So what was supposed to be a quiet Saturday night suddenly is not because I live with a flat mate who has decided she needs to bring a male companion home.
This wouldn't usually be that much of a noisy occurrence except that she has decided to put the music on. It is like Daniel Merriwether is singing Mark Ronson's Stop Me within two feet from my bed.
And now it's the fucking Eurythmics and I cannot take this anymore so instead of going out of my room and screaming / smashing up the kitchen in a fit of rage, I calmly put on my clothes and wander out into the morning.
And I have strolled into Maida Vale, me alone and the empty streets of London. I am sitting in a large, vacant concrete square, behind me a huge council block of flats.
The shards of morning sun pierce through the space between the houses in front of me and it is quiet. It seems rude to sully the fresh, clean morning air with a song on my iPod so instead I just sit there, thinking.
And now I have wandered onto Edgware Road...
...and Oxford Circus where too, the place is quiet except for the cleaner who's sweeping the pavement.
And as they do in Dublin to celebrate the wanderings of Leopold Bloom in Ulysses, so I have provided map should you wish to wander in my Nike footsteps...
(Clickey makes biggy...)
I have woken up, having got home from my stroll, and am about to have a chat with my housemate. I resist the temptation to scream and smash up the kitchen to illustrate just how annoyed I am.
It's been a long time since I've seen Falling Down, that movie where Michael Douglas take a baseball bat to everyone and everything.
I am sitting with my uncle and his partner (she) who've come to London for the day. We are having lunch. I am having grilled fish, no rice or potato.
The whole event is summed up by my uncle who asks me "if I have any special lady in my life at the moment?"
"Ha ha, London-is-just-so-big-with-too-many-to-choose-just-one."
Although what I mean to say is "actually, I am a human toy to a group of six black men who use me as a fuck cushion and communal cum dump*."
The lunch doesn't rise much above that sort of casual disdain on my part. Ho hum.
* = poetic exaggeration.
And now is the time when I am heading into Soho to meet Nix for a Sunday sundowner (non-alcoholic) but because my hair needs cutting and the bags under my eyes have their own postcode I don the disguise.
Nix and I are in Balans, he is with burger and I am with Cobb salad. We are discussing short people, the man in a tank top with good arms and just who weed on who at Hustlaball. You know, ordinary speak for homogays.
I am walking to the Bakerloo station to head home when I hear someone outside Rupert Street call my name. I turn around and there are exchanged smiles and I agree to stay for one glass.
Even though it was about 99.99% unlikely that I wasn't going to agree to stay for a while.
And the person who called my name is talking to me.
And the person who called my name has put his around over my shoulder so I have put my arm around his waist.
And the person who called my name is standing in front of me and we have kissed. And we say good night.
I am back home and I text the person who called my name; "I just wanted to say that it was so nice to see you again."
A text arrives back. "Yes, it was very nice and I'll see you on Saturday".
I don't know what I'm getting into. It's probably nothing. I don't want to assume it could be anything more.
I really like him though.