unwashed, all the while screaming, "WHERE IS YOUR PRECIOUS SKY-BULLY NOW!? WHERE IS HE!?" so it's probably time I started getting concerned.

...alright, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, that Tower of Doom image has pretty much derailed my thought process, so I'm going to cut this blog short, roll myself a cigarette and find a nice dark corner in which I can chuckle quietly to myself.

Back soon and thanks for stopping by!

Love,

Odsox

"Aw, You're Like A Beautiful Sandwich..."

Good evening, my glorious little internet buboes!

You find me contentedly sighing and full of bubbling whimsy (I've always felt that whimsy should bubble, haven't you?), for I have returned from a simply magical weekend in London, previously one of my least favourite places on the planet. Yet now I find myself aching to return to the train station, throw my money at the grimacing little troll behind the filthy plastic windowpane and leap aboard the first train that can take me back there. Preferably without tripping over my own feet like that most graceful of creatures, the Redneckian Essex Moose.

But oh! most magnificently imposing and just master, I hear you cry, what could have happened to change your mind so quickly and thoroughly?

Well settle down, beloved minions, and I will tell you.

I took my leave of the workplace on Friday the 13th at approximately 15:30 by slamming my completed workload into the storage cupboard and with a cheerful bellow of "See ya next week!", stepped out of the office with a very real spring in my step. You see, my faithful toadies, I had been planning this trip for some time, with a very specific aim in mind. But more on that later.

I strolled to the bus stop and within a very reasonable amount of time found myself back in my lair, where I began plotting in earnest. There was a considerable amount of packing to do. Into my reliable bugout bag went the ablution gear, the shirts and jeans, the unmentionables and the various wires and chargers and anbaric gadgetry without which I would struggle to make it through a week. In went two bottles of adequately tasty booze. In went my miniature identikit, my passport, cashcard and train tickets. Soon enough, I was ready. A head-clearing shower and a thorough primping later, I shouldered my bags and set off to North Station. The evening was just settling down, a clear sky with the first twinkling of stars and a gentle breeze that helped to keep my constantly rambling brain relatively clear. The walk was an excellent start to the weekend - I was not accosted, every crossing turned green before I even had a chance to begin my usual inward grumbling at being forced to wait, and there were few people heading in the opposite direction, which made one of my least favourite games, Dodge-The-Elbows, a lot easier.

Once at North Station it was a simple matter of going to the fourth platform and waiting. Fifteen minutes flew by and my train arrived. I shall not bore you with the details of my train journey, suffice to say it felt surprisingly short and was otherwise wholly unremarkable.

However, when the faithful steel horse arrived at my destination, I begin to feel a twinge of trepidation. Fear, my minions, is a very real thing. Yes, even for I, your most beneficient and righteous master. As I disembarked at Stratford, amid gleaming glass and metal platforms, surrounded by the hurrying, scurrying packs of humans, I felt the chill hand of fear on my shoulder. What if I had arrived here for nothing but denial and heartbreak? Cease your bickering, minions. I am far from finished. I continued through the terminal, staring tactlessly at the myriad signs and notices arrayed on the walls, clearly lost. As though fate were taking a momentary interest in my movements, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. It was Amanda.

Minions! Stop your childish cheering or there will be no ice-cream! Now settle!

I spoke with her for mere moments, in which the fear began to dissipate, and was directed to the correct exit. A great, cold doorway flanked by security guards in dark blue uniforms, ushering the public through with cursory nods and hastily mumbled directions, stood between me and fate. I made my way through and took up what I hoped was a pose which would strike trepidation into the hearts of my enemies but show that I was not a villain waiting for some unsuspecting immigrant to badger for change. This was nothing more than a kind of utterly knackered slump moderated by shivering brought on by the chill wind of Stratford's open air. And suddenly the fear rushed back. The shivering worsened as my jumpstarted brain began drawing horrible conclusions for the coming encounter - but you need not worry yourselves with that.

And as it turned out, neither should I.

