1049: Season Finale

Page_1 It occurs to me that while I was spending the last month doing creativey things, a lot of things happened and, being dedicated to blogging 1,500-2,000 words per day of the narrative nature, I really didn’t have the time or energy to devote any blog space to these things that were happening. So let’s rectify that today.

The main thing that has happened is that Andie and I are moving (back, in my case) to Southampton very shortly. And yes, I mean very shortly — our new rental starts on December 10 (pending references) and to be honest I’m not convinced it’s quite sunk into my own mind yet. Hopefully writing this will convince me that yes, it is happening and yes, I need to do that thing with the boxes I hate so much. (Packing them, obviously, not sticking them up my arse.)

Those who have been paying attention and/or following me for a while will know the rough chronology of what happened to me over the last couple of years — my wife and I parted ways; I failed to find a new job; ran out of money; moved back in with my parents; gradually built back up to full-time freelance employment that earns enough to live on; met Andie; moved back out, to Wiltshire this time; witnessed the catastrophic collapse of the second website I’d been a regular contributor to (GamePro this time — the first was Kombo); secured my current gig and, well, here we are.

Both Andie and I had been becoming a little despondent at our relative isolation. Andie was a few minutes down the road from her job, which was convenient, but neither of us really had any friends in the area. We spent a day celebrating the Queen’s jubilee earlier this year in which we got to know our immediate neighbours a little bit, but I found the whole thing painfully awkward and certainly wouldn’t count them as “friends”.

My true friends were (well, are) still in Southampton, as it happened, meaning that any time I wanted to spend time with them there was a 1.5-2 hour drive involved. Andie’s friends, meanwhile, were scattered everywhere from Southampton to Australia, so we decided that looking to move back towards the South coast would be a good idea. (Australia’s a bit far.) Since I can work from anywhere, it was up to Andie to find a job in the area suitable for her talents, and she hates job hunting almost as much as I do. Possibly more. Thankfully, though, she successfully managed to score a position recently, and so our quest to find a new place to live began.

House hunting is rubbish, as everyone knows, but we happened to be down in the area anyway last weekend as I’d taken us away on a short break to celebrate Andie’s birthday. We made some appointments and called in at a few estate agents to make some enquiries, and decided that if we found a place that looked acceptable, we would just take it rather than faffing around for weeks. Largely because we didn’t have weeks.

The first place we saw was a reasonable (if rather small) house that was in shitty condition, and probably wouldn’t be ready in time for when we wanted to move in. Next we saw a decent (but, again, small) house with an abnormally narrow staircase that would have been all right were it not for its location, which suffers something of a dearth of parking spaces.

Then we saw The One. A flat in a good, conveniently-located area with awesome large rooms (including a massive kitchen) that looked to be in excellent condition. It costs a little more than we’re paying right now in Chippenham, but that was an expected part of the move, plus given the location I’m probably going to get rid of my car once we’re in place, which will save some money.

It was pretty apparent that The One was The One after we gave it a cursory once-over, but we still had a couple more to see, so we went and had a look just to make sure. One was a nice-quality flat in a great location, but the rooms were far too small. The other was another nice-quality flat in a not-so-great location, but again the rooms were a bit small and the layout was a bit weird.

So, The One it was. Assuming our references come back all in order shortly, we’ll be moving in mid-December, meaning we’ll hopefully be in place well before Christmas. Then, once 2013 starts, we can really feel like a new stage of our lives is starting.

You have no idea how much I am looking forward to this. It feels like things are finally starting to fall back into place. I realise that, of course, I’m probably cursing myself by uttering those words, but what the hell. I can’t wait to be back in that slightly crappy town that I still consider to be “home”; to be near my friends and to be able to actually socialise with people without having to make plans weeks in advance.

I’m extremely grateful to Andie for her major part in making all this happen. Without her, I wouldn’t be back on this path to “recovery”, for want of a better word, so I don’t know, everyone bake her a nice cake or something. Or just come to our inevitable housewarming party! We might have a Wii U for everyone to play with by then.

