Musings Pt.1

Okay, this is my slightly random attempt at just scribbling words, based on my friend’s impressive level of bullying.
So, this is the story of, well, not an awful lot to be honest. But let’s just plough on with it and see what spews forth from the confused mess that is my mind.

So the day starts with me, Dan, handsome man that I am (check out that alliteration!), getting up and heading to work. Not the ideal start to a day really, but such is life. Now this day I awoke in not the greatest of moods, my mind racing with life’s big questions: Who am I? Where am I going? Can you show me the way to Amarillo?
Unfortunately for me, only one of these questions was answered by the end of the day; my good friend Jeeves informing me that I had to travel across the Atlantic to find the mysterious place Peter Kay spoke of in my dreams.

In all honesty, my mind was racing with the uncertainties I had only recently been welcomed to. These revolving around the news that in little over three of your traditional English weeks, I shall be, as they say, on the streets. Unless of course I take remedial action (oh yeah) and find somewhere new to retreat to. So my business day consisted of a mixture of burrowing my head in work whilst listening to Friendly Fires as loud as I could through my headphones and browsing online for properties in Southsea. The problem with this was I had no idea how long I would be looking to stay in said new residence, nor who I would possibly be living with. Not exactly the things you want to be uncertain of when researching a new place to live.

These frustrations came to a head whilst attempting to section – that is, cut in half – a screw. Yes, a screw. Tiny, little, 2mm-across, stainless steel. When the tiny threaded bastard flicked off the grinding wheel, seemingly to never be seen again, my ice cold front was punctured and a sense of humour failure was in full force. My fist connected with the machine shortly afterwards.

So after a nice hour or two of paid ranting-at-work time, and with a ream of t’internet ads for flats and houses, I fled from work at breakneck speed. Upon returning home, I hastily chucked back a beer and set about cheering myself up by scoring a hatful of virtual goals in the living room. Then I was lucky enough to get an invite for drinks from a very pretty, if completely mental, young lady.

Twenty minutes after this phone call – with my sausage-centric dinner awaiting removal from the oven, I get a text to say “I’m on random garage road, so when you’re ready”. Because that makes fucking sense. Not having a satnav to accurately place Random Garage Road, Portsmouth, I chucked some sausages between some bread, squirted on the requisite ketchup, and started my journey. I felt I had time to eat my lovely sandwich before making it to the nearest “random garage” I knew, thus appearing dapper and at the same time, pleasingly prompt. No. Lurking around the corner from my house, the young lady was. Happy to phone and call me stupid, also. Good impression made Dan, well done mate.

So after some minor sarcastic banter and a drive that took us effectively 10 minutes walk away from where we had started, the mysterious young lady and I ventured into unfamiliar territory for her: a young person’s bar. Scary stuff, I have to admit. Honestly, the genuine discomfort that spread across her face was hilarious. True fish-out-of-water stuff. Then she proves me wrong with her staggering order, flattening all my preconceptions in one fell swoop: “Lemonade, please”.

After some peer pressure and me applying generous use of eyebrow raising in her direction, a compromise was reached and Southern Comfort was added to the fizzy goodness. We then navigated our way around the mysterious, scary kids’ environment, dodging mismatched chairs and large sweaty gentlemen intent on staggering into you. It was like Planet of the Apes.

Some saxophonist-centric serenading was seen and enjoyed, and so came curfew o’clock, with only the gadgety thrill of a retractable roof to keep the night fresh. Of course, not following the removal of the roof with a drive along the seafront robbed all the wonder of the situation, so I was dropped off at home feeling sorely underwhelmed. Oh, how I long to be whelmed. I want to be whelmed like a good ‘un.

Following that, Nicholas and I decided on a nice late pint at the Reg, which was populated by every student left in Portsmouth, because Tuesdays at the Reg means pound-a-pint. This was our first foray into said cheap territory, but one that left us wanting more. Simply because a regular round of deux Carlsbergs costs £4.50 and we were able to buy a round each – and split another – for a grand total of £3 each. You just can’t argue with that, even if you have drunken young ‘uns who are trying painfully hard to look and act cool (come to think of it, some of them are pretty far away from being considered young but bless them, they’re still trying real hard) bumping into you on a regular basis.

Anyhow, despite the human pinball and loud, sometimes-shockingly-cheesy music blaring, we managed to string together a decent conversation about housing and what the future holds. As such, I shall now be looking for somewhere to share with him, possibly with a spare room for guests and primarily for his daughter’s regular visits. Lord knows what the future will bring, but I, for one and for once, am genuinely excited about it. Roll on 2010. The year of Dan.