snowflakes in springtime

It’s been a funny old week. I’ve mainly been eating mince pies and knitting snowflakes. Outside spring looks like summer and the rest of the world is enjoying 16 degrees (in old money, I don’t understand farenheit). I am no optimist, I’m knitting a winter hat.

I’m feeling pretty poor at the moment. Too many spontaneous trips to Brighton, meals out, bottles of wine or gin and making plans for the summer. So I empty out the piggy bank fingers crossed for about twenty pounds, count up all the pennies and what do I have? Pfff. Not enough to take to the bank. Oh and I owe my flatmate £60 for council tax I’ve been ignoring. My lovelife is a shrivelled up dried prune. No word from GM, no word from Posh Josh. Not a peep from Ross=Toss. Ahh never mind. I’m off to Brighton again anyway. This time in support of an upcoming band night run by a much younger friend. He has four bands playing. I pretend I’ve heard of one. They sound like 65daysofstatic which is unfortunate. 65daysofstatic are very good and this new band doesn’t do it quite as well. At times they sound exactly the same. I start to wish I had come to Brighton for the whole day instead of trying to avoid vegetarian shoe shops and health stores. The sun was shining wonderfully but it took me four hours to get ready and the best bit of the day was spent on a train. Those four hours consisted mostly of procrastination and indecision. I wore jeans and a fairly plain non-descript jumper.

The place was packed out with hot indie boys in skinny jeans and black rimmed glasses. The bands were amazing and people bought me drinks. And I collected at least one phone number. This is what happened in my head. In reality seven people turned up, the bands were loud (one could even be described as ‘metal’), my young promoter friend was in a terrible mood, was rude to everyone lost a pile of money and threatened to not pay the bands. I met a boy called Harry Salmon. This was not his real name. His real was Twiz. I imagine this is not his real name either. He had a notebook full of random scrawlings and half formed song lyrics and ill formed logic. “Let’s go to the casino!” he said.
“But I have minus eighty pounds.”
“Yeah but you could double your money!”
“Then I would have minus one hundred and sixty pounds”
“Huh?”

Sunday night I was planning to see the Bridge Gang. I love this band dearly. And it’s free. By the time I have finished baking mince pies, cleaned up and thought about it I decide it’s a bit on the late side and I can’t face another night at another Shoreditch gig on my own free or not. Tuesday night I decided I really can’t afford trainfare for another trek to Brighton this time to see the Rakes. Thursday night I pass up free tickets for the Virgins, and more excitingly Lesser Panda. I know little about the latter band, but fell in love with the song Ghostdance and desperately want them to play my band night.

Monday, the leak from the kitchen has got progressively worse. It’s now a pretty steady drip. I totally forget to ring the landlord. On Tuesday I remembered. By Thursday (today) still no-one has been to have a look at it. I step over a bucket each time I enter the kitchen and avoid turning the lights on. I sometimes wish I spent my money on rent or moving house and lived somewhere less like a revolting squat. But then in the morning I am flying to Glasgow in a poorly budgeted mission to see the Rakes again. It has been a week of missed opportunity and constant disappointment. The weekend is forecast for heavy constant rain, and heavy constant fun times.