Thursday night's blog

by Suw on August 30, 2003

Ok… this might read a bit strange. All I can say is that I was very tired, very drunk, and not a little over-emotional. But hell, here's what was going through my head Thursday night. Oh, and no, I didn't finish it all, but more of that later.

As I can’t blog, because I don’t have a connection, I’m going to keep this doc open and jot down thoughts as they come to me. Ok, so “thoughts” might be a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the drift.

Went out this evening with my neighbours, for a farewell drink. Well, in two cases it was actually a ‘hello’ drink. Carole, who lives on the island on the other side of the lock, I’ve spoken to before but not at length. I met her son Darryl for the first time. Luke, my upstairs diagonal neighbour I’ve spoken to a lot but never been out for a drink with.

Had a really nice evening with them all. Very entertaining. Why does it take leaving to get me to meet people?

Anyway, now it’s 00:30. I’ve finished the vodka that was left in the fridge, and soon I’ll start on the wine. After all, that’ll be one less thing to put in the van tomorrow. I still have the black shelves on the landing to clear, the lounge to finish packing and to clean, and the kitchen to pack and clean.

Big Brov will be turning up about 8.30am tomorrow, so I shall be staying up as late as it takes to get everything finished. Darryl and Luke are going to come round between 8.30am and 9am to help pack up the van, which will make life much easier.

Meantime, I’m tempted to rachet up the volume on my stereo just to piss off my upstairs neighbour as a return favour for all the shite he put me through at the beginning of the year. I suspect, however, that he’s out, which would make the whole exercise pointless. Bastard. Denied!!!!

Anyway, I shall be up for hours yet and am looking forward to becoming utterly pissed. It’s the only way to pack, trust me on this.

Ooh, in a day’s time, I am so going to suffer. When the 48 hour muscle shock sets in, I’m going to want to soak in a bath for a couple of years and will be yearning for someone with good massage skills to ease my back. I forsee a trip to the chiro in my near future.

And the dust is making me cough something horrible. That hacking, dry cough that feels as if you’re ripping your lungs into tiny wee pieces. Oh, a month of coughing, what fun. I stopped mentioning it in the blog, because it got dull, but I’m still hacking like the Marlborough Man. Not as badly as I was, it’s not keeping me up at night, but oh, it’s not so much fun.

OK. Back to it.

This would be so much easier if there were someone else here to help. Not just an anyone, but a someone.

Clearing out shelves untouched for three years. I am assaulted by memories on every side. Some of them are good memories, warm and cosy, or fun and mischeivous. Some are ones I wish I could eradicate. But they’re everywhere tonight.

And I trod on a snail on the way to the dustbin. I’m really sorry Mr Snail. I didn’t see you there, in the darkness. I guess it was your time. I’m sorry.

With one eye on the time and the other on the boxes.

The black shelves are now clean and clear. I can do no more downstairs because I have no suitcases. Tony (my Big Brov) is bringing some up tomorrow.

Now left: the rest of the lounge and the rest of the kitchen. May not sound like much, but I think I’ll be lucky if I get more than two or three hours sleep tonight. I’m gonna have to be up at 06:00 to get more boxes from Tescos (Staples not being open at that hour for archive boxes).

Trouble is, I’m so bloody knackered I don’t feel drunk anymore and everything is in slo-mo. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter for ages. Last time I did I was in a house at the top of Cnicht, a mountain in North Wales, drinking beer and marvelling over a pickled mouse. No, really.

We drank until the sun came up and then walked for all of 60 seconds to the true top of the mountain and we watched the rising sun sparkling on the sea in the distance, the sky above us turning slowly from starlit blue to turquoise.

Would that I were there now.

The small hours throw up old memories.

Peter Jones, brother of a very close friend of mine from school, died at 23 in a car crash that seemed to be nobody’s fault. I can’t pack away CDs without thinking of him.

After he died, his sister Sam, with whom I was sharing a flat, loaned me his stereo as I had not one of my own. When I opened the CD drawer, there was the last CD he ever listened to.

He never should have died. But then, nothing’s fair.

I just want to sleep.

Never has my bed looked so inviting. Never has my lounge looked so untidy.

Fuck, I wish I had an internet connection, but my computer is steadfastly refusing to admit that it has a good old-fashioned modem attached.

I am so tired.

Boxes are no longer labeled by their contents. Instead, I’ve sunk to ‘Shit. But Really Important Shit’ or ‘Shit n Stuff’.

You have no idea how surprised I am that I can type at this juncture. Or that I know words like ‘juncture’.

Right. Washing up calls.

Oh shit. I have to unload all this crap tomorrow. All these boxes.


I find that a particularly efficacious tactic for packing kitchenware is to break much of it. That negates a lot of the work. You should try it.

So, do I push it, or do I give in and go to bed?

If I go to bed, will I wake up?

Ok, if I were up all night talking and drinking and carousing, I could handle it, OK? I may be 32, but I can hold my own when it comes to it. But really… No one can pack a house up on no sleep.

Nuh-night. See you at six.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

I wish I felt as good as I did at 03:30.


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