She arrived and strode towards me, eyes alight, garbed in a warm, black coat which was no doubt better protection than my tattered faux-leather jacket. We greeted each other with what I like to think was a tender kiss and a tight embrace, and all my ridiculous anxieties melted away like ice under the blazing sunlight. I felt a tugging at my heart, and suddenly the prospect of spending any amount of time with a creature as incredible as she spun from being a thing of terror to one of comfort, edged with that pleasant tingle of emotion which I had dared not anticipate.

Now, rather than completely saturate your tiny minds with epic prose detailing your master's unfathomable capacity for romance and dashing swashbuckle...y...ness... I will simply tell you of the fascinating and new experiences I was introduced to.

My Friday was spent in a pleasant haze of warmth and comfort, with hearty, filling food and talking well into the night. Truth be told this was a fantastic start to my weekend, with only each other for company and a wonderful (if shoddily captured) view of the financial district.

~{@}~

~{@}~

Saturday creeped in and found me curled up in another of what was to become many close and comforting hugs, and drawing back the curtains revealed a clear, sunny sky over London, which was certainly a reassuring start to the day. A lazy start was planned, with plenty of fun to follow. Breakfast was one of my personal favourites; a cigarette and a cup of tea followed by slices of marmite on toast. Simple, but yeasty and delicious.

A quick trip to a vintage record store called The Beehive preceded our little jaunt to Greenwich Market, and I had a thorough browse while Amanda went about hunting for something through the vintage clothing section, and while I didn't purchase anything myself she was delighted with her acquisition of a suitably starry jumper. I wore the first of many genuine smiles while she expounded on the virtues of such an excellent choice.

Greenwich Market followed swiftly, and I have to say it certainly didn't disappoint.

A flurry of scents and sounds was the first thing that struck me, and the mass of humanity for once didn't annoy me. I have to say that the presence of a tall, graceful woman on my arm was undoubtedly the source of my contentment. We strolled around for a short time, and I couldn't help myself but purchase some fancy cheeses. Not too fancy, mind, just nice enough to make for a tasty table. I purchase a hundred grams of Formaggio Umbriaco, commonly known as "Drunk Cheese", and a nice bit of Goat's Brie!

With a bag of delicious cheese and a starry jumper for our trouble, we took a swift detour back home to get ready for an even grander adventure once Amanda saw how much I'd enjoyed myself in the market. So after a brief consultation we set off for Borough Market!

We headed down the road to Deptford Station to catch the train, nattering away at each other and enjoying the combination of sunlight and cold winter air, when we were halted by a tiny, obviously sozzled woman. "Excuse me love," she said to my companion in the sort of Irish accent I tend to associate with smoky rooms and stories about close family members who've buggered off for better places,"I couldn't help but notice you, 'cause you are very tall. But I don't suppose you could spare some change for..." She went on a bit and the pair of us gave the lady enough change to put towards a small drink. On my part this was an almost unseen gesture of generosity which I can only chalk up to the all-encompassing feeling that I can only describe as, "You know what? I'm having a great day, you should have one too!" But today, I didn't mind. Heck, I think if I was a wealthy man I would have given her a note. She asked me where I was from, bless her. My simple response of, "Essex!" didn't get the sneer I might've expected from London inhabitants, but rather a cheery smile which to be honest, looked good on her!

We carried on through to Deptford High Street, and as my lady friend pointed out, the change was dramatic. Now I don't know London, and I don't know Greenwich as well as I mean to, but the almost snap-change from clean (ish) pavements and new buildings of glass and steel to cramped and filthy old shops was remarkable. There was a definite atmosphere of, not poverty specifically, but definitely hard times. During the little dance around the Oyster card machines (which I believe are actually powered by tiny malevolent imps who delight in denying my newly-acquired card just to see the look of perplexed anger on my face) we were forced to carefully pass by two fellows arguing, well, one shouting at the other with palatable anger and the other protesting innocence, which was actually less tense than it should have been, considering there was about three inches between our faces and the angry gentleman's flailing elbows. But we made it to the platform and boarded the overground to London Bridge and Borough Market!

