Lost

I grew up in a small town where there were two small supermarkets. Tesco was on the main high street and felt cosy and warm. The cashiers wore pink dotted tabards that looked like they should be hanging off a peg in a farmer’s house. The other supermarket was Safeway tucked away in an arcade of covered shops so dark it felt you were going underground.S afeway’s was a lot slicker than Tesco’s. Bigger and fancier – it had a large mural of fruits and vegetables looking down on you in colours so bright that they would you make you sweat. My mum and I would court the shops, walking up and down the aisles, looking for 'something for tea’, and ‘something for lunch’. I liked being close to my mum. I would sit in the trolley, my piggy legs bursting through the leg holes and I would feel safe as we collected food. I would be so close to her that I could smell the softness of her skin, a mix of a French perfume and her hot metallic smell. She would wear a dress that was covered in yellow flowers and I would want to snuggle in close to this meadow of my mother.

However, the first time my mother lost me was in a supermarket. There was a sale on of plates in Safeway. A mini stand had been erected selling beige plates with a dark brown plant growing its own indentations as it stretched across the plate. They were popular. Groups of women were standing round collecting them off the stall. My mother left me with a shop assistant. She had big hands with knuckles like the lamb joints she sold. I could smell dried blood off her. Deserted by my mother, I began to cry, my cheeks burning as if they had been pinched, the shop assistant’s large hands tried to comfort me but still I yowled. Finally my mother came back with a plate in her hand. It was the first time I did not receive sympathy for crying.

The second time my mother left me I was two years older. I was beginning to read so. My Mum would leave me in the small book section of Safeway, there were only four rows but to me it was a library of beginnings. Dahl and Enid Blyton were well represented. I was left to read. I managed to read about five pages more than normal. Something was wrong. I had been by myself for a long time.

Slowly a strange noise came round me, a pounding in my ears that sounded like a giant’s footsteps. I heard this before at night in my bed – the same giant’s footsteps that got louder and louder that went away when my Mum would tuck me in. I felt a strange taste in my mouth, a dirty taste of sweat. Once I had had a toothache and my father has placed his hand in my mouth to soothe it. His hand left a sooty sweaty taste in my mouth and later I vomited in the car on the way to the Barber’s.

I felt sick, but the books were still there. The covers shone and looked happy, but I could feel the need to cry. Suddenly I saw a neighbour head towards me. Sharon. Sharon lived across the road and would stand in her window on a CB radio all day talking to people. She had long blond hair that immediately attracted me to her. When I was five I loved women with long hair. So much so that I would fling myself at unsuspecting women and hug them tight. Sharon's long hair looked as blond as ever. It was probably dyed but it looked like gold.

‘Are you alright Edward?’
‘I can’t find my Mummy, I’m lost’

Or perhaps more worryingly my mother had got lost. She wasn’t in the shop, Sharon looked. She finally left me in the shop with an assistant. Five minutes later my mother came back embarrassed and slightly annoyed.

‘I forgot I had you’

She had disappeared into the arcade to her favourite shop – a chandeliers that sold gifts and toys.

I couldn’t be forgotten. And again my cheeks hurt as if bees had wrenched themselves on me. I can’t remember if my mother said sorry but I kept an even firmer grip on her. Years later she would tell me that around the time I was five ‘her nerves has been bad’. My father risked unemployment. He had been asked to write an article for a newspaper that was against his morals. He then staged a one man strike in his office in protest. This worry was not good for my mother. She wouldn’t answer the phone, or the door, but she would clean her new kitchen bar everyday. Finally she went to the doctors who gave her some tablets and everything was alright again. She also told me how Sharon had had an affair with my best’s friend’s father, my mum best friend’s husband, and how nobody in the street spoke to Sharon again. When Sharon found me it was the rare occurrence in which my mother did speak to her. Even now twenty four years later, there seems to be a no man’s lands around Sharon’s house.

But finally I felt found again by my Mum. She, for her part, didn’t let me cross the road until I was 11. But that day changed something. I remember a strange conversation at primary school that explains it well. George Booker, a boy with a piggy nose and curled hair like snappy pig tails, who smelt damp, and had unusually small handwriting was showing off about his mum.

‘You think your Mum knows everything don’t you? But she doesn’t’ said Shona Moore. Shona lived in a big house and unlike George’smother did know everything.

George's face looked smashed as the words fell into his brains like shards of broken glass. And I too felt a change – a movement of my heart down into my stomach as a truth was uttered and once again that strange taste in my mouth appeared.

