I’ve spent this week thinking and planning and backwards engineering. I’ve reviewed where I am and where I’d like to be. I’ve SWOT’ted and self-appraised, soul-searched and wish-listed. I’ve considered every option open to me and a few that aren’t. On the grounds that the company I work for makes an enormous profit flogging the phrase in PowerPoint presentations, I even took some blue-sky thinking out of the box and ran it up the flagpole to see what ducks stuck. (It didn’t work for me but I think I had the wrong sort of blackberry – mine just sat there, defrosted and stained the tablecloth dark purple). I’ve introspected, retrospected and consulted my inner child (she still wants a pony – and a penguin)

In short, I’ve navel gazed until my eyes crossed and I got a crick in my neck (must do’s - phone electroshock back lady, buy new belly ring) and I have made the following New Years Resolution.

My New Years Resolution for 2007 is that I am not going to make any resolutions.
Not one. I’m going to wing it. The whole damn year.

It’s exactly the same resolution I made at quarter to seven last Sunday evening.

However, since then I’ve been told that resolving not to make any resolutions is shortsighted of me (or words to that effect – I was so crushed by the tone in which it was delivered that I paid little heed to the exact phrase). What I should be doing is listing all the things I was grateful for in 2006 and stating all the things that I intend to achieve in 2007, break it all down into realistic targets, cross the t’s, dot the i’s and then get on with it.

Because I value the person who gave that opinion, I’ve thought about what they said all week. I’ve thought about it to the extent that all the joy and exhilaration I felt about having a bright new year spread out in front of me went as flat as a bottle of pop with the top left off. Instead of doing all the things I was all fired up about doing, I’ve spent the week stomping round the house, muttering to myself, sitting up half the night crying and then sleeping too late in the morning. I’ve crashed down crockery and snapped at F until I wouldn’t be at all surprised if top of his list of resolutions was a desire to get the hell away from me.

I can’t blame someone for their point of view. I’m not blaming them for how their point of view made me feel. That I had that reaction is no-ones fault but my own. Mine for paying more attention to someone else’s point of view than I paid to my own gut instinct about what felt right, even if I couldn’t justify why it felt right. It’s my fault for not realising that the person who made that remark obviously has such a low opinion of me that they automatically assume that my not making any resolutions means that I’m going to sit around with my finger up my ass and do bugger all for the next twelve months. I’ve never done bugger all in my life before - why should I suddenly start now. It’s my fault for caring that they might think that anyway. Above all, it’s my fault for feeling that I need to justify to anyone any decision I chose to make about my life. I don’t.

And the price I’ve paid to learn this lesson is one week of my life. I’ll never get it back.

Therefore, after much careful thought and not a bit of crockery smashing, I’d like to clearly and for the record state the following.
My New Years Resolution for 2007 is that I’m not going to make any resolutions. I’m going to wing it. The whole damn year.

I now intend to get on with the rest of it.

It consists of sort of staying on the same spot but shifting your weight from one foot to another, swaying your hips while ever so slightly rolling your pelvis in a figure of eight movement, shimmying your shoulders in alternating rotations and moving your head in short snappy snakelike movements backwards, forwards and from side to side. Hands should be held out a little way in front of you with elbows pressed in close to your side, palms facing down (fingers and thumbs tight together) and should be pushed forward and back in time with your body’s movement.

If you crave variation then advanced students may place all their weight on one foot, rotate the opposite hip only. In this case, hands should be in a diagonal parallel to the hip and move in opposition to the head and shoulder. Weight should remain on one foot until head and hands have completed one and half circuits. At this point head and hands should face direct centre and the action repeated in the opposite direction with the weight on the opposite foot and movement coming from the opposite hip. It is important that this configuration should only be attempted by advanced students and only then under supervision.

When done properly, it’s a sweet little dance and I’ve been doing it ever since 4.37pm yesterday. It’s completely bugged the hell out of F as every so often I’d shimmy into the computer room and interrupt him.

Obviously, I did have stop when I went to bed last night but I have a feeling (because the real HendrixCat was not on the bed when I woke up this morning) that I was wiggling my toes while I slept. Wiggling my toes is something I only ever do when I’m really really really happy (or I’m watching fireworks – which amounts to the same thing)

And right now, I’m really really really really happy.

Because I’m on the 23rd of November, F and I are going on holiday.

