A bloodcurdling schoolchild’s scream rams itself through the walls waking you up with a start, and outside all you can hear is rain; not an auspicious first morning thought admittedly plus the where-the-hell-am-I feeling puts you off kilter. Ergh. I had such a dumb day yesterday. Looked after a stranger’s child for money, met and had tea with a Jehova’s Witness, had an interview in a room that was named after a mountain and then drank in a Spoons for about five hours with the money from the kid. The little girl didn’t pass me over any money, we just ran around and threw trains down flights of stairs and danced and read like there was no tomorrow, I watched her eat for one hour whilst listening to Radio 2 - what a boring racket - every other word was Ed Balls or RBS, yawn. Her mum was very pretty, she seemed surprised that I had entertained the child so thoroughly but it’s no big deal, I don’t particularly like children so the only way to tolerate them is to pretend they’re just a fun adult with no inhibitions, like a well-meaning wasted person. Just clap and dance around and sometimes throw stuff and roll around on the floor and she’ll be well in to it.
When reading her Winnie The Pooh on Tigger’s adventures which featured a storm (they had to save Piglet from it and Tigger bounced until everything got better), I unconsciously kept slipping up on the little boy’s name, calling him Christopher Owens instead of Robinson. Christopher Owens is the lead singer of the late low-fi beach grunge band, Girls, which I technically loved between the ages of 20-22 more than my parents. He unfortunately was addicted to too many prescription drugs after that is his heroine addiction subsided, and is currently dependent of some chemical substitute for LSD and not making any good music. The first album though was so pop in a good way and made you want to sing out loud the chorus in anthemic drunken slurry versions and at the gigs he did look like Jesus. Often he wore a crown of white roses and always had strong backdrop lighting which shone through his flimsy clothing and emblazoned his boney physique, honestly, he looked like some rag bone American lost child angel (he did probably have a Messiah Complex) and girls and boys alike loved him. Christopher Robinson not so much, but then again he was a creation of that infamous Walt who really loved Jesus and ideas of second-comings and anti-Semitism. If there’s a theory out there for Bambi being Jesus (the stag is the Lord and his mother gets shot, I don’t know why that’s too relevant for the Bible, maybe the way Mary gets dismissed after the whole virgin conception miracle) then I can’t see why the wholesome young spirited child Christopher Robinson, always saving his imaginary friends isn’t some nod to old Jesu.
Now in the pub mulling it over this sequence of events occur:
‘Just call her’ says a mate.
‘No. We’ve only had four text messages in total it’s no time to call her. Anyways it’s late.’ He replies.
‘It’s only ten o’clock she’s not some elderly OAP and she texted you yesterday and you haven’t replied so just get on calling her otherwise she’ll think you’re not interested.’ Takes a swig of his manly pint.
‘But I don’t want to.’ He’s languishing in his watery beer.
‘Give me your phone.’
‘No don’t take it’, after saying this he gives it to me to protect when I was comfortably watching not getting involved, and now I have manlier-than-thou lunging at me, oh the unnecessary stress. Thankfully he knocks a pint over and says fuck you and forgets entirely about the phone. I give it back and order is for the time being restored.
Epilogue: Until I wake up the following day borderline confused, trying to pick out reality from the dreams I was just having really desperate for a wee but knowing that I’ll have to deal with the lack of toilet paper if I emerge from under the covers. January.