I thought Greenwich Market was fun - but bloody hell, the Borough Market was something else entirely. If I'd thought the smells and sounds earlier were intoxicating, the sheer cascade of scent and noise here was like a battering ram, albeit a distinctly pleasant one. We were surrounded on all sides by stalls and tables stuffed to bursting with people, all trying to get at the cornucopia of items on sale. I cannot begin to describe the variety of food, preservatives, drinks (though the delicious smell of hot cider remains with me even now - and I hate the stuff!) and sweets.

We managed to work our way through the throng of people with little difficulty, though once or twice the general ignorance of the creatures known as Mob, Rabble and Crowd did become a frustration. Nonetheless we procured a number of tasty items that would go into our table of picking food later in the evening, namely sundried tomatoes with garlic and herbs, pain de campagne bread and prosciutto toscana ham. ...NOM NOM NOM NOM.

I also managed to pick up a particularly excellent little bit of meat which I spotted and decided within the second to purchase. When was I going to get a chance to buy some fresh, skinned and gutted squirrel again?

YOU HEARD ME! Squirrel! The grey-furred meat! NUT RAT! What kind of incredible place was this that my lady had brought me, where I could purchase delicious tree-dwelling mammals to devour at my leisure? I'd been having an amazing weekend already, and now a kind of dead animal I've never sampled is made available to me, all because a pretty woman indulged my urge to go to a market! Brilliant!

My whim fulfilled, we decided to grab something to actually eat, and the giant sizzling pan of duck meat being pushed around by a talkative if incomprehensible woman of possible Eastern-European descent was Amanda's immediate choice. And an excellent choice at that! Succulent duck meat in a ciabatta roll with fresh roquette was probably the last thing I would expect to find myself eating as a midday meal outside a pub, but there I was, happily munching away and, quite frankly, really bloody enjoying myself.

A return home was on the cards at this point, but not before stopping at a cake stall on our way back and buying a slice of chocolate cake and german cheesecake! While I didn't think to take a picture of these delicious sweets, I can assure you that they were very, very good, though on reflection the chocolate was the better of the two - something about the cheesecake didn't quite sit right with my tastebuds.

Dinner was an excellent plate of all the nibbly bits we'd picked up in the markets, served with a bottle of red wine recommended by Marks and Sparks. It was actually top noshing:

A short while afterward, though, we came across a conundrum - each of us is quite fond of a drink, but there was no rum to be had! So, a quick look at the clock suddenly showed that it was too late to hit a supermarket but we might JUST make it to an off-licence or Costcutter's. We grabbed our coats and headed swiftly out into the chill London night, heading to the nearest booze seller - the Costcutter's. Somehow, they had managed to sell all the decent rum. This was not to be suffered, however, and at Amanda's urging we broke into a power-walk, which slowed when we linked arms once again. But then, out of nowhere, she decided that it would be far quicker and much more fun to swing each other along. We took it in turns, each swinging the other forward for a metre or two of increased speed, then swinging again and again, and, you know, I've never, ever been so amused by the simple act of going to get a drink. And if you're wondering, yes, I did have a song in my head as we went, laughing and twirling each other around.

And it was this:

We procured a bottle of rum from an off-licence at the edge of Deptford and headed back home for drinks and swapping music, and I am being utterly honest when I say that that little adventure made me feel like I was eighteen again. It was fucking glorious.

After a few hours more we settled in for a night of watching television and snuggling down together, and again, I have to say that this was one of my favourite things of the weekend. It had been so very very long since I'd spent any time with a girl, let alone a girl as passionate and honest as Amanda, and every second of contact felt so undeniably, intrinsically good that it seemed to turn the entire weekend into one long, fuzzy blur of sweetness and soft kisses. Even my innate paranoia spends most of its time quashed by her presence.

~{@}~

~{@}~

When we woke on Sunday morning, the curtains were gingerly drawn back to reveal another gloriously sunny day. We had a wonderfully slow morning with the pair of us barely leaving the bed - MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER, MINIONS - which felt justified after the lively, busy, undeniably Saturdayish Saturday, and after a fortifying breakfast of smoked salmon sandwiches (I know, right? Smoked salmon sandwiches! I've never had one before! It was DELISHUS) Amanda booked us a table at a place called Tayyabs for our evening meal. A restaurant specialising in Pakistani Punjabi cuisine, which I for one have never even thought about, let alone tried, the website made it seem friendly and interesting, and more importantly, not massively expensive. Yes, I'm something of a skinflint, I've never denied this, but this place looked to have the right balance of price:pleasure for me and my ever-fearful wallet.

