Difference Between Fatigue and Tiredness

This morning, I finally concluded to myself the difference between fatigue and tiredness. I've spent the last week going to bed late and falling asleep later. This is mainly due to having a cold that seems to block my nose only when my head hits the pillow forcing me to breath with my mouth open which means it gets dry and I wake up thirsty every other hour. However, even though I was falling asleep late I would wake up at 7am without fail for no apparent reason. I'm sure if I hit the sack at 6:49am I'd wake up at 7am like a switched on robot. So last night I decided that sleep had caught up with me, like a mobile phone bill forgotten underneath the bed. You think you can get away but it always gets you in the end. So I forced myself to go to bed at 8pm and was asleep by 9 I believe. When I woke up at 7am I was still tired, at first I thought it was because I slept for 10 hours but I didn't get that groggy feeling in my head that reminds me of an ever so slight hangover. I felt achy and still tired. At work I couldn't hold a conversation let alone lash out witty anecdotes that usually gain me kudos over by the water cooler. By 3pm today, I decided that I could only be suffering from fatigue and needed to rest up for a few days and not a few hours here and there. So I'm going to take it easy for a few days and chill out and hope I can get some zest back into my system. However, with the morsels of energy I have left I have written some more progressive prose. To be honest it wasn't tiring to write.

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His eyes notice what he’s holding. His neck cranes down as his interest is drawn to the pistol. The sight of the scratched weapon is the symbolic reminder that this is definitely reality and no dream. Yannish knows exactly where he is. He draws his head back quickly whacking the left side of it against the wall. His index finger runs along the gun feeling the cross stitch texture of the top leading all the way to the tip where curiosity overcomes him and sticks one of his digits into the hole of the gun just to make sure it feels real and to investigate the barrel that could quite easily end life. He feels the rush of anxiety pulsate through his body now like a roller coaster ride going along in his veins, making him question why he’s here. Is there an escape? Can I run now and all will be forgotten?

The room is dark with the light bulb in pieces on the floor with a broken vacuum cleaner lying over the metal railing, it hangs over like an unconscious drunk flopped over a park fence rail on a Saturday night. There are shelves to the right with bottles containing cleaning products. His body is still utterly still but inside the messages to his brain have doubled since he noticed what’s in his hands, the awareness of the situation only becoming more significant to him now. His breathing doubles in its heaviness and intensity panting like he’s just run a couple of miles and is taking some time to recuperate. He starts to walk up to the wall then turn around again, each time he exhales he puts a foot down, thinking what to do next. “Should I move out?” “Is it the right time?” He thinks to himself, running the pistol along the wall so a slight scraping sound could be heard by only the occupant of the utility cupboard. “I can’t run now, I’ve come too far. I’ll have to go through with it” comes the justification from his lips. But the thought of going through with it terrifies him, sure, the consequences of getting caught would ruin his life in a social sense.

Prison would be definite as he’d never plead innocent because he wasn’t and there would be no point trying to tell them the reasons why. They wouldn’t listen, even if they did there wouldn’t be enough time because time in court is precious as it tries to uphold the creaking social laws that are spread through out the country. He could start to explain his reasons, but someone would usher him along considering his point too time consuming and insignificant for the context of the case. In prison, he’d be treated badly, he’s not a fighter, even though he’s fought, he’d much rather live an anonymous life. Inmates would see this, not in the lack of battle scares on his body but by the lack of primal fighting instinct that floats around in the eyes of every brawler. The ones that look for fights, who don’t care who they fight as long as their craving is quenched, by impact or by the spill of blood. They’d see he didn’t have it and would go for him. Constant barrage of beatings and whippings from bars of soap put in pillow cases, his time there would be bloody and strenuous. Should he survive the physicality of what prison would bring he was sure he could endure the mental marathon as well, there was no way he’d accept any invitations from insanity’s open hand that seems to run frivolously through the corridors of her majesty’s many hotels. If he got bored, he’d try and remember the books he read during his lifetime and if he couldn’t remember all of them, then he’d splice another passage from another book to form his own tome made from all the different books that had passed under his nose during time. If he found his head submerged in the toilet water where he’d be forced to suck up the putrid brown liquid through his nostrils be the wing’s hard bastards. He wouldn’t spend the evening curled tightly together and sobbing profusely into his palms thinking why he hadn’t the fighter’s look. Why couldn’t he fight back? Why was he being bullied? No, his capacity for mental torture could endure this, he could survive this sort of mental aggression and come out of it with a slight smirk and a whimsical step in his walk.