See you in December, Southampton.

Shit, that’s this month. ARGH

#oneaday Day 964: Where Everybody Knows Your Name

As someone who suffers from social anxiety, I’ve never really been one to just “go out” unless I had a very good reason, usually in the form of some friends asking me to join them. (I have, of course, tried going out by myself a few times in the past, but as chronicled in this post, it rarely ended well.)

As such, I’ve never really had somewhere that I could call “my local” with any confidence, there’s nowhere that I could accurately describe myself as a “regular” of. I’m not really bemoaning this fact — I have plenty of better things to do than sit in the pub — but it’s an aspect of life that I feel may have passed me by somewhat.

It was a little different back when I was at university, of course. We regularly frequented a wide variety of places that could quite politely be described as “dives”, but all of them had their own unique charms.

In the first year, there was Chamberlain Bar, which was the “local” for a group of several university halls of residence in the area. It wasn’t a particularly exciting bar, bearing a closer resemblance to the sort of half-hearted establishment that exists to make a few extra pennies for a community recreation centre than a jumpin’ nightspot, but it was “home” for a while. It was where most of us discovered the “Juicy Lucy” (pint glass, vodka, blue curaçao or however you spell it, double shot of Taboo, topped up with equal amounts orange juice and lemonade) and the “Passion Wagon”, officially the laziest cocktail of all time (shot of Passoa with a bottle of Reef emptied into it). It also had a tendency to throw crap events — our flat were the only attendees to dress up for “Seventies Night” and a Hawaiian-themed evening consisted of them turning the heating up full and serving nothing but the aforementioned Passion Wagons all night.

Southampton had one big club at the time when I was studying at the university. I’m not sure what it’s called now, but it used to be called Ikon and Diva, as it was one of those weird places that was split into two separate mini-clubs inside. It was shit. It was the sort of place that you went after you got really drunk and consequently barely remember anything from. Consequently, I barely remember anything about this place save for the fact I was clearly so impressed by it that I never went there ever again after my first visit.

There were plenty of smaller clubs, though. One that springs immediately to mind was New York’s, which has been closed and derelict for several years now. It was also shit, and like Ikon and Diva, it was the sort of place you only went to when absolutely off your tits. I only have random flashes of memories of the one (I think) time I went to New York’s, but I vividly recall looking down from a balcony to a stage-like area below, where a bunch of drunk men and women were stripping because the DJ had asked them to. Sure, I got to see tits, but even in my horrendously intoxicated state, I found the complete lack of human dignity on display to be more obnoxious than titillating. Consequently, I never went back there, either.

Then there was Lennon’s, which I think is probably home to most of my best “going out” memories, perhaps largely because it’s the place that several of us tended to frequent most often. I’m not entirely sure why this was, as Lennon’s was a fairly bare-bones club, being essentially a moderately-sized wooden room with a bar on one side and a DJ on the other, occasionally accompanied by a nice man named Vince who sold chips. They played good music, though, and often played host to live bands. I even performed there myself on a couple of occasions, with our university band the Coconut Scratch Orchestra discovering the folly of leaving drumbeats up to a backing track rather than a live drummer. (We all swore after that to never, ever play Mission: Impossible again.) It was also nice in that it was not frequented by the sort of waxed-chest, greasy-haired chav that frequented places like Ikon and Diva.

Would I describe myself as a “regular” at any of those places, though? No, probably not. I see a “regular” as someone who knows the bar staff by name and is recognised by bouncers; someone who meets friends there without having to make prior arrangements; someone who sees it as a “home away from home” — a place to socialise, hang out and just relax. I never quite saw it that way — it was always fun to go to Lennon’s, sure, particularly if my friend had enough to drink to get to the stage where he thought kebabs made him literally invincible, but it was never a place that I felt like I was a “part of”.

I’m not really sure if I’ve “missed out” on something by not having that kind of experience. I guess I have another chance when I hit, what, 50 years of age and start liking real ales or something?