We had a couple of hours to pass before our meal, so I decided on requesting a trip to the nearest bookstore, which turned out to be well worth the wait - I'd been eyeing the place up since my arrival on Friday night, and was confidently reassured by Amanda's opinion of the place, which claimed to be open from 13:00 to 17:30 each day - although in the tradition of all truly excellent bookshops, this was entirely based upon the owner's decision. So after a bit of preparation and smartening up in advance of our evening meal, we headed over to the bookshop, a place simply called the Greenwich Book Place and Gallery, which, it turns out, has a very interesting history.

It was brilliant. Absolutely rammed with books old and new, though my favourite species of book, the ancient, cracked, leatherbound tome, was in abundance. Teetering piles of old novels and treatises on just about every subject one cares to think about were strewn about the place in a wonderfully haphazard fashion, with the spaces broken up by collections of real rarities, including, much to my delight and dismay (for the glass cases were each clearly marked NOT FOR SALE - oh woe!) a little chap called The Use and Misuse of Books by Frederic Harrison. Don't get me wrong, I'm by no means a true connoisseur of the written word, but I would have given someone else's right arm for a look at that one. The second back room was a treasure trove of Sociology books, and after consulting the signs outside, this seemed to be a speciality.

Amanda came through to find me guiltily brushing my fingers over the spines of terrible science fiction novels from the sixties and seventies (every last one of which I would have bought had I the money to spare), and gleefully showed me her purchase: a wrapped issue of an old magazine called Jackie she'd picked up for £2.50. Specifically THIS issue. Their hair looks... exciting.

She was incredibly pleased with the acquisition, which of course brought an empathic grin to my face. I finally decided on a book (also £2.50) which had the intriguing title of The Electric Crocodile (Although this was apparently an alternate title , the original being The Steel Crocodile) by David G. Compton. I had thought the back cover laughable, becau- oh hell, just read it:

In 1933, the physicist Kapitza ordered, for the facade of his new laboratory, a crocodile's head, in steel.

The crocodile of science.

The crocodile cannot turn its head. Like Science, it must always go forward with all-devouring jaws. The inevitable logic of discovery marches to inescapable conclusions.

But after reading the first page, I was desperate to know what would happen. I bought it and stroked the cover lovingly whenever I thought no-one was watching, and it currently sits patiently by my bedside, waiting for me to finish George Orwell's Shooting An Elephant (and other essays).

Brimming with the familiar joy that a new book purchase brings, I announced that I was done, and that I was ready for dinner. I offered my arm to Amanda, she took it with another adorable smile and we set off to Whitechapel, eagerly speculating over the evening ahead.

We managed to get to Tayyabs almost forty-five minutes earlier than arranged, but luckily there was a spare table. The smell of spices and meat wafted through the restaurant, and while I'm not one for salivating, I could definitely feel a tingling in my tongue at the prospect of new cuisine to try. The place was really busy, and we found ourselves sat at the window end of one long table, setting ourselves up and almost immediately cracking on with the little plate of poppadoms, salad and sauces provided to us. We chatted happily for a while, going through the menus, which had apparently gone up in price a bit but nevertheless looked reasonable to me. We ordered a couple of glasses of coke and, at Amanda's insistence, which I am very pleased to say was completely justified, we ordered four lamb chops, a garlic naan and a roti to start. The food arrived at surprising speed, and it smelled amazing. We'd only managed a chop each when the mains turned up, a dish of rice for us to share, a plate of Karahi Ghosht for the lady and an Allo Meat (consisting of lamb) for me!