Even as he whimsically walks out of prison with a defiant cock of the leg, as he lands he’ll be landing back into society, a society where now he was a criminal. Or by most of the consensus still a criminal. He’d never be able to get a job. He’d try, of course, but no one would employ him. He wouldn’t even be able to get a job in retail with the teenagers as no one would trust him behind a till. Could they be blamed with their suspicious minds about the young man who has just been released from prison? “We’ve got to protect the company’s image”, would be the diplomatic but hollow justification from the proprietors. Pressed a little harder the sympathetic theme would be adapted to justify their decision. “Come on, I’ve got a mortgage, a wife and children, I can’t afford money to go missing. I could get sacked!” So, Yannish wouldn’t be able to get a job and would have to revert to signing-on, receiving government income support. By some it is considered more criminal to stand in a queue and wait the cheque to be handed over to you, than actually walking into a bank and robbing it. Abuse would be hurled as he walked along the path as he held his cheque. “Why don’t you get a fucking job?” would come the bellows from the houses. But all this doesn’t bother him.

What Did Blair Do For Me?

2nd May 1997, Anthony Blair, a wily, charismatic, precarious looking fellow with big ears who has a tooth behind his front bottom two becomes leader of the United Kingdom. Big deal thought I, staring at the ceiling while lying in bed. The confirmation came around 5am in the morning, I couldn’t sleep so had BBC 5Live on to keep me company. I turned over cringing and threw the pillow over my face when I heard D-ream’s “Things can only get better” as he emerged on the podium victorious. I scrunched my eyes thinking “fuck off, this is shit. How can anyone lead a country with an anthem this crap”.

Now I’m sitting in a café mulling over Blair leaving office on the 27 June 2007. I shouldn’t really give a crap. But I do. Not on the heroic political level of his achievements and failings. No, I thought about what he done had affected me over time. Was there something he did that really helped me out? He’d been there for 10 years of my life, 10 good prime years of my being. In that time, I’ve become more educated, lost my virginity, drank Whisky and decided I liked it, drank Tequila and decided I didn’t. Worked in a plastic milk bottle factory and left, worked in an office, and left, worked in a sport shop, stayed there for a bit and then decided to go back to another office all under the regime of Monsieur Blair. In fact, it was when I worked in the sport shop that I became an advocate of one particular policy.

A rare day April 1 1999 was, as left wingers shouted aloud in the streets, when those from the wrong side of the status quo gained a valuable victory over the ‘oppressors’. The minimum wage was introduced. This affected me straight away in so many ways. Beforehand I was getting fucked over for £3.00 an hour in a sweaty sport shop, working ten hour days, which were really 11 if you take into account the half hour walk to and from work. I used to hate working those long hours running up and down those stairs, serving people who believed they were re-enacting a scene from the Dickensian time period, where they are the portly statesman in a top hat and I am the lowly servant in a rags with a black tooth who runs at their beckoning call. “Boy get me those trainers”. “I said now, boy”. So when the minimum wage of £4.10 was introduced a great elation spread through me and I remembered the scowled look of management as they begrudgingly had to inform us that we would all get pay rises but none of us deserved them. Even though this was a nationwide policy, they seemed to think (New) Labour had specifically targeted them, a pot bellied baldy and a scrawny crooked nosed arse. The effect of our new wage policy was almost instant, I was now able to work 8 hours a day and get the same amount of money if I was working 10. After 2 weeks I went back to 10 hours as I would get more money which would mean being able to spend more money on drinks when we went out. In fact had the minimum wage not been introduced I would never would have been able to go out on Thursday nights where on one particular Thursday I managed kiss the fit girl who worked on the tills. So Tony, I know you’ve done a lot of bad but you’ve also done some good, for me. Thank you.

On another note I haven’t written anymore on my progressive prose because I’m knackered after writing this and it’s 12:30am and I’ve got work in the morning.

Colds 'n Tales

A definite negative of working in an open plan office is that you are exposed to every viral, infectious bug currently terrorising the human body. And to my despair I've been infected! I don't know exactly when the infection happened or who is the carrier but I think it's when I let the IT man touch my keyboard as my computer claimed it had a virus too. I don't know if the computer and I share the same virus but if we do then it can be no other than that greasy haired monkey who fumbled with my mouse and probably wouldn't mind fumbling me.

