eleven

Well, I'm finally back in Wales. I think I really need a good lie down.

I spent a very Withnail and I alcoholic kind of week. "We want to get in there. Get some cake."

My apologies as usual to people who know me and those who don't for me being such a Jekyll and Hyde when it comes to alcohol. Actually, though, I have been told by more than one person that I'm a very good drunk.

Anyway, I'm feeling good today, though very, very nervous, as I tend to when I spend a few days in a row in the intimate presence of alcohol.

hmmmm.

There's so much to write about.

Earlier today, before I came back, as I was aimlessly wandering the streets in the hope of working off my nervousness, I passed a young guy, fairly tall, lager can in hand, dead fish-eyes full of hatred, and I believe that he called me a 'twat'. I can't be one hundred percent sure, because I didn't stop to enquire and clarify. I tried not to make eye-contact. Despite appearances, I don't like violence. Actually, in the old days, I would have stopped to enquire and clarify. I have actually tried to reason with abusive strangers. What a waste of time that was!

Anyway, I'm kind of used to this sort of thing. After all, I am British. Still, it upsets me. And I was going to get upset today, too, and wish all sorts of terrible things upon this lad because I couldn't kick his teeth in the way he so obviously wanted me to. But I decided that I wouldn't let this simple child spoil my day. I wouldn't wish for him to sneeze awkwardly just as he was passing some very, very sharp iron railings. No. In fact, what I wished for was that something wonderful would happen to him that would change his whole view of life so that he wouldn't have to go around calling me a twat everywhere I go.

Specifically, I wished that, later the same day (today), he would be torturing an orphan's pet sparrow with a nail file, and an American tourist by the name of Mischa(?), Jennifer(?)… no, Cambridgeshire (Shire to her friends), with a slight hare lip, which single imperfection only made her all the more dazzlingly beautiful, would happen upon the scene and tell him he had an attitude problem and straighten him out on a few things, forcibly enrolling him in her own 11-point positive-thinking programme over a number of decades, until finally he graduated with honours. Since Cambridgeshire is very into binary, actually there are only three points on her 11-point programme, and all of them basically involve loving yourself with yoghurt. During this programme, our young hero will discover a passion for Sufism and brewing his own cheese. And Canadian feminist science fiction writers. He will set up a fund specifically to help deprived British children like himself, who have never known the love of yoghurt.

And, one day, not so long after he has graduated from the programme and the teacher/pupil relationship has ceased to be an obstacle, he will be initated into true yoghurt love by a master, or mistress. And some other fine day, he will wake up in the morning and realise that his toes have become extraordinarily, almost preternaturally, sensitive.

I found it much more satisfying wishing this for him. I'm sure it's all coming true, even as I write, unfolding in its magical, sparkly way.