We engaged in a playful bit of food-trading, which is one of my favourite things to do at a new restaurant, and decided that everything was lovely. We munched our way through the dinner, with Amanda looking momentarily concerned at her ability to finish the dish but coming back at it like a trooper (I do love a woman who appreciates food) and me wolfing down everything I could reach, which is my wont. I almost nabbed a nearby diner's elbow instead of the bowl at one point, so eager was I to finish the spicy meal.

Something I feel I must mention at this point is that, while I could definitely hear our dining neighbours and knew they were there, our little spot at the end of the table felt nicely secluded. Which sounds preposterous when you consider each of us was no more than a foot away from someone else noisily enjoying their own selections, but it's true. It really felt like a dinner for two. I could feel the now familiar pink fog of emotion that had begun to envelop my mind when spending time with Amanda settle over me during the evening, and I can say now that I think it made everything feel this way; like it was just for us.

Eventually we finished our meals and, after judiciously rolling a couple of cigarettes for afters, paid the bill and began the journey home. I would like to point out that over the course of this weekend I travelled more than I ever have when in London before. Obviously having a beautiful woman on my arm (I never grow tired of saying that!) enhanced the experience, and the sense that she was enjoying herself just as much as I was added to the constant feeling of something which I was beginning to think was more than simple happiness.

We took a detour on the way home, and Amanda brought me along to see where she was studying. When she speaks about things that she enjoys, or even things she doesn't, she speaks with an intensity which I have never experienced outside of my own rambling rants about petty revenge; but the things she speaks about are interesting. With her hand clutched in mine and folded into my pocket to protect her fingers against the chill London evening, she spoke about her studies and local sights with an utterly endearing passion. We stopped for a drink before heading back home properly, and spent some time huddled together on a couch in the smoking area of the pub Amanda confidently informed me was a regular student hangout. At her suggestion I decided to try one of the independent and unusual lagers available on tap, which, it turned out, where all off. I settled for a Heineken - I didn't need fancy beer to enjoy her company!

We talked for some time - we always seem to talk for longer than I think, in a surprisingly pleasant way - about so many things. Past relationships (my own experience here was, not humiliatingly sparse, but definitely lacking - but you, dear minions, are already aware of this), music, our childhoods... These were some of the several recurring themes we discussed throughout the weekend and have discussed several times prior, but for some reason being curled up next to her on that couch in a quaint little smoking area sticks confidently in my mind alongside the late-night/early-morning talks, a smug little grin on its impish face.

Soon enough we decided to head home, and made it back to the student accommodation without incident - I barely avoided having my heel smashed by the ridiculously narrow turnstile contraption for a third time - where we spent more time simply enjoying each others company. She introduced me to several new things over that weekend, and as a perfect example, I should speak of music for a moment.

Now minions, you will remember that I have made my personal tastes in music abundantly clear over the years, and tend to cling to bands and artists for years (decades in some cases - Offspring, Less Than Jake, I'm looking at you) like a favourite teddy bear, rather than attempt to embrace new things. But this girl managed to not only get me to listen to new music, she managed to get me to enjoy it. I'll give you a few examples...

I've listened to a lot of Whitey since being introduced to him, and only just now found out he's bringing out a new album. I am unashamedly pleased.

I've been enjoying New Young Pony Club - they've got a sound that mostly reminds me of Metric and the Ting Tings, but, especially in this track, influences from older groups, particularly The Smiths.

Finally, I was given a lesson in spoken word. I have never listened to spoken word in anything other than an audiobook capacity, so this young lady was something of a surprise, especially when shown this clip from a Shakespeare-inspired exhibition of lyrical talent:

And then again, in a performance I was mesmerised by:

Kate Tempest is obviously passionate about what she does. I have to say, while I enjoyed listening to her work, I loved watching it even more. She's expressive, thoughtful and fearless; this is no more evident than the few times she looks straight at the camera. I found myself being drawn into Renegade than any of her other works, which includes the admittedly fucking excellent songs she's recorded with Sound of Rum.