The idea of a holiday was F’s. Like most men he was stumped as to a what to get me for my birthday present (shoes?) and flatly refused to buy me a pony on the grounds that we were in enough trouble with the neighbours after my “pruning” of the cherry trees and that a pony in the back garden would seriously piss people off. In a moment of weakness engineered by the rather gorgeous flash fried scallops mum had cooked for my birthday tea, he suggested that he bought us a holiday as a joint birthday/tenth anniversary present. Me? I would have been thrilled by a pair of 60 denier black opaque tights because all the ones I have are darned and I never remember to buy more.

Now I know what he was thinking (because he told me). He was thinking that given the choice of travelling to anywhere in the world, I would pick LA. I make no secret of the fact that there are only a very few places in the world that I really want to see – I’d love to do the Tran Siberian Railway, walk along the great wall of China, bathe in one of the hot springs in Iceland and look out across the Sahara – and top of the list of places is LA. I know it’s shallow; I put it down to growing up in Newcastle. For me, going to California isn’t so much a song as an aspiration. If I ever do go to San Francisco, I will wear flowers in my hair and though when I come into Los Angeles I definitely won’t be bringing in a couple of key’s, I can’t promise that I won’t be humming the tune. Look just compare the two places – America – glamour, Hollywood, cool voices and long highways, deserts and diners. Newcastle – funny accents, the A1, chip shops and the metro centre. No real competition there.

This is why after long deliberation (and not a few hissy fits- much thanks to Missus Jboy for all her patience and understanding!) …we’re going to Kerala on the 23rd of November.

I’ve never been on a holiday before.

I’m not quite sure what you do.

very quick post tonight because its been ages since the last one…

Went to doctors tonight to try to find out why I’ve been feeling so rotten for the past two weeks (and intermittently for the past three months before that). Apparently I’m suffering from stress. He then asked the usual sort of questions which doctors ask in these situations - namely how is my relationship, how is my work life, is there anything I’m worried about at the moment?

I pointed out to him that am A. In a secure, supportive and happy relationship and have been for the past ten years. B. Have no money worries. C. Not only like my job but find it challenging and fulfilling (yes I know I whinge about the long hours but believe me if I didn’t like my job - I wouldn’t be doing it,) He then told me (and he was being serious) that sometimes having nothing to get stressed about can be as stressful as being stressed. Stupid bloody man. Even if that was the case - which it isn’t (and I know this because in the past I have been stressed about just about everything you could ever find to be stressed about - and then some- and believe me, not being stressed is not stressful, it is not being stressed) it still doesn’t explain why I’ve been feeling fluey for the past few weeks.

So I did what I should have done in the first place and phoned my mum. She didn’t give me any bollocky stuff about stress, no stress, or not being stressed. She told me to run 5 miles a day, go to bed earlier, give up wheat properly (and apparently cherry cake counts as wheat no matter how many cherries you add to the mix) tidy up my bedroom and start drinking vegetable juice.

That sounds draconian enough to work so I’ve dusted off the juicer and, as I’m typing this, I’m drinking a mixture of the following - one handful of spinach leaves, three savoy cabbage leaves, half a lemon, quarter of a cucumber, three sticks of celery and a large sprig of parsley. I must admit it would taste even better with a good slug of vodka in it but other than that its not at all bad…(which is worrying…)

PS. In other non-health related news. Apparently my song (eskimo disco 7-11) is now tipped at 12-1 to be the UK Christmas no 1. Admittedly it’s not Ladbrokes thats giving those odds - something called PaddyPower (but it is mentioned in the Guardians betting page) - I’ve put £50 quid on it just in case (actually it was 14-1 when i placed the bet…I’ve just checked and the odds have shortened - shortened? is that right -I’ve never done this before…I wonder what odds Ladbrokes would give?)

“What?” said my lovely electroshock chiropractor lady sternly “…have you been doing with yourself?”

“er… working” I said sheepishly as I sat down her funny blue chair which is supposed to mimic exactly how a healthy spine should align and which, when I sat down on it had huge gaping gaps between the should and the did.