#oneaday Day 817: Countdown to a Non-Event

It’s my 31st birthday on the 29th of this month, something which I am neither massively looking forward to or dreading — it’s just happening. (That said, there is the distinct possibility of nerdtastic board game action in the name of celebration, so I guess I am sort of looking forward to it.)

Birthdays are one of those things that seem massively important when you’re a kid but decline in relevance as you get older, with only the big “decade change” birthdays being a particularly big deal in most cases. My 30th was pretty awesome, as it happened, since not only did my awesome girlfriend take me to London for happy funtimes (on royal wedding day, as it happened, but that didn’t make things as inconvenient as I expected it might) but I then got to hang out with a goodly proportion of my UK-based friends (and one US-based friend who happened to be in the country at the time!) and eat lots of curry. Which was nice.

Thinking back on it, though, I’m not sure I can remember that many birthdays from my past. I was never particularly big on the whole “party” thing even when I was little — I remember going to plenty of other kids’ parties at the local village hall, eating cake and playing Pass The Parcel, though I don’t have any traumatic clown experiences to have revelations about in therapy (unless they’re particularly well-hidden and repressed) and I was rarely — if ever, I forget — the actual “host” or “guest of honour” of such an event.

I’m fine with this, as it happens, though it may have begun to carve my personality into the shape it is today. A big “party” full of people I don’t really know very well all putting pressure on me to have a good time is not a situation I particularly want to put myself in, particularly as it’s considered impolite and/or drama queen-ish to tell everyone that you’ve had enough and you’d just like them all to, you know, fuck off right now please.

I think the best birthday celebrations I’ve had were loosely-organised affairs where I maybe had the opportunity to hang out with a few friends, but there was no real pressure on anyone to be wild, wacky or drunk. Oftentimes there was all of the above, but rarely was it forced.

One particularly memorable occasion came during my first year at university, so I guess it must have been my 19th birthday. The halls of residence flat in which I lived had become a pretty close-knit group (most of us, anyway — there was one girl who perpetually did her own thing) and so we decided that we would go to local student hotspot and well-known grot spot Clowns, a “wine bar” that had an attached basement nightclub known as Jesters.

To call Clowns a “wine bar” was to polish a turd, really, since it was simply a “bar”. Okay, it served wine, but the phrase “wine bar” implies a certain degree of classiness that Clowns most certainly did not possess. Rather, it was the sort of place in which you stuck to the floor if you stood still for too long, and its companion nightclub Jesters (which seemed to be perpetually open, even during the day) was the kind of place whose toilets regularly overflowed and coated the dance floor with a sloppy mess of urine, cigarette butts and all manner of other unpleasantness. The theory was that by the time you got into Jesters, you were usually so wasted that you didn’t mind what you might be stepping in/on, so it was something of a moot point.

I digress. This particular birthday celebration was one of those “unstructured” sort of occasions. Clowns was running some sort of summer special whereby they’d provide you with a four-pint jug of its signature “Juicy Lucy” cocktail for about four quid, and as such most people there were clutching said jugs like giant tankards, pouring the luminescent green concoction down their throats with gay abandon.

I remember relatively little about what we were actually doing at the pub — drinking, probably — but for some reason I have oddly lucid memories of what happened upon our return to the flat. My flatmate Chris, for one, decided that the thing to do would be to sit in the corner of my bedroom with a pair of my (clean) underpants on his head. (I believe he was later sick on his door and subsequently refused to come out of his room for the rest of the evening, though this may have been another occasion.) My friend Simon, who did not live in the same halls of residence as us, fell asleep on my bed. All I really wanted to do at this time was fall asleep, too, so I opened up my wardrobe, rested my head on the bin-bag full of laundry that was in there (surprisingly comfortable) and drifted off for a little while.

I awoke a couple of hours later to find Simon just rousing from his slumber, too.

“I’m just going to run my head under the tap and then leave,” he said blearily. He stood up, and from my low vantage point I heard him go into the kitchen, run the tap as he suggested, and a few moments later, the front door banged to indicate that he had indeed left.