So now I'm quarantined within the quarters of my room watching re-runs of Family Guy and listening to the exchange of leadership of the country I live in. In fact the coverage was so in depth and constant that it made me think that this is actually an important moment. I lay in my bed thinking, do I miss Blair? What did Blair do? And what has happened to me since the time Tony became Prime Minister to when he handed over the keys to number 10 to Gordon. Maybe I'll write on this a bit later as I do think it's quite significant to me.

Anyway, Coldbrain has requested I carry on and being bed bound means I've been able to rattle out some more of my progressive prose. What say you CB?

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A memory floats by and lands on the forefront of his thoughts and this time finds a spot to nestle down. He’s a young boy cycling along the path, trying to stay balanced and not topple over to one side. The rain patters against his face causing a slight stinging against his cheeks as the lashings of nature intensifies and the drops pour into his eyes skewering his vision. His left eye is shut as his right leg sticks out to maintain his balance, he rolls down the hill, he swerves past the dog shit and temporarily wobbles his front wheel which instinctively causes his left eye to open and let in the rain to complicate his vision further. The wheel wobbles more as Yannish blinks incessantly to get the water out of his eye. He can’t be late for dinner. No way. He promised he’d be back in time for dinner, and even though Mother Nature laid out an assault course of the elements he was still determined to get home on time. It wasn’t tardiness behaviour that was fuelling his mission, it wasn’t the fact he’d be grounded if he was late. No, it was because by being grounded would mean he wouldn’t be able to go to the park on Thursday evening where he’d agreed to meet Clara.

He retracts his right leg to get some stability and turns the peddle once to build up more speed. In front of him through the vision of his right eye he can only see the swirls of rain obscuring the pathway ahead, trees and bushes seem out of proportion and even though he knows he’s going down hill the path looks as if he is going up. He raises his left hand to wipe away the watery swirls and but as he does this nature introduces a new element to the assault course. A gust of wind crashes against his side rifling through the spokes of his wheels, causing them to twist sharply to the left and then to the right. Yannish’s clasped fingers unravel with the sudden movement and he finds his body launching in to the air like the birthday bump joke gone wrong. Legs and arms flap as he tries to fly or at least glide to the ground but no of these things happen as he lands on to the grass. A still silence erupts in his head as the rain carries on falling and the sound of his bike chain whirring to the right of him. He can smell the faeces around him, and on his finger tips as he touches his hair. A few blades of grass tickle his chin which breaks the silence in his head and takes his attention away from the stench emanating from his clothes and hair. He remembers his deadline and lifts himself up. The bike chain still whirs but the front wheel no longer turns, even after the hard desperate kicks at it Yannish makes. He wraps it next to a tree with his lock and begins to run towards his home. The leaves and grass fall off his jacket and trousers as he breaks into a pace but the mud and excrement remains all sloppy but still clinging to his clothes. The rain still continues to fall against him but there is no sign of the wind that toppled him over.

He turns the corner to his street and pulls his arm out to look at his watch. Before his eyes have time to focus on the time rain drops scatter on his watch’s face and he sort of makes out that its five to seven, leaving him with five minutes to get back. Yannish scampers down the road towards his house, his breathing intensifying as he forces his legs to hit the ground faster with each gallop. The thought of thieving a quick kiss with Clara increases his speed and the pain starts to filter through his body, but he doesn’t care, he wants to get back. He sees his house and his running starts to become ragged as he reaches the door, he sucks in huge gasps of air thinking this will give him more speed but instead only enables him to suck in vast quantities of rain water. He fuddles with the keys as he tries to insert the right one in the hole, his hand shaking like his dad coming back from a night out drinking. The fatigue catches up with him, as he loses the strength to breath and finds his limbs not responding and going soft. As he falls to the floor he flops his head against the front door causing a dull thudding sound and then he hits the ground. Before he closes his eye lids he looks up to see his mother staring with her mouth aghast at her son covered in mud and dog shit.

A smile erupts around Yannish’s face as he wipes his chin of the sweat.The memory now slowly fades away.