“Ok” she said “Let me just put on my white coat so I feel more professional. Top off and hop on the table. Now tell me? Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere. But that might not be my back. I think I might have flu too. Well not proper flu, just feeling like I’m on the verge of flu…I’ve felt like that for the past three weeks. My bones hurt and my head hurts and my skin hurts…Do you want me on my back or on my front”

“On your back” she says, as I sit on the edge of the table, her hands moving from the top of my skull down to the small of my back. She’s got warm hands. Gentle hands. It feels nice this skin on skin. “I’m going to have to do some work on you before I use the machine”

I lie down. Her hands are in my hair, not pushing, not rubbing, not doing anything except very gently cupping the back of my head, the bit where my neck meets my skull. It feels blissful but there’s this nagging thought in my head which goes along the lines of “God I wish I’d washed my hair before I came here”. I’d leapt into the bath before my appointment but I’d finished work late and the appointment was at 5.30 and it had been three days since I’d washed my hair and my hair’s so long that it takes ages for it to dry – upwards of three hours- and because using a hairdryer to dry my hair makes me look like I should be in an eighties metal video and I didn’t have that much time and because normally she just switches the electroshock machine on, I thought I’d be ok if I just twisted it into a knot and left it. I mean it didn’t look dirty. In fact it looked rather good in a Jane Eyre sort of way. Now with her hands rubbing and pushing, I wish I’d rethought that decision.

Shivers of agony run up from my toes to my skull. My hands get pins and needles. My legs jerk involuntarily. My tummy rumbles. I’m impervious to all of it. Floating on a cloud. All I’m conscious of are her hands.

“I’m going to sort out your headache first” she said as she continues with her gentle cupping movement.

“How did you know I had a headache”

“It would be been strange if you hadn’t had one” she says not stopping “All of your ligaments are inflamed and all of your tendons. In fact, short you of having had an accident, yours is the worse case I’ve ever seen.”

“Wow” I think, taking some pride in that. H treats the great and good in Edinburgh including one very famous lady author whose name we can’t mention. Apparently her back is so bad that she types her Magnus opuses while lying flat on her back in bed. Not quite Barbara Cartland and her willing minions but then who is?

Two and a half hours later and she’s done. At least for this evening. I have to go back on Friday night. Same time. Then she’s going to sort out my back. In the meantime I have been banned from even looking at a computer never mind sitting down in front of one.

I feel great. At least I did when I got in the car to go home. My head had stopped hurting, my back had stopped hurting.

Right now though I feel like shit on a stick. My whole body is running with sweat but I’m so cold that I have three jumpers and a comfy blankie wrapped round me. My throat hurts. My teeth hurt. My eyes are sore. It hurts when I breathe. It hurts when I don’t breathe. My neck hurts. My bones hurt. My skin hurts where my clothes touch it. I’m too cold. Too hot. Shivering like a whippet. I want to go to bed. I wonder if she makes house calls….

The following is a true story. None of the names have been changed because neither person invoved is/was/or will ever be innocent.

The first that O knew about Jgirl was when she turned up on his doorstep with F. F was carrying the futon mattress they’d picked up from Ikea on the way, Jgirl was weighed down with three suitcases, a holdall, a guitar case, a Yamaha keyboard and a large handbag. O didn’t know Jgirl, he didn’t even know of Jgirl, but he knew F from the old band network in the South of France so when F said “Hi O, this is Jgirl she needs a place to crash” - he didn’t ask the obvious questions which were “Why me?”. “Why here?” “Why doesn’t she stay with you?” He didn’t even say “This is a studio flat where’s she going to sleep?”, possibly because he didn’t know enough English, possibly because he wasn’t very assertive, but more probably because he was intimidated by F and the fierce looking American girl with the bar through her throat so instead he said “OK”, drank a glass of wine very quickly and then there were two.

C was blown in during a snowstorm on a dark night about a month later. He was en-route to Tibet but had taken a wrong turning somewhere near Le Hague. Stopping in a lay-by to roll a cigarette, he discovered O’s address in his tobacco tin and decided to drop in for coffee. O didn’t really know C at all, but after ten minutes of frantic French they discovered that they had I, O’s diminutive drummer and phantom address scrawler in common. Drinking another glass of wine very quickly, O heated up some water for coffee and agreed to C staying the night on the strict understanding – made even stricter by Jgirls strictures – that he would leave first thing next morning.

Unfortunately, the next morning saw a major problem. Two major problems in fact. O wasn’t sure what exit off the A1201 C should take to get to Dover, wasn’t even sure what the A1201 was and then; when he and Jgirl accompanied C downstairs to see him off, it was discovered that the snow had somehow affected the secret workings of the motorbike so that the damned thing wouldn’t start even when C, aided telepathically by Jgirl and O, said the magic words. So then there were three.