This occasion was clearly a silly situation in which almost nothing of any note whatsoever occurred, but for some reason it has stuck in my memory for many, many years. I can only wonder what strange memories future celebrations may burn onto my brain.

#oneaday Day 532: The Unholy Trinity

Someone found my blog by searching for the terms “trinity estates” southampton today. So I’m assuming that they’re interested in the estate management company that used to be in charge of the apartment block I used to live in on White Star Place in Southampton. This area was also known as College Court, or so the mail that wasn’t for me that kept getting delivered would have it, anyway.

So, hello. How are you? Are you dealing with Trinity Estates? Are you a member of staff from Trinity Estates aiming to see what your company’s social media footprint is? Are you a landlord researching estate management companies prior to making the commitment to purchase an apartment to rent out?

Well, whoever you are, I can say with complete and utter confidence that Trinity Estates are a complete load of old shite. And I can tell you exactly why, too. Some of the reasons are already outlined upon this very blog, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to go over them again for those who haven’t encountered this useless excuse for a company. I’ll say all this with the caveat that I haven’t lived in Southampton since last September and it’s entirely possible that they’ve bucked their ideas up since then, but somehow I doubt it.

Their main problem is their lack of enthusiasm to do anything. They’ll write a letter, sure — in fact they write lots of letters — but when it comes to actually doing anything useful? Nah.

Let’s take one example. The block I lived in had a covered car park at ground level and the apartments started on the first floor (second floor to you Americans). Inside the car park, there were lots of pipes on the ceiling — mostly waste pipes, I believe. One night I heard the sound of running water outside, but didn’t think anything of it — at least not until the next morning, when I had to go and retrieve my car from the car park.

Said car park stank of shite. There was a reason for this. The sound of running water was from one of the pipes on the ceiling which had burst and was, as a result, spraying shitty water everywhere. Fortunately, my car was parked nowhere near the “blast radius”, but several residents’ cars were. One green car in particular was festooned with lumps of crap and wads of bog roll in the morning. I felt sorry for whoever it belonged to.

Several days later, the pipe had been “fixed”. But not in a sensible manner, no. It had been fixed by wrapping duct tape around it. Duct tape that wasn’t very waterproof, meaning it still leaked a bit — though thankfully not quite as much as before.

Then there was the time the basement flooded. In this case, water was actually entering the building and gushing into what turned out to be an electrical cupboard. A phone call to Trinity Estates in this case yielded an uninterested-sounding operator who said he could either get someone down to us the following day (I took great pains to point out the fact that the building was, as I had already said, flooding and presenting an increasing risk of an electrical fire) or immediately, but that there would be a charge for an emergency callout.

Eventually, it transpired that the residents would have to leave the building, because the water and electricity were going to be turned off while the problem was resolved. Thus began several days of sleeping on friends’ floors — actually a relatively welcome diversion as it was not that long previously that things had gone fairly disastrously wrong in my personal life — and wondering exactly how long it would take the company that I described back then as a “festival of incompetence” to sort things out.

To their credit, things were sorted out after several days and we were able to get back in. What they had failed to take into account, however, was the fact that the building was locked with an electronic keypad which doesn’t function when the electricity is off. Fortunately, a drunken chav had had the foresight to tear off the door to the basement/car park entrance to the building in a fit of drunken twattishness, so when I suddenly realised I didn’t have something that I really needed, I could actually get back in without too much difficulty.

As an aside, they also said that the dirty great hole they dug outside the block for the workmen to get in would be guarded by the police 24/7 to ensure that kids wouldn’t play in it. On all the occasions I went back to the block while work was supposedly going on, there were 1) no workmen in the hole 2) no policemen guarding the hole and 3) children playing in the hole. So good work there, then.

In summary, then, oh mysterious reader who came across this page in search of information on Trinity Estates’ work in Southampton — they are shite, and if owning a property involved dealing with them on any level, I would urge you to think very carefully about what you’re getting yourself into — or run away screaming.

If you work at Trinity Estates and you’re reading this, know that you made an otherwise very nice apartment complex into quite an unpleasant place to live at times. Well done.