New Styles

I guess I haven't posted much for a while. This is down mainly to having things stolen, computers breaking and going to another continent. However, I always intended to write on here again as Coldbrain kept pestering me about it and to be honest I enjoy writing. The predicament I found myself in was that I'm not that bothered about writing about my life as it's pretty mundane, sprinkled with elements of disaster and comedy. I took pleasure about scribbling about certain subjects I used to think of but they were very insular and not very organic. Basically they don't continuing growing once I'd written them which frustrated me. So after a cup of tea and a glass of wine I've decided to write some open ended prose for people to check out. As Coldbrain is the only one who reads this, I'll leave it up to him as to whether I carry on with it. He can only be vetoed by my laziness which is always festering in the background. Anyway, here it is. What say you?

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Yannish feels himself clutching hard on the object, his breath heavy and laden with the gargling sound of phlegm as he exhales exposing his tobacco ingesting past time. Inside his body tiny blood vessels are delivering thousands of messages to his brain as each second ticks by causing him to get agitated and confused as each one clashes and contradicts the next. He strives for clarity but instead finds his mind awash with flickers of images of his past experiences intertwined with feelings of possible occurrences of the coming present. Images of dates with girls when he was 15, his driving test, his first pay packet from his first job spliced with trepidation, fear, success and relief. This cocktail swirling around his head makes his concentration slushy so lets his eyes help relive him. His eyes gaze straight ahead staring at the fag stained wall, noticing a spider’s web dangling from the top right hand corner, swaying with the rhythmic sounds of the air conditioning. The spider, hanging on the end battling against the wafts of air coming from above, desperately trying to climb up to the more intricate and stable parts of the web but each time progress is made it’s pushed back down with the current of the air con. Yannish notices the spider’s two front legs resiliently resisting the air to gain just millimetres while it’s other six mercifully flap around like streamers on a windy day. A smile spreads across his face as he begins to consider the spider a comrade of persistence. One of the entities that never give up, or so he thinks of himself and of the little money spider. Both of them are fighting against the things far more powerful than them but similarly they are fighting things above them, although the little spider is literally doing this while Yannish’s battle is far more complex, layered and only figuratively looking down at him. He begins to look beyond the wall, straight through it, squinting his eyes as he searches for something further afield. The images come rolling out of his head like slides from a projector. He looks down to see his legs apart but remain solid to the ground, he raises his right hand and touches his cheek. Feeling the perspiration slowly trickling down and hanging from his chin where one by one they fall down and seep deep into the fabric of his clothes...

Red or White?

Some like white, others red, the majority don’t really care what colour it is as long as they can get inebriated to the point they can’t walk or remember who they’re snogging. You know who you are.

I found myself in a wine bar the other night with a few colleagues. Someone asked me what I wanted to drink. My eyes scanned across the bar table looking for an ale pump but to my disgust but actually not that unsurprising there wasn’t any. So I had to choose between white, red or champagne. I considered champagne but realised that when it was my turn to buy the drinks I’d be scorched with an order of Cristal when all I good afford was Babycham. I was going to select white which had been my choice of wine for the last four years when “I’ll have the red” spurted out of my pie hole.

“I’ll have the red” reverberated round my partially empty head like a whirring fly. I hadn’t drunk red for years. The reason being just one. When I was in sixth form we went to the local watering hole one spring Friday lunchtime and started drinking red vino for no particular reason. I guess we were all trying to be sophisticated while discussing the current issues in Kosovo. I’d of worn a cravat if I could turn back time now. By 9pm, I couldn’t hold my pool cue straight anymore, I kept resting it on my wrist but still insisted on taking the shot. As I was focussing on the ball, I realised that something unpleasant was stirring in my stomach, my mouth suddenly started to salivate profusely and my palms started to get clammy. I was all too familiar with this procedure. No I wasn’t going to turn into the American Werewolf in London, I was going to projectile vomit. I dropped the cue and rushed to the toilet which was on the right hand corner, luckily there wasn’t anyone in the only cubicle. I remember getting on my knees when the contents of my food gushed from me splashing rather waywardly all over the inside of the toilet. I didn’t even have enough time to suck in a much needed breath before my next rushing of vomit came spewing out, splattering the walls as much as the toilet this time. My eyes watering and my body trembling slightly I laid myself against the toilet when all of a sudden the toilet lid came crashing down towards my head. There was a crash, a bang and then a hazy memory of being lifted up and taken home.