~{@}~

~{@}~

Determined not to let the fact that this was my last day with Amanda go wasted, we spent the majority of the morning exchanging murmured sentiments and soft, lingering kisses. Eventually we decided to get up; a walk around Greenwich Park would put us both in a better mood before our inevitable parting. Amanda rose first, responding to my request for Marmite on toast with a will. The last of the pain de campagne loaf would go into making some excellent toast. I lounged on the bed, savouring her with my eyes and revelling in the simple joys of things like a warm bed and the prospect of Marmite on toast. I watched her run the breadknife through the rapidly thinning loaf, frowning in thought. "Mind your lovely fingers," I said, fully aware of how wet I sounded, (believe me, there were far more disgustingly mushy moments over the weekend - AND WE REVELLED IN THEM) and embarrassingly aware of my own multiple kitchen disasters. She responded with a laugh and an impish grin, before promptly slicing into her finger with the knife. Her yelp of pain jolted me off the bed, and without even thinking I began pulling on my shoes and grabbed my jacket, intent on getting plasters and antiseptic. She glared at her hands, gripping her finger tightly as she insisted that she was going to need more than plasters. After a quick look, I grabbed her keys and went down to the nearby store, where I had seen first aid kits on the shelf during our first night. Retrieving one, I returned to find Amanda dressed and clutching a bloody tissue to her hand. We swiftly made our way to an NHS Walk-In centre nearby, where Amanda attempted to get even the most tiny iota of useful information from a woman who, in what felt like an unbelievingly frustrating and cruel twist, can only be described thoroughly by directing you to this. For my part, I Loomed. It has been remarked upon that I am a distinctly good Loomer, and for once, I agree, though unfortunately the Desk Twat was utterly unfased by even my best glare. After nearly ten minutes of watching this monosyllabic cretin click at her computer, we were informed that there was a Medical Centre around fifteen minutes away.

Luckily the pair of us are particularly good at covering any distance on foot, and I clung to Amanda's side like a curiously ambulatory giant bearded limpet, alternately ensuring that she was okay and gritting my teeth at my own idiocy for suggesting toast for breakfast. We reached the Medical Centre with no real trouble, and headed up to the waiting room. Amanda gave her name to a far more friendly and helpful receptionist and we took a seat.

We spent almost half an hour in that waiting room, but I don't regret a second of it. We spent that thirty minutes leaning on one another and whispering, smiling and swapping secretive observations on the other waiting patients. This is what waiting rooms are for after all, once the papers have been read, the clock watched and the children's toys judged sadly too small to play with without breaking them. When the giant red LEDs finally pinged and showed Amanda's name, I took my leave to go for a cigarette, knowing that I would have simply been a third wheel in any consultation with a healthcare professional. Ten minutes later, Amanda joined me outside and I took a ridiculous amount of pleasure in simply helping her put her jacket on. A brief session of conciliatory hugging later and we decided to return home.

It was getting on for mid-afternoon by the time we arrived back at Amanda's room, and we quickly settled in for the Marmite on toast that had been denied us. It is here, my beloved minions, that I fear time began to flow at a terrible, quickened rate. We chose to approach Greenwich Park before sunset, and this turned out to be an excellent decision.

We huddled together on a bench, watching the seemingly endless array of over-excited dogs bounding about and eliciting delighted noises from Amanda and mirthful chuckles from me. We spoke again, almost effortlessly now, telling each other our highlights of the weekend and already planning for my next visit. I held onto her hands, taking care with her wounded finger, and reflected over how badly I wanted to stay. I'd had a truly incredible weekend and, sat there, stroking her fingers, I knew what the pink fog I'd been experiencing was.

We took a walk back home, slowing down to watch yet more over-enthusiastic canines haring around the park, and I began to ready my things. With a sense of detachment, I packed my bag. Amanda and I sat together on her bed, quietly talking and once again taking pleasure from each other's company. I could feel a tremble in my jaw while we discussed which train I should get, and I knew I was right. I wasn't sure if I could tell her, but I could feel the emotion simmering inside me, railing against its rusted, dusty cage. Was it too soon? Would you she feel the same? What would I do if she didn't? The mere thought of the terrible guilt I'd be weighed down with if I said the words and she responded with a hollow reply was maddening, terrifying - it sent a thrill of fear up my spine, something I hadn't felt since my arrival on Friday. I bottled the anxiety, cramming the fear down, down, hidden beneath the memories of the days past.