On the plus side; Jgirl found the bike, now carried upstairs so that it would be protected from the elements, a useful place to hang her washing and there was no doubt that sharing the rent amongst three made it easier on them all – or would have done had C any money.

On the minus side, Jgirl hated C. She hated him with a passion. It was the sort of passion that would end with something smoking but it was even money on whether it would be her futon mattress, the end of a gun or quite possibly a combination of the two. A skinny, pale Asiatic-Slavic looking Frenchman with an unruly fringe C had only three English phrases to his name (all unrepeatable) and wandered through life – and more annoyingly to Jgirl, through the apartment - in an existentialist haze created by his lack of English, his refusal to live within or even on the sidelines of society and his complete and utter disregard for such niceties as waiting until the bathroom door was free before beginning his morning ablutions, a habit that was inescapable owing to the lack of a lock on the door. In short, C was everything that Jgirl wasn’t and the biggest thing he was, that she wasn’t, was male. One hundred percent non-androgynous Mediterranean male. Used to the American way, which had become so PC that even asking a girl out on a date could be construed as sexual harassment and after a month living with O who was so passive that sheep treated him with contempt, Jgirl certainly wasn’t used to a man who absolutely refused to abide by her house rules, closed doors or equal rights.

Given that they mostly avoided one another though, things weren’t too bad. C got a job working nights in the kitchens of the restaurant where during the day, O worked as a waiter. Jgirl was single handedly upholding the whole of the consumer economy by burning plastic with the dedication of one for whom bankruptcy held no fears. All things considered, it was a system that worked out quite well as there was only one divan and a futon mattress between the three of them and Jgirl wasn’t sharing yet.

About two weeks after C had moved in, O came home from work one evening absolutely knackered. He’d had a bitch of a day. Working under the table (he was very short) meant that after he’d subtracted the price of a travel card, a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of very cheap red wine, he had about a fiver left over to live on. Being a waiter in England was no joke, you didn’t get to be rude to the customers, hardly anyone left tips and if they did it went into a central pot and was never seen again. The bus home had been late; English weather stank, it was pouring with rain, he was soaked to the skin and all he wanted was a glass of wine or three. C would be going to work soon. Jgirl was out, probably wandering round some graveyard or other and for a brief hour, his room would be his own once more.

Arriving at that main door of his flat, he jammed his finger on the buzzer. There was no answer. He pressed it again.

There was still no answer. Maybe, he thought, maybe C had popped out to get some cigarettes. He granted that it was highly unlikely; C was into communal living and the equal sharing out of property, especially other peoples. He pressed the buzzer once more. There was still no answer.

“Allez C”, he said under his breath. The rain started to run down the inside his collar, trickling down the back of his neck. He pushed his finger hard against the buzzer and left it there. He could hear the forlorn ringing throughout the building but there was no responding opening of the door upstairs, no sound of feet coming down the stairs to let him in.

He lit a cigarette, a task made more difficult by the fact that he kept one finger on the doorbell. God knew when Jgirl would be back. She was probably out in some cemetery or other, doing…What did gothic American girls do in cemeteries? He wasn’t sure; there were no goths in the south of France. In France black clothes and red lipstick were considered de rigure, not rigour mortis. He couldn’t even console himself by doing what Rod Stewart did when he was locked out of his flat because as far as he knew, and he knew more about Rod Stewart than any person living including the man himself, Rod Stewart had never been locked out of a flat, much less one he shared with a weird, Gothic American and a foul mouthed Frenchman on a mission to liberate Tibet. For fucks sake this was his flat, why had he left his keys with C? What was he doing living with these strangers who drank his wine, ate the cheese his mum sent him from France and slept in his bed?

Two hours later O was still standing there. He had nowhere else to go. He’d rung the buzzer short. He’d rung it long. He’d buzzed the Marseilles, most of Rod Stewarts back catalogue and Ca Plan Pour Moi. The rain had turned to snow, great delicate flakes turned to orange under the streetlights, flurrying and dancing across the dirty London street. His toes had gone numb. His hair, thin at the best of times, was plastered to his skull in damp rivulets. A drip hung at the end of his nose. His finger was now welded to the buzzer. No-one had come in or gone out of the building since he had first rung, which was strange as normally the door banged continually.

Maybe this was a plot. Yes he was sure of it. They had plotted to throw him out of his flat. Right now C and Jgirl were sitting upstairs, in his flat, warm and cosy, drinking his wine, eating his cheese and laughing at the thought of him standing out in the street freezing to death.