#oneaday Day 516: Away Game

Spending a weekend in markedly different surroundings to the place where you spend most of the rest of your week is an eminently worthwhile experience, particularly if you spend most of your week chained to a desk — whether that’s in a working-from-home sort of situation or the daily grind at an office. Over the last few weeks (and probably months) I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to spend some time away from the environment I spend the working week in, and it’s a healthy, positive experience.

The only frustrating thing about the whole shebang is the fact that most places I go away to are inevitably attached somehow to either my awesome girlfriend Andie, who currently lives 150 miles away from me; or to friends I left behind back in the Southampton area (about 120 miles away) when I was forced to depart last September.

In some senses, this is good, though, as it means I get completely out of the daily “grind”, as it were, by going somewhere markedly different from the places I see every day. Even if I do go out while I’m back at home, it’s inevitably to the same old places time after time — local shop, local supermarket, post office, local coffee house. And while I know Southampton and Winchester pretty well having spent the best part of 10 years living and working in the area, the fact I don’t live there now is enough to keep them feeling fresh, pleasant and not “new” as such, but places I feel I can rediscover each time I visit.

Now, granted, Southampton’s a bit of a shithole and if you want to do something on a Saturday night that isn’t getting pissed (and, by extension, into a fight) or going to the cinema, there’s actually really not a great deal to do — not in the town centre at least. But as I’ve said on several occasions in the past, it’s a place in which I lay down some “roots” and even if I end up never moving back there to live — which is looking increasingly likely — it will always be if not a “home” then certainly a home away from home.

Winchester, on the other hand, is a place I’d return to in a flash given the opportunity. My favourite place I’ve ever lived was in Winchester. It was a gorgeous big fully-furnished flat with a dishwasher, heated towel rails and a dressing room off the main bedroom. The furniture provided was good quality, not the usual hand-me-down shite, and while I was there, even though I was working a soul-crushingly awful job in the secondary music classrooms of Hampshire, it was a haven I could return to of an evening and feel like I had come “home”. Of course, as Sod’s Law tends to go, this dream-come-true of accommodation was snatched up by the landlord, who rather inconsiderately wanted to give it to their daughter, so we ended up living in a nice-ish cottage that was unfortunately afflicted with a great deal of damp and mould, and smelled disconcertingly of gas in the living room.

I often wonder where I’m going to end up next. I hope it’s somewhere good that I can lay down some roots once again and start afresh. For now, there are weekend escapes like the one I’m on now with Andie, and right this second, that’s the best life has to offer, so I’m damn well going to enjoy it.

#oneaday, Day 279: Saturday Drivers

I don’t know why anyone bothers to try and do anything on a Saturday, particularly if doing said thing involves riding in a car for any length of time.

“Why’s that?” I hear you ask.

“Well,” I say, “it’s to do with traffic.”

When asked to elaborate, I elaborate on the fact that traffic gets bloody everywhere on a Saturday, but particularly in the various town centres of the UK. Everyone decides that Saturday is “shopping day”, which makes a certain amount of sense, given that normal people (i.e. not unemployed scrotes like me) are normally working throughout the course of the week. But to this I respond “why not Sunday? What’s wrong with Sunday?”

It’s a fair question, I feel. Although the opening hours of most shops are shorter on Sundays, opening later and closing earlier, there is, these days, otherwise nothing to distinguish the experience of shopping on a Sunday in a town centre to shopping on a Saturday. Sure, there may be more people coming and going from church. If you happen to be passing by a church, of course. Which, let’s face it, shopping centres aren’t known for being built in close proximity to.

The net result of all this trafficky nonsense on a Saturday, of course, is that any time you actually want to get something done that involves passing through (or even near) a town centre on a Saturday, you had better budget at least twice as much time as you think you need. Because a good 50% of your journey will be spent staring at another car’s arse wondering if you’ll ever see your home again. I experienced the joy of this today, with a trip into Eastleigh town centre earlier in the day (Eastleigh being a town remarkable for featuring a road layout designed by someone who has no idea how big a car is) and later a trip to Southampton (jammed solid) to pick up my friend Tom in order to give him a lift to my other friend Sam’s in Winchester. Oddly enough, Winchester, which is usually a traffic-infested hellhole thanks to being a medieval city that wasn’t really designed with cars in mind, and features a Gowalla spot for the traffic jam which occurs every day like clockwork between 5 and 7pm, was pretty clear. Result.