The time came. We set out, me with my bags and she wrapped once more in a warm coat and taking my arm in what felt like an utterly natural and comfortable way. The walk to the station was far too short, but gave me more than enough time to stew in my own neuroses while we continued planning my next visit. We passed the bridge, then the bookshop, then the local Wetherspoon's, and there was the station entrance. Amanda suddenly darted ahead, looking around with a worried expression, and smiled at me. I felt the tugging at my heart again.

"I want lift kisses," she said, grabbing at my arm as the lift doors opened.

The thirty seconds spent in that metal pod on my way down to the end of my weekend was, for lack of a better word, intense. The simmering had become a raging, furious storm of need that no longer railed but crashed pell-mell into the walls of its prison, roaring to be let out and have the whole thing resolved. The lift stopped, and the emotion broke free as I held onto the most amazing woman I have ever met as though to let go would suck all the colour and life from my world.

I kissed her and I said the words.

She replied.

We shared one last, sad, yearning smile and I backed out, turning on my heel as the rush of commuters hid Amanda from my sight. The unleashed emotion tore through me, suddenly joined by a monsoon of sadness, longing and a thrill of guilt - not for saying the words, but for having to leave now. Understand, minions, that this is something I could not control. I spent the entirety of the journey home nearly oblivious to my surroundings - in fact, the first train I boarded had been the wrong one. Tearing myself from my self-absorption, I regained my path and began the true return journey. It only occurred to me on my arrival back at Colchester that I hadn't even listened to any music on the way home. I spoke with Amanda again once I returned home. I won't tell you what the structure of that conversation was like, but suffice it to say that for all my neuroses, mercurial moods, bouts of spontaneous guilt and tendency to lean towards run-on sentences with no apparent ending, I am now one extremely happy man.

Now settle down, minions! There is much to plan and much to do! We have journeys to schedule and logistics to run - Frakt, fire up the squirrel converter and don't forget to juice the idea blender! Glub, roll me a cigarette and put the kettle on, damn your adorably beady eyes! And stop taunting Blechh, it's not his fault he gets all teary during soppy stories. ...really though, Blechh, do pull yourself together, you're making an awful mess.

And you! YES! You out there!

Thanks for stopping by. :)

Love,

Richard

"Swing Life Away..."

I'm back! With a vengeance! And a sandwich!

So how're things on your side of the internet?

Uhuh?

Yeah?

Really?

Shut the fuck up for a minute, will you?

I've got a whole new bag of shit to complain about, as well as old favourite hates, but I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. See, since the whole social networking thing came around I've turned into a bit of a fiend. No, wait. Friend. That's the one. Well. I say friend. I mean acquaintance.

I'm still in the same old shitbox job and I still live in Colchester, but thanks to a whole bunch of people I've worked out that life isn't as gods-damned terrible as I may have thought in the past. There are actually humans out there that don't despise me on sight. I know, right? I mean, I still hate me on sight about 90% of the time, but I know me way better than they do, so I've got an excuse.

These friends of mine have buoyed me up time and again, even when they're taking the piss. And everyone takes the piss. It's a natural thing - you see someone who you know is in some way better than you are, you make yourself feel better by dissing them in any way imaginable. These friends of mine have been responsible for some incredible times and by the Ruinous Powers it's time I started to appreciate them more.

So mountainous thanks to these friends of mine and a cement-mixer full of gratitude for their tolerance, which is admittedly pushed to its limits a lot.

Now, I expect you're wondering what's prompted me to actually write something that isn't filler, aren't you? Well, keep wondering, that's for me to know and for you to find out, you cheeky interweb spongmonkeys, you.

But I have so much to write about! So very, very much! Let's start out with a bit of linksharing, shall we? Most of you will have already seen or heard this, but bear with the rookies and let them have a shot, yeah?

A favourite of mine, this fellow tears the hearts out of so many videogames it should be illegal, but if there's anyone who can spit bile, venom and raw bitterness like it's going out of fashion, it's Yahtzee:

The Escapist : Zero Punctuation : Amnesia: The Dark Descent

If I could have a job reviewing games, I would not be able to do it in half as amusing a fashion as that guy.