He took his hand from the buzzer, cutting short his rendition of Comme D’habitude, to wipe snow out of his eyes. Why had he ever bothered to come to England, he thought, lighting yet another cigarette. Only two left. He’d better go and buy another packet. But before that, he’d just try the buzzer one more time.

Suddenly the door opened. C stood beside him barefoot, wet haired and clad only in a towel. Jgirls towel O noticed with satisfaction. She’d have something to say about that. A coward by birth, size and choice, O had no problem with being confrontational and drawing boundaries just as long as no-one found him with the chalk in his hand.

“O”, said C flicking his fringe out of his eyes and peering at him. “It is you”.

O blinked. “Yes. It’s me”.

“Have you been here long?”

O glanced at his watch. “About two hours”.

“But why did you not ring before?” said C.

“I have been ringing” said O. “For the past two hours”

“I didn’t hear you” said C.

“Believe me C” said O. “I have been ringing”.

“The buzzer must be broken” said Christophe. “I have been upstairs all day and I didn’t hear any ringing. I sleep. I take a shit, I shower and I don’t hear you”.

O suddenly realised that he was still standing on the street, in the snow while C, who was peering at him as though he were a particularly unwelcome salesman, held the door a scant two inches ajar.

“Could you let me in?” he said.

“But of course” said C opening the door to him “You should have said earlier”.

“What do you think I was doing on the doorstep C?” said O.

“I don’t know” said C. “You are a human being O. You have free will. I am not a mind reader. If you want to come in, then you must say so. You might want to stand in the snow and if you do, then who am I to tell you not to do so.”

O exhaled very slowly, his ears were beginning to thaw out and he wished that they weren’t. They walked up the stairs in silence. They stood outside the door to the flat for a moment in silence. The silence lengthened until O, realising that this was probably some Buddhist lesson designed to teach him to state his intent, said “Could you open the door now please C?”

“I could” said C “But I don’t have the keys”.

A red line seemed to fall across Os line of vision which was quickly replaced by a brief but beautiful picture of him holding C by the throat.

“Stop pissing about now C” he said, his voice becoming ever so slightly angry. “Just open the fucking door”.

C gestured to his towel in a movement that necessitated him hiking it up again extremely quickly. “Do I look like I have keys” he said. “Where do you think I am hiding them? I hear you ringing, I get out of the shower. I come downstairs. I open the door. This is not my flat, why should I have the keys?”

“Because I left them for you” said O. “If I had the keys then why would I have been ringing the doorbell for two hours”. Something in him snapped. “Two fucking hours you bastard, two hours”

C looked shocked. “O, this is not right”, he said “We are brothers yes? Strangers in a strange land? We should not be fighting. You forgot your keys but this not a big deal. We will have a cigarette and think about it”.

He gestured to O and as if in a trance, O handed over his cigarettes and lighter. C squatted on the floor in the hall, lit a cigarette and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. He handed the packet back to O.

“Here O” he said “have a cigarette. Calm yourself”.

Silently O took back his cigarettes and lit one.

“Now” said Christophe. “I’ve thought about this. We could wait until Jgirl returns but we do not know what time she will return and beside if she sees me here in her towel then she will be angry, Christ that girl is always angry - it is because she has no man”.

O nodded. That was true. Jgirl did get angry very quickly. He doubted that it was because she had no man and thought perhaps it was because she had to live with C. It made him quite angry and he didn’t want a man. .

“So” continued C “It is quite easy. We must get in before Jgirl gets home and sees me in her towel. Then it will be like nothing has happened”.

O nodded once more but C didn’t notice and continued. “So” he said rising to his feet and walking across the passageway. “While you have been relaxing I have been looking around and the answer is quite simple. We must break down the door.”

With the last sentence he grabbed the fire extinguisher, swung it over Os head and crashed it into the door. The noise was deafening. Doors in the hallway opened and then closed again very quickly as O’s neighbours took in the scene.

“What the fuck are you doing?” screamed O jumping up and trying to grab the extinguisher.

“I’m opening the door” said C, still swinging the extinguisher, his towel loosening dangerously. It hit the door again with a deafening thud, and then another and another and another. Finally O managed to get his hands on it. Which was exactly how his landlord found them.

“Stop right there or I’ll call the police” shouted the landlord. It didn’t do much good. C kept swinging and as O desperately tried to let go of the extinguisher he found his hands came between it and the door.