A fairy tale

Is it wrong to have a fantasy about going down to the local bakery, picking up fresh blue poppy seed baps, putting it in my bicycle’s front basket alongside a bunch of fresh wild flowers, and a slim volume of poetry? Is it so wrong? I can see myself riding through the village, enjoying the first day of spring, with that fresh smell of new season air. I would be greeted by all the villagers. Indeed I would stop, listening to a funny story or consoling someone.Finally when I got to my cottage, I could finally have a well deserved cup of tea and a slice of home made cake. There I would open the diary my husband and I share and sort out our busy week. From there I’d study and then move onto a little writing. (Three years later I would be blinking into the bright lights of a camera saying ‘I never thought I’d win the booker’.)

Getting up, a little bit stiff, I’d walk down the path at the end of my garden, taking care on the steps, to the beach for a quick swim. Soon dusky light would dim my arts and crafts cottage and the familiar sound of my lover’s footsteps would come through the window. He would look tired from his day, but still ruggedly handsome. An hour and a half later, after supper, we would be snuggling, taking turns to read to each other in a Bloomsbury style manner. And then... and then he’d shag me senselessly until I was dumbfounded but perfectly happy.

My fantasy seems to be based on either being a vicar’s or doctor’s wife living in a village in England. Unfortunately, I am a 30 year old bald, hairy chested, homosexual.

Although in some ways I am 30 going on 65. I like Lesley Garrett, I get excited at the thought of making a scrapbook, and I do like old ladies. I also like Lavender shower gel (ahem), stately homes and cream teas. And I haven’t had sex for a year. (Although in saying that I read that 55+ people are enjoying a sex life and getting the clap!)

So perhaps I am 65. Although I haven’t had the clap. But I do have to pee a lot.

The lady on the hill

I was walking home from work, slightly stumbling because I have a blister right on the ball of my foot. Just as I was passing Holyrood House, its tall iron gates like those out of Willy Wonka’s factory, I saw an elderly lady in a wheelchair.

She mumbled at me. I smiled. And to my shame I was ready to keep walking.

‘Can you help me? My taxi hasn’t come and I need some help’

I realised that she meant she wanted me to push her wheelchair. Part of me wanted to keep going, the other couldn’t believe that I wanted to say no to an elderly woman who was stuck. As I was thinking, and still painfully shuffling along, she turned the wheelchair around and followed me backwards.

‘OK, how do I handle this thing? How do I get off the kerb?’ I asked.

‘I’ll give you help’

So she directed me and a few moments later I was pushing her up a hill. I saw a group of four mildly amused students watching as my body crouched over in the effort.

‘I’ve got a sandwich for my tea and cold meat for the cat’
What’s your cat’s name?’
‘Coco’

An image of a chocolate coloured cat sprang into my mind, excited by a slice of ham, or even better potted meat.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

She mentioned a distant part of Scotland and starting to talk about her husband. It was at this point I couldn’t work out if the cold meat was for the cat or her husband. I couldn’t hear her properly for my own breathing and the busy road.

‘Sorry’ I apologised for nearly pushing the lady into an overhanging branch.

‘Don’t worry about me. This is good, this is good. I like talking to trees, I like talking to twigs, and I talk to everyone’

I looked into her plastic bag that was open. It seemed full of milk cartons, perhaps for Coco. She seemed to be well packed and organised. Everything she needed for a day out.

We were now going down a hill, and I could feel the wheelchair tugging at me, my hands beginning to cramp in their tight hold. Worryingly the wheelchair started to veer towards the right, but I managed to pull it back.

Again we went down a kerb, the lady telling me to turn the wheelchair round and go backwards.

She laughed ‘I’m teaching you things today’.

Finally I got her home.

‘I’m going to have a sandwich and he’s going to have cold meat’. She said as she went through the electronic doors of her sheltered housing.

Five minutes later as I was getting closer to home my blister started to sting, nagging me to stop. I realised then that it hadn’t hurt at all when I had been pushing the lady up the hill.

You had me at latte

Why is it when you are desperate to go out, dance, and pull nobody calls? I have texted and phoned the usual suspects but either they are ill or networking. I’m not best pleased.

However, perhaps I should have planned going out earlier in the week. So now I’m thinking about going out by myself. This scares but also thrills me. Sometimes it can be really exciting and you find yourself chatting to interesting people, or at other times it can be bloody depressing as you sip your drink and try and look mildly disinterested whilst all the time you are screaming inside ‘please talk to me, please talk to me’. Edinburgh men don’t seem to actually talk to each other on the scene, sniff and look down their nose yes talk no. In fact a friend told me the other day that he is so used to this strange vow of silence that he is worried when somebody does actually talk to him.