The above isn’t just limited to town centres, either. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of driving on the crown jewel of Britain’s road system, the M25, will be well familiar with this feeling. Except on the M25 you don’t even have any interesting towny sights to enjoy while you’re stuck behind a million other cars that stretch off to the horizon with no obvious reason for stopping dead on a road designed for driving at 70mph. No, you have concrete, and other cars. And trucks. And that’s about it. Not fun. At all. Better hope there’s something good on the radio, or at least that you have some entertaining content on your iPod.

So basically, my advice to you? If it’s Saturday, then just stay in. You don’t need to go out. Just stay in. Catch up on TV. Watch a DVD. Play a lengthy video game. Listen to some music. Read a book.

Anything. Anything but go for a drive.

#oneaday, Day 273: Roots

“And so it is said,” quoth the ancient texts that I’ve just made up in my head, “that the Place in which a Man shall lay his Roots is not chosen by the Man, but rather the Place.”

And so it was that this weekend I found myself back in the vicinity of Southampton, the City of Lost Dreams. The circumstances under which I was back in said city (or specifically, the adjacent town of Beastleigh Eastleigh) are not the subject of today’s post; rather, the curious twists of fate that lead someone to return to the same place time and time again are.

My original choice to go to Southampton was based almost entirely on the university campus. The lush greenery, the pleasantly rolling hills of the campus grounds, the pleasant water features—all of these things combined to make me think that “yes, this is the place I’d like to be”. That and the fact that it was one of very few places in the whole country running the English and Music course that I was interested in studying. Incidentally, if you’re about to go to university and you are currently justifying your choice of degree subject by saying “it’s a good general qualification, good for anything, really” then just stop, punch yourself in the face and go and pick something specialist that leads directly into a career you’re interested in. Seriously. It will save you a lot of annoyance a few years down the road.

I studied in Southampton and successfully completed my degree, despite a few early-morning lectures ditched in favour of trips to the campus coffee shop, and one piano workshop which I had to leave in favour of being a bit sick in the Turner Sims concert hall’s toilets. I decided that I liked it there for various reasons, so I took on a teacher training course primarily as a means of staying in Southampton, and also as a means of getting a career appropriate to my skillset. Once that was over and done with, I moved to Winchester, which is a much smaller, nicer and more expensive town than Southampton. But my heart was still in the city of WestQuay.

I spent two years in Winchester, living in The Nicest Flat In The World for the first year and A House That Would Be Quite Nice Were It Not So Mouldy And Smelling Of Gas in the second. Following this, I moved to Aldershot to be closer to my job. I then quit said job and moved back to Southampton into another Flat That Would Be Quite Nice Were It Not So Mouldy But Not Smelling Of Gas This Time because I had a job in, yes, Southampton. Tired of mould, I moved into the place in the city centre that was to become the final resting place of my hopes and dreams for my life that was. During all that time, even when I hadn’t lived in the city itself, it felt like “base camp”, home. A place to be centred. This was partly (or probably mostly) to do with the people who were there—people who were and still are important to me.

Leaving the city behind was tough, as was probably apparent from the blog posts around that period. It was so tough, in fact, that it took nearly all day to say goodbye to four people. In fact, it did take all day, and my overburdened car was not on its way up the M3 until the sun had long since dipped over the horizon.

Now, circumstances, Fate, whatever you want to call it; something has intervened and is dragging me back there. I’m not complaining (except at the cost of petrol or train tickets, both of which are extortionate) but I do get something of a wry grin on my face when I think of the city (and, by extension, its surrounding smaller towns and cities like Eastleigh and Winchester). It’s like a stubborn child that won’t quit until it gets what it wants, tugging on my metaphorical coat sleeves to attract my attention and pointing, oh look, over there, there’s a badger with a gun, can you see? Wouldn’t it be awesome if that was in your back garden?