The agony was excruciating. O fell to a crumpled heap on the floor. “I’ll never sing again” he murmured, thrusting his hands between his legs to numb the pain. The landlord stared down at him.

“I know you” he said.

“I live here” said O faintly.

“Then what are you doing?” said his landlord.

C had a rhythm going now which he didn’t break “We are trying to get in” he said emphasising each word with a further thud. “O forgot his keys”

“So you thought that you could just break down my door?” said the landlord. “Do you realise I could have you arrested for this?”

“I don’t give a shi”…began C, still battering.

O thought more quickly than he had in his whole life, as visions of his defenceless, white and very French body in a London jail passed before his eyes.

“I’m very sorry” he said “Please don’t arrest us. I forget my keys and my friend from France who is staying here for the weekend was trying to let us in, he’s a bit slow and he doesn’t know how to control himself”. He gestured to the towel and rolled his eyes

That seemed true enough; C was still using the extinguisher as a battering ram, fringe falling over his eyes, towel swinging in the draught.

“Stop it!” yelled the landlord grabbing the extinguisher. “Why didn’t you just ring me? I have keys”

“I didn’t know” said O “I’m very sorry” He made his eyes go big, trying to look helpless and lost. It seemed to work.

“I’ll let you”, in said the landlord pulling a large key ring from his pocket and unlocking the door. “But don’t let this happen again”

“It won’t” said C “O in future all you have to do is ring the door bell when you arrive and I will open the door.”

“Hang on a minute” said the landlord, “I thought you said he didn’t live here?”

“He doesn’t” said O “He meant while he was visiting. His English is not so good”.

C shrugged, “English pah”, he said, imbuing the sound with the collective loathing of his people. “I don’t give a shi……”

“Thanks you” said O, pulling C into the house. “Thanks you very very much. I’m very sorry for the trouble. It won’t happen again. Here…” he thrust the bottle of wine at the landlord, “for all your trouble”.

“See it doesn’t.” said the landlord taking the bottle. “There are plenty of people who’d love a nice flat like yours you know”.

Yes thought O - most of them seem to be living with me. “I know” he said “it is a beautiful flat and did I tell you that it was very close to where Rod Stewart lived before he became famous?”.

“Yes” said the landlord starting to move away from the door “You did, every time I see you”. He turned before O could say any more and disappeared down the stairs.
O closed the door and leant against it as C disappeared into the bathroom.

“What did you do that for?” said C coming out of the bathroom a few moments later fastening his shirt.

“Do what? What did I do? I have done nothing I come home from work, I stand and freeze outside my flat because I leave the keys for you and then you…you try to get us kicked out back into the streets, what did I do?”

You gave him the wine and now we will have to buy some more.

“I’m not going out again” said O. “If you want wine you will have to go”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you did” said C. “You have been out all day. I’ll go”

O moved away from the door and went into the small room. C followed him.

“But I will need money” he said, hand outstretched.

O couldn’t take any more. “Here” he said with a sigh, handing C his wallet. He leant back against the divan and closed his eyes.

“I will be back in a second” said C. “And when I return you will see that it is not all bad. I have been busy today. I sort out some of the bills. We will talk about it over a glass of wine.”

O didn’t speak. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. There was a lot he felt that he could say. He just wasn’t sure how well C would take it, although the little voice in his head told him that C would take it out to the street and leave it, and him, there.

“Go C” he said, waving his hand wearily.

By the time that C came back, having spent all of Os money and bought not one but two bottles of wine, O felt better. C had even remembered cigarettes but only, O was sure, because he’d run out of them himself and even he wouldn’t dare to smoke Jgirls menthols. Whether that was because of fear of Jgirl or because the cigarettes were so disgusting that even F, the uncrowned king of Marlboro country, had been known to smoke other peoples stubs out of the ashtray rather than one of them was debatable.

C glugged wine into two mugs and handed one to O. “We will toast England” he said. “This country of ice and snow, bad food and ugly women. I do not know what you do here, I do not know what I do here and I don’t give a shit. But, I survive. I think and while you were out today I sort out some of the bill. Come see”, he continued rising to his feet and gesturing for O to do the same.

He walked into the hall.

“What do you mean you sorted out some bills” said O not bothering to get up. The wine was beginning to make him feel warm and sleepy. He didn’t want to move, he wanted to wrap himself in his blanket, drink some more and fall asleep.