I have found the same thing in other cities I have lived in and visited so perhaps it is a gay thing. Or perhaps I don’t give off the right vibes. My oldest childhood friend, Adam, who lives in London has told me I have to get a look. I took him out to my local club in Edinburgh, where perched on a stool, he glanced around the bar smiling wryly at the men around him. In less than five minutes the guys were swarming. This was a while ago and I still haven’t perfected a look. I might have to telephone Adam for some more lessons.

I’m unemployed again – but have had the week off from job hunting. I’ve mainly been watching films but also managed to do some writing in a coffee shop, gone to an Islamic art exhibition, continued to read ‘The Historian’ and started Alberto Manguel’s ‘A Reading Diary’. The coffee shop trip was fun but I had other reasons to get my coffee there.

A few weeks ago I was working around the corner from this particular coffee shop. Normally I’m not into this particular chain of coffee shops but I had noticed that a cute guy worked there. He had a little beard and shaggy bed head hair. In the middle of the day, after cutting and pasting the four hundred and tenth address into Excel I found I needed a little handsomeness in my day.

Anyway, after a particular hard day of ‘Excelling’, I went to get a coffee. I ordered it from my cute barista, and whilst I was waiting I went to look at the mugs on display. (As a child I used to collect mugs but that’s a different and painful story for another time). Unfortunately, feeling tired, so tired that I felt my face was on backwards, I walked into the display. As I laughed out of my nerves, my nervous giggles were joined by that of my cute barista. I turned around and smiled at him and he said ‘You’re the first person who has smiled in here today’. Oh happy day!

I started to go more regularly, but then he disappeared. Finally two weeks later he was there looking browner. He told me he’d been to Croatia, and had a nice time. I was really nervous talking to him especially as his co-worker was stood next to him. My cute barista also seemed to be anxious as he too got tongue tied and started to tell me about Croatia’s currency system. OK, I was a little bored but I fell in love right there and then. You could say he had me at the latte.

Now I know he might only be doing his job, but I don’t care. So that’s why I was in again last Monday. (I haven’t been in for several weeks). Alas, he wasn’t there, in fact all the staff had changed but I’m just hoping that he might come back.

David Tennant, my Mother and Coke Zero

I am sorry for not updating since May – call it madness, call it laziness, call it being helplessly in love with David Tennant and watching the entire second series of Doctor Who three times on BBC Three, but I haven’t been writing. Shame on me and shame on those bloggers who have removed me from their links except Reluctant Nomad who I dearly love. Actually I can’t blame those who have removed me – but I hope I will be put back soon. I do love you too. Now I’m sending too much like a self centred diva so I’ll move on quickly.

I wish I could say I’ve been in the jungle saving wild flowers, or on a secret spy mission to convert Daniel Craig to homosexuality but I haven’t. I’ve just been working, watching Doctor Who and getting addicted to Coke Zero. (In fact I’ve just had a 500ml bottle and I’m typing like Kerouac and I can sense that this entry may be a little random.) As you can tell I have an increasing obsession with David Tennant. I swooned last night whilst I was watching him on the National TV Awards and today I bought the ‘Doctor Who’ magazine. And later I might re-watch ‘Who do you think you are’ with David looking sexy in various locations around Scotland and Ireland. My friend Richard, who I fancy, looks a lot like David, (and also like Richard Hammond) and so I’m resisting buying a David Tennant doll for matters of hygiene, good taste, and not wanting to be a stalker. (I already have Tobey Maguire as Spider man sitting on my computer – it would not be good).

Last week, my parents had their last visit of the year to Edinburgh. I love them both dearly but my mother has begun to talk to everyone about everything. She can talk about macs, shortcake, medical ailments, shops, moffat and the dissolution of the monasteries to greasy-haired teenagers with ASBO’s, bored shop assistants who don’t care, polish men in full Scottish regalia, and confused foreign tourists. However, she does actually charm people so I should stop my moaning and be grateful for a friendly mum. Unfortunately, she does embarrass me by telling shop assistants that they have lovely teeth or shouting on the bus ‘I don’t know where to get off’ instead of just asking her son who is sitting beside her.

Dating has been non-existent and it’s time I got back in the saddle. I have had some interest but the texting has stopped. I’m hoping he’s just quiet.