So what will happen in the long term? I couldn’t honestly say. A lot will depend on the job situation, which still isn’t resolved yet. But let’s just say that there’s something of a quasi-gravitational pull in a south-westerly direction. It may be hard to resist that call for long.

#oneaday, Day 240: Making your Mark

It’s odd (and not a little morbid) to think about the things that you leave behind that people might remember you by. Those little marks you make on the world, whether they’re physical marks scrawled on a toilet door with permanent marker pen, mental marks left in the mind of people or now, technological marks, too.

There’ll always be a little trace of me left in Southampton thanks to largely-pointless but fun geotagging app Gowalla. When I first downloaded said app, there weren’t many people using it but I liked the idea of it. Go out, walk around, “collect” places. If nothing else, it was a nice way of building yourself your own custom tourist map of a place.

So on more than one occasion, I went out for a walk with the specific intention of creating a bunch of Spots around Southampton. This became something of an obsession, with the vast majority of Spots around the city centre being created by me. General way of telling: if it has a lengthy and slightly sarcastic description, or is the kind of thing you wouldn’t find on a typical tourist map (such as “The Pedestrian Crossing That Makes The Funny Noise”), it was probably created by me.

Now, as pointless as Gowalla is in many respects, there are many reasons why it’ll always hold a fond place in my heart. Firstly, as I say, it’s been my way to leave my mark on Southampton. I “found” these places and tagged them the way I wanted them to be tagged. This means that Greggs on East Street will forever be remembered as “fine dining for chavs”. At least until they realise and ask politely for the description to be changed. Which, let’s face it, they probably won’t.

But the second reason is that my wandering around, creating these spots, marking my territory (as it were… albeit with less piss than is usually implied by that phrase) caused me to meet one of my dearest friends from that city. She happened to use Gowalla, stumbled across some of my sarcastically-described Spots and decided that the person who tagged Greggs as such was someone she’d like to get to know better. So we progressed from stalking each other via Gowalla, to tracking each other down on Twitter, to chatting on Twitter, to finally meeting face to face. It was one of those random instances of chaos theory at work, where one little choice made slightly differently would have meant we’d never have met. And, given what was going on in my life at the time we met, and how much she helped me through that difficult time, that would have made things go very differently for me.

So I’m certainly glad that I’ve left a “mark” on a few places over time, be it physically, emotionally or technologically. Because you never know when those marks might lead to something great, even after you’re gone.

#oneaday, Day 192: Movin’ On

When is somewhere not “home” any more?

Southampton has been my “home” ever since I went to university there in 1999. Even during the years I lived in Winchester and Aldershot, I still considered Southampton my “home”. But since everything that has happened, I think it’s lost its sheen. Part of this is, I feel, the city’s natural decline which has taken place ever since WestQuay opened slap bang in the middle of the town centre and promptly obliterated the High Street. But another side of it is, as my buddy Kalam said a short while back, having “got all you can” out of the city. It has nothing more to offer. You’ve completed it. 100%. Achievement Unlocked. That sort of thing.

I went to Cambridge today, a place I haven’t been for ages and the place I always say I’m originally from because no-one knows where “Great Gransden” is. I was there for a job interview, which I’m not going to discuss here for fear of jinxing things. But one thing struck me as I was in the city. Two things, actually. The first was “God, I hope I never accidentally drive into this city centre as it looks nightmarish to drive around”. Picture tiny, narrow, medieval streets. Now picture a fucking great bus going down them. Now picture about 300 cyclists cycling the wrong way down the street. Nice.

That wasn’t the important thing, though. The important thing I thought was “God, this place sure is nicer than Southampton”. I’m not sure if it’s always been that way and I just took it for granted growing up, but it’s a much more attractive city than Southampton. It seems cleaner, less crowded, less infested with chavs and the Starbucks that are there have a much wider selection of cakes and sandwiches. Even the women are hotter; a fact that several other people will happily back me up on.