That thought had risen from the subconscious of my mind and nestled itself right at the forefront which caused me to feel slightly uneasy as I started to sip the red again. I don’t know what I was all worried about though, it tasted lush, in fact I had another glass, then another and before you know it I was wasted again. Only difference this time was I knew that if I wasn’t careful I would become reacquainted with the toilet and disgrace, although I’m sure this wine bar’s toilet was a lot finer than the pub’s. Anyhow, I wasn’t planning to find out so I relaxed from drinking for a bit and concentrated on conversation, flirting and rolling Old Drum cigarettes.

I was pretty chuffed that I wasn’t sick from red wine, this meant there was no stupid contorting of the face and shuddering of the shoulders, which is reaction I make every time I hear a drink I’ve been sick on. I still can’t drink Tequila. So now I’ve started to drink red wine quite regularly, it started off at 1 glass a night and was recently upgraded to two glasses each night. It all seemed to be going quite well until I saw this, http://news.bbc.co.uk/player/nol/newsid_6460000/newsid_6461300/6461303.stm?bw=bb&mp=rm,and thought, “f*&k sakes, I’ve only just got back into wine”. I’ve deliberately decided to ignore the messages of this video as it seems just another example of government ‘scare tactics’, I’ll just carry on slurping the red, thank you.

Vacant Choice

Just before Christmas I made a decision not to go travelling. It was a really hard decision to make, I considered it one of those difficult life decisions. Similar to the one you make when you’re forced by your teachers or parents into what career you wish to pursue when you’re a gangly teenage boy who’s only pursuit at the time is get a kiss of a hot girl. I had saved some my money, thought of a route I would take, in fact I had even found myself in STA Travel in Euston one rainy Thursday afternoon. I was all set to book my round the world ticket when the booking assistant changed my decision. I think her name was Claire. She looked a well travelled young lady by the different types of bangles on her wrist, a bandanna hemming in her sprouting dreadlocks and an African looking skirt wrapped around her waist. Everything was going well, until she asked me my specific itinerary I was a bit flummoxed that I couldn’t spit anything out. I knew that I wanted to go to South America, then to Australasia and ending up in East Asia. However, she asked me for how long I wanted to stay in these specific places and what countries I wanted to visit. I remember spurting out that I wanted to spend 2 weeks in Argentina, then to Chile for 3 weeks. She looked at me quizzically, and said, “to be fair, these sound quite short times”. I said, “I know”. She looked at me again and told me that she felt I wasn’t ready to go travelling. I asked her why she thought that. She replied that, "you’d know this sort of stuff, you’d know where you wanted to stay and how long for. What cities you actually wanted to visit within the countries and probably even know the weather forecast for that period too." I was a bit startled by the fact it was coming from a stranger. I have a tendency, well a conscious choice, in soaking in the opinions of strangers. The main reason being that they don’t know me so their observations are lucid and not smudged by any previous knowledge of me. I walked out of there thinking, “shit, do I want to go travelling?” On the train home, I realised that I didn’t want to go. The reason being, I didn’t want to go on my own. Sitting on the chewing gum infested Silverlink carriage, I knew my decision not to go travelling was a rather significant one. A decision that may gnaw at me slowly over the years, until I shout out, “yeah, now I’m fucking ready to travel, now back the fuck off, conscious” but by then I'd be 55.

I’m standing at the urinal in the Plough tending to my biological obligations. However, I’m staring hard at the rusting aluminium panel. In the dining area, I’m at a work lunch with two producers, one of them a senior one, a designer, and a software engineer. The conversation started about work but soon becomes more impersonal. I’m cracking a joke to the designer about Spurs not being able to keep a lead, when my ear catches the sound of “when I travelled Russia…” I turn waspishly to see who said this. It’s one of the producers. I turn back to the designer but my ear is attentively listening to the other conversation about travelling. A pain swells up inside my stomach, it’s kind of dull and uncontrollable. I’m jealous. “Yeah, it was the same when I was travelling through Cuba”. The pain increases and starts to spread up to my throat to the point I can’t really hold a stimulating conversation anymore. I let the designer do the talking and I just nod in the right places. Before the pain reaches to the tip of my tongue, my body tells me I need the toilet.

I’m blankly looking at the urinal thinking why am I so bothered about people that have been travelling. I made my decision, I deliberated about it, imagined in my head me out there in New Zealand or Bolivia. The imaginary picture wasn’t clear and rather faded. I conclude that I’m an uncultured idiot and realise that I’ve been staring at the aluminium panel far too long that the gentleman on the left of me might think I’m trying to pick him up. So I zip up, wash my hands, realising one thing is for sure, I need a holiday.