I can’t make my life sound exciting. I went to a gay celildh on Saturday, quite a do, but sadly I was bored. The best part of the night was the onion pizza and chips I had in ‘disco chippy’, a chip shop where a DJ plays techno. But I got a chance to hang out with Simon who had come up from Brighton and exchange stories. The other exciting thing was that I threw out all of my PhD notes, and half filled a recyclable bin. I felt quite good ripping my notebooks up with my Dad, but also a little sad. Ah well hopefully the paper will save some trees.

And so that’s it. But to make up for my own quietness I will be doing an entry every night this week. I know that this isn’t such a big deal but for me it is –I’m prepared to forgo my David Tennant moments for the sake of my blog.

Blue Peter

When I was about 11 I loved Blue Peter. I wrote down all the presenter’s birthday’s down in my diary and promised myself that I would send them birthday cards. I never did. However, I did write to the BBC asking if I could interview the presenters for my newspaper ‘The Mercury’. I got a lovely letter back from Biddy Baxter and a press pack, but unfortunately a refusal to my interview. It only made my love for Blue Peter grow stronger.

I marked my year by it, the summer expedition, George going into his box near October time and best of all – the advent candle glittery thing. I never thought I would stop watching it. But then one day, around the age of 15 (still late) I stopped. I’d occasionally call in and see how the Blue Peter garden was doing, or how the new pets were. But never again would I sit down with Blue Peter with my plate of oven chips. The new theme tune was the final moment when our relationship ended. Indeed if our relationship could be compared to a romantic film, it would be as if I saw an ex-lover pass me on the street and I would turn to my friend and whisper ‘I used to know him once’. My friend would look quizzically at me, and I would sigh before rushing into Habitat.

But it’s happening again. I think now is the time I leave nightclubbing alone. I cannot quite believe it yet but I think my clubbing days are gone. Clubs have been great. I remember my first gay club in Liverpool (Garlands) seeing cute twinky boys, my first night down in London and pulling at Poptastic in Manchester.

But now the hard core music does not fill my heart anymore. I want to talk, have a nice meal, and have a relaxing drink. I’m sure I’ll still visit clubs but I want more. Just as I left Blue Peter to get interested in my first girlfriend, now it is time to leave the clubs to find my real man. And me.

Friend or Fuck?

I saw my fireman last night. Well he is not really my fireman, but he is a fireman that I’ve had my eye on for a while. I have chatted to him before and he is hot. And what’s more he has a reputation for being a nice guy too. I watched him snog the face of a guy on the dancefloor, whilst Kylie was playing. He became less of the butch fireman and more of a flamer, but still at least he can dance and doesn’t take himself too seriously. I may be flattering myself but I did get a few looks, I’m hoping, and how horrible is this, that his current beau was just a one night stand.

What is it about the gay scene that makes people become so vacuous and nasty? I can turn down a man just because his lips are too thin or he is too tubby, too tall, too slim, too different or not different enough. And I ask myself why I haven’t had a boyfriend for the last five years!

But here we all are waiting for a man to talk to us. We stand in lines, not talking giving the impression that we would be anywhere but there (although we have probably waited thirty minutes to get in) but all desperate for someone to speak to us, to pick us out of the crowd, to whisk us away. Perhaps that’s just me talking. I always love it when someone speaks to me but I will always be a little disappointed if the man is not attractive to me. Somewhere along the line I have got enmeshed in the shallowness of club life.

I watched a drunk guy try and get off with anyone he could find, he did a kind of crab dance and then would wipe his head slowly as if he was in pain. At closing time, we stood side by side at the cloakroom counter him going through his wallet looking for his ticket. It was a weird moment – I saw the inside of his wallet and his cash card through a plastic case. Here was someone who was so careful about his money and yet could take his heart out onto the dancefloor and offer it to anyone for less the price of his leather wallet. I hope it wasn’t his first time in a gay club. There was such innocence there it almost made me gasp. Later I was waiting outside, I saw him come out, and drop his blue sweater from out of his leather jacket. Here was my chance to whisk him away, to put my arm around him to lead him home. I was about to go and pick it up but a drunk girl got in there first. He said thanks and off he went, he then thought about it and turned back on himself.

I have made some good friends from going out in clubs, so perhaps I can be his. Although half of me wants to get into his pants. And there’s the problem – friend or fuck. (You can always fuck a foe.) And that’s a gay club for you. Your friends or your fucks. And the scary thing is your fucks might not always be your friend.