So perhaps this is the right time to find a new city, and Cambridge should be it. There’s a lot to offer. This job, for a start. Some decent shops. Some nice open spaces. Decent people. Lack of chavs. A river that doesn’t look like a sewage factory, with actual person-propelled boats on it. A sense of history.

Southampton has many of these things, of course. But as I’ve said, the place has lost its sheen somewhat. Sometimes, I guess, you need a change. Particularly when a place that you once called “home” had everything that you once thought made life good stripped away from it. In those circumstances, I’m guessing it’s best to leave the past behind physically as well as mentally.

I guess we’ll have to wait and see how things work out. But today was very positive—that’s all I’m saying for now—and hopefully will lead to great things.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

Oh, and I won a Diplomatic Victory in a game of Civ IV earlier. That’s not relevant to any of the above, but I thought I’d share.

#oneaday, Day 163: You are…

Queen’s Park (on a bench), 9:10pm

You’re sitting on a sturdy, lichen-covered wooden bench that looks like it’s been here for a good few years. The wood is faded and scratched, both naturally and through human intervention. The initials of teenage sweethearts are carved into the surface of the wood, last remnants of a long-forgotten memory, a past romance.

You’re at the east edge of the park. Further east is a tall hedge, behind which stands a tall, orange-and-glass-fronted apartment building.

To the west, a large stone column rises up to the sky amidst brightly-coloured flower beds. Atop the column is an intricate-looking sculpture, featuring roses, arches and what appears to be a Christian cross.

To the south, behind the swish-swish-swish of passing cars, you can just hear the sonorous tone of a ship’s horn signalling its departure from the docks.

To the north, the cars swish past in the opposite direction, this patch of road encircling the haven of green calmness in which you find yourself, the sounds of the passing vehicles your only reminder that you’re in the middle of a busy city.

On the bench is a bottle of milkshake.

There is a discarded coffee cup here. Ants are crawling around the coffee cup.

?>GET MILKSHAKE

Taken.

?>DRINK MILKSHAKE

It’s not open.

?>OPEN MILKSHAKE

You unscrew the cap of the bottle. The scent of chocolate mint, trapped inside the plastic for so long, wafts out and caresses your nose with its sweet yet pungent aroma.

?>DRINK MILKSHAKE

The thick, gloopy milkshake slides down your throat smoothly. The scent of mint wafts through your sinuses.

?>LOOK AT COFFEE CUP

There are ants all over it, crawling in and out. It’s empty, though. What could they see in it?

You feel a little itchy.

?>GET UP

You stand up, and realise the ants have taken a liking to you.

You feel pretty itchy.

?>BRUSH OFF ANTS

You do your best to brush off the ants you can see. Your skin still feels like it’s crawling, but you think it’s just your imagination now.

?>LOOK AT COLUMN

It looks like some sort of memorial, though to what you couldn’t say.

?>CLIMB COLUMN

There’s nothing to grip onto. You’d just slide back down. Unless you were Batman and had a Batarang or a grappling hook or something.

?>INVENTORY

You don’t have a Batarang or a grappling hook. Nice try.

?>SIT

You sit on the bench.

?>THINK

You stare into space and let your mind wander. Thoughts of all the things you want to happen flow through your brain. The people, the places, the events. Things said, things unsaid. Hopes, dreams, regrets. It all rushes through your head like a miasma. It is both pleasurable and terrifying at the same time.

A single tear falls from the corner of your left eye and plops onto the ground silently, its impact drowned by the sounds of the city.

The feelings pass. You’re not sure if you feel any better.

?>GET UP

You stand up.

?>NORTH

You find a gap in the hedge which surrounds the little park, and step back out into the noise of the city at night. It’s like a different world. The bright lights, the blur of the passing cars, everyone going about their business, somewhere important to be, someone important to see.

Except you. What do you have? Where should you go? The answer remains out of your reach… for now, at least.

*** THE END?***

You can RESTART, RESTORE or QUIT.

?>_