Now, on to the subject of fitness.

I have never been and, even were my best intentions carried out, probably never will be fit and/or in shape. It is a fact brought on by many years of stewing in the conviction that I will never do many of the things that most of you might consider inconsequential. This includes going for long walks, not wasting five hours of my day playing videogames and critiquing pornography in my own sweaty, rancid fashion, having a girlfriend, having a career, cooking anything more complicated than a roast dinner, or turning down that third Jagerbomb despite the fact that I despise the wretched concoction.

Despite this, something about the gym and things like excercise does appeal to me. I like to think it has something to do with my very, very early years, which were invariably spent running around, bumping into things, falling off things and scraping my shins, knees, elbows, forearms, back, shoulders and more often than not, my face, on a very short brick wall or other slightly gravelly surface. So yes, the thought of spending an hour or two mucking about with machinery that somehow, and I still haven't quite worked this out yet, makes me better both physically and apparently as a person is very attractive .

But at the other end of the scale there is the constant paranoia and overwhelming fear of judgement that has haunted me since my youth and the hazily-remembered lessons about good old dependable Catholic guilt. I blame the other gym attendees. You know them. The keep-fit cunts. They're already in great shape but THAT'S NOT ENOUGH FOR THEM, oh no! All eating up the treadmill miles with their gleaming, toned bodies and form-fitting outfits that, if they could, would speak to me. They would say, in a disdainful, superior tone, "What are you, you strange, blubbery thing, to be tainting our presence with your odour of fear and your malformed excuse for a body?"

To which I would reply, in my meekest voice, while clutching forlornly at my ratty towel and not once looking up from the sparkling laminated wood flooring, "Nobody."

"Precisely!" they would roar in triumphant chorus, before dissolving into fits of hysterical laughter as I quiety take my leave.

What we need is a gym for fat people. Don't look at me all dead-eyed like that, I'm serious. When you join up, you have yourself weighed, BMI done, blood pressure, all the stuff that makes you feel bad when the little numbers finally roll to a halt, and get told the bad news. Then, a specially trained Chunky Chomper (no "wellness advisors" or "life trainers" in this gym, no sir!) will advise you of your ideal weight based on Science. This is what you aim for. You reach your ideal weight through a series of simple excercises, like Chase the Kit-Kat, or Where Did Those Knife-Wielding Chavs Come From?, and then, your membership is terminated, any remaining credit from your monthly payments will be refunded, and you get a great big cake, made almost entirely from bran and chocolate. Bran's healthy, isn't it?

No keep-fit cunts will be allowed at this gym. Only fellow fatties and those whose training is nearly complete. Thus, when training, you will have no disgustingly taut bums or soul-crushingly perky breasts to contend with, no, only one simple motivator: You don't want to be as fat as that guy whose gargantuan arse is devouring the seat from that Megavelobikeatron, do you? THEN GET RUNNING!

I suppose the only serious thing that would get me pursuing a more trim figure, which would still ultimately be barrel-chested with man-boobs and a Judge Dredd jawline, would be the attention of a lady*.

Alright, alright, stop laughing, entertain my fantasy for a moment here: One of the constant, constant, stereotyped abilities, nay, prerogatives, of a partner is changing things until they get what they want - DON'T TRY AND PLAY THE OFFENDED GENDER CARD HERE you'll notice I said "partner" not "woman" and besides there aren't any card inserts or expansions for the Book of Odsox - and they're good at it. I've discussed this with several friends, both male and female, and it's a fact. If a woman you like, or man you like, or animated canine-morph or WHATEVER, wants you to change, you fucking do it, or everything turns to shit in a far shorter time than it might have before.

So maybe that's the trick: buy an evil-minded Russian bride/groom/dog-in-a-suit and set him or her the unenviable task of sending you to the gym.

Either way, it's about time I shuffled off. I have another blog to plan and a half-arsed novel draft to dig out.

Thanks for stopping by!

Love,

Odsox

*Apparently gym buddies are good as well. Safety in numbers, that actually makes sense.