Clothing Quest

“Please make sure you remove all your money” read the ATM.

“I sure will” grinned I as my right hand eagerly grabbed hold of the cash that came spitting out of the machine. I ran my index finger along the top of the notes so that they sounded something like cards being shuffled at a frantic rate. I’d just been paid that day after a months worth of my labour and time. Like most people I love the feeling of getting paid, it’s on par with drinking good ale or watching Shaun of the Dead for the first time. With all this money I decided to get some new attire to look good around the ghetto. I got myself to the train station fairly quickly but once there I found out rail works had scuppered my plan of heading down to Camden Market to get some jeans. As an alternative I had to wait for a bus that the rail company was supplying if I wanted to reach my destination. I stood by the bus stop for a few minutes allowing the wind to lash its whip of ferocity across my face like an enthusiastic S&M first timer. Feeling the lashes would soon scar me or at least excite me into a state that was unacceptable for public viewing I decided to abort going to the capital and instead choose to go to the next best thing. The town centre. Knowing full well that the town centre is just a bevy of high street chains all living together jostling and vying to try and take your money I thought I’d give it a shot. With a sigh I nestled my hat onto my head and headed up there.

I entered Top Man and immediately got the feeling that everything was a bit false, like when you are introduced to people in a new job. They smile at you and nod as you’re talking but really they’re thinking when their next fag break is. A light blue t-shirt caught my eye and I picked it up for further examination, with slight shock I thought this was something I could exchange money for, until, that is, I turned it round and saw a skull and cross bones logo sprayed in white across the middle. It sort of reminded me of the crap graffiti that featured prevalently along the walls of the underpasses I used to go by on the way to school. Obviously these graffiti artists have now got jobs at Top Man and t-shirts are their canvasses. I didn’t even bother hanging it back on the wall, in my disgust I just shoved it between the hats and scarves and left it there all crumpled and creased. I actually thought it looked better like that, so I turned around and headed for the exit. Although I didn’t really enjoy my experience in Top Man, the majority of my female friends speak with the same intensity and admiration of Top Shop as they do when they talk about Timberlake and Jonny Depp. I guess they must be doing something right in the women’s department.

After my sharp exit from Top Man I came across Next. I knew this was a futile cause because you know exactly what you’re getting in Next, smart casual garments that enhances the features of the male models wearing their clothes on posters but only enhances the inferiorities of the average looking gentleman. I walked in and stood on the escalators. As I was heading up towards the men’s department I looked at my watch and rued the inefficiency of rail track. Right now I could have been running the food gauntlet along the cuisine alley in Camden Market. The place where within a space of 2 minutes you feel disorientated and tenderised from all the screaming and groping made by the different chefs trying to sell you their variations of “squid and rice” or “Beef stew”. I reached the top of the escalators and didn’t even bother taking a look, I just done a U-turn and went back down to get something to eat.

After devouring a Mexican chilli bean wrap from M&S I headed towards H&M and to my luck they delivered. I’ve always been a bit of a fan of H&M as they do clothes for people who like to look good but don’t want to over do it with garish skull and cross bones appearing on their range. I saw a pair of jeans I liked and rummaged through trying to find my size but was unsuccessful. I asked one of the shop assistants for help and told him my size to which he replied, “you need a lad, I’ll see if I can find you one”. Before I could ask him why he was bringing me a boy he disappeared into the back room and returned two minutes later with a pair of jeans draped across his arm but no sign of this ‘lad’. He handed me over my jeans and I asked him why he wanted to bring me a boy. He pointed over to a wall chart of sizing where it read that H&M categorises all the different sizes and then names them things like Ladd and Sliq. I thanked the assistant and went towards the changing rooms thinking whatever happened to the ol’ ‘Boot Cut’ range. On my way to the changing room I found a plain blue t-shirt which looked familiar to the Top Man one. I quickly turned it round to check there wasn’t anything pirate related on the front and took that with me when I realised the only thing pirate related on there was its actual colour. The jeans fitted well and so did the t-shirt. I pulled a muscleman pose in the mirror to amuse myself even though I was aware that the curtains weren’t fully drawn but I didn’t really care I was just content I’d found something.

With the remaining of my money I walked over to HMV and bought the Mighty Boosh Season 1 and then strolled over to Waterstones and purchased Factotum which I had been meaning to buy the other week. With all my purchases I headed home with a smile on my face and a swagger in my stroll.