“Well” said C from the hall. “While you were out today I was thinking. You have no monies, I have no monies, Jgirl has no monies. We work like dogs to pay for things and we are so tired we cannot think, but if we thought then there is a simple answer to our problems”.

“We get rich”. said O.

“Yes” said C. “But we work too hard to get rich. You don’t get rich by working. So I sat today and thought and then I realise that the answer is simple. We have bills for the heat, bills for the lights, bills to cook, bills to wash. Too many bills. But I remember that all the bills are controlled by one little machine and I do what I did in my own home.

“So” said O There was the edge of an uncomfortable feeling beginning in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it and poured and drank another mug of wine.

“Come see” said C again.

That uncomfortable feeling wasn’t going away and though he really didn’t want to, O rose to his feet and walked the few steps to the hall.

“There”, said C pointing at the electricity meter with a proud smile.

O looked up at its remains in disbelief. The arrows were just past the zero mark on each of the dials. True, they were somewhat crumpled as if they had been wrenched round the wrong way and one of them seemed shorter than the rest but if you didn’t look too closely at them then they didn’t look too bad. Unfortunately there was no mistaking the jagged hole in the glass that had previously covered them.

That red line passed before his eyes once more. The room was spinning and he couldn’t catch his breath. He flung himself against C and began to pummel him with his fists.

C took him by the shoulders and gently led him back into the room. “O. O. Listen. You are overwrought. It has been a difficult evening for you. You lose the keys, you have to talk to a landlord and you are tired from working. Sit down. Calm yourself. Breathe. Here” he handed him a cigarette. “No, take it” he continued as O, still gasping for air, shook his head.

“I noticed it when I grabbed my coast last night” said C proudly. “Then I thought of my bike and poof! I make the connection. I think, if you can turn back the counter on a bike to zero you can do the same to the electricity meter. So I do it. The glass did not come out very easily.”

“I saw” said O. A numb feeling had started in his head and was working it’s way down. He hoped he was dying. That would save him from going to jail.

“So I had to use the wrench from my toolkit because I didn’t have a hammer”

“Right” said O faintly. He had seen English jails on something called The Bill. He didn’t understand the English very well and he hadn’t worked out which one was Bill but English jails seemed to be full of painful sounding things; like narks and screws. They also seemed to be inhabited by of nasty looking men who didn’t look like they’d appreciate a singer who wanted to be Rod Stewart. It wasn’t fair, he thought painfully. If he went to prison he was too French to feel comfortable about being someone’s bitch and too pretty not to end up as one. He poured and drank another glass of wine very quickly. That numb feeling wasn’t going away but it felt more like the usual numbness he got from drinking too much wine.

“It is a good idea no?” said C “What do you think? I win us many monies yes?”

“I think” said O slowly “that we will have to move out”

PS. The above was never meant to be a post – which is why its so long – it was just something I wrote down so as not to forget it. There are 2 reasons why I’m posting it now and they are;

1. I was doing sit-ups last week and knacked my back. The reason why I was doing sit-ups at all; considering that I loathe abhor and detest exercise, I’ll have to leave until after my appointment with the wonderful electroshock chiropractor lady who lives down the road. Until then, sitting in front of the computer for any longer than five minutes at a stretch is excruciatingly painful and so I’m avoiding doing it. But 2 weeks is a long time in blogland and I was itching to post something.

2 Yesterday morning (at about 4am) was the anniversary of the first time F and I kissed. Not that I’m one of those mushy sentimental types or anything - you know, the sort who keep a running total of how many years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, insults, they’ve been with their partner (ha – bet you thought this bracket would contain such pertinent information) - it’s just that the date of our first kiss neatly coincided with the day that Jgirl married a troll* Why I can remember the date of Jgirls marriage to someone she didn’t even know and yet can’t remember her birthday is just another one of those things which doesn’t stop me loving her dearly but does prevent me from buying her the sort of present she deserves (I know she’s a late Aquarian but other than that….?) Anyway, if it hadn’t been for C’s handiness with electrics then it’s doubtful that F and I would ever have met.

One last thing. Obviously the majority of the conversations between C and O were originally in French. But a nice mess I’d make of that. So I’ve tried to keep as close as I can to the style of English that they spoke. I’m not making the mistake of assuming that either of them thought with an accent. This is just how they sounded when they were speaking to me and how I’ve interpreted their story in my head.