Sinister: all the girlfriends I haven't had

[Gordon]

*** off topic alert ***
*** diaryesque alert -this man should get a blog ***

end of disclaimers

It's 00:58 here. That would make it nearly an hour into Saturday 28th
September 2002. That's what day-meetings in psychiatric units begin with,
read out by one person in the room to the circle of other patients, so that
everyone gets a daily orientation point. I'm beginning to get the clarity of
mind back together myself to dispense with such things, but it must be said
that as of about a fortnight ago, the day or time was of diminished
visibilty. As of two days ago I've been thanking god I have a diary, so that
I can just about piece things together.
My problem has for some time been an alcohol one and, whilst having read up
a great deal about the symptoms of manic depression; enough to know that I
get them, I am forced to conclude (well, after many to-ings and fro-ings to
a variety of experts, the top expert at the Edinburgh Royal forced me to
admit) that if I do indeed suffer these symptoms, then it is the result of a
chemical imbalance from a chemical I swallow rather than a chemical
imbalance resulting from the harshness of nature.
And I sort of have the proof of that.

I stopped drinking and, for six months or so everything was cool, and on the
up and up.

                                       ...but then on a saturday, in the not
too distant past...

     I was rounding the late afternoon off in a certain hotel bar. So far,
it had been a magnificent day and, although the company I'd been keeping had
just left, I fancied holding onto just a little bit more of the city
atmosphere before heading home to my parents, in the country. I'd ordered a
coke to drink. I like the barman there: we chat about architecture, and he
knows some interesting bits and bobs about the subject. Enough to suggest
that it might be a past-time of his to read up about it and so on.  So I
usually sit at the bar itself. It's also become my custom to relax with a
cigarillo or ten, so I ordered a cigar to go along with the coke. However,
there's some new European Directive that's come in, to the effect that
smoking at the bar is prohibited. Obviously not one that's taken effect in
all the other bars I know, but still... there were plenty of armchairs
around and I was welcome to sit down and he'd bring my cigar over to me.
Seated, I read, puffing away, sipping the coke. As I stashed out the final
embers of the Davidos my thoughts turned to what to do next. By this time
sick of the taste of the smoke and sick of the taste of coca cola and still
not quite wanting to leave, I had a thought. I'll sit at the bar there, have
a wee chat, and have a proper drink. Just this once, for old time's sake...
Laphroaig, please! Coming right up!
I was expecting to retch at sutch a strong taste assaulting my senses after
such a long absence but no: it went down like water. In large, glorious
gulps of water. The water of life. So I had another, and then left.
At the station, I stopped to purchase a couple of those wee bottles of
Traquair Ale, to enjoy back at home in front of the computer. Maybe I could
have a bit more fun than usual on internet chat. In fact, I decide, once
back at the ranch, everything's going swell: I'll make use of this dutch
courage to throw a few ideas around that I haven't really been willing to
raise when sober...

This was a bad mistake, as it turns out. Maybe not irresolveable, I hope,
but let's just say ... well I'd rather forget the episode. I'm making it
sound rather over-dramatic here too.

Anyway, there followed a fine enough Sunday and then to work for two days,
but this time with a bottle of wine when I get home, cos, well, it's a bit
of fun. There was nobody else at home for a week to see me uncork a bottle
at the dinner table and, it must be said, there were still some unresolved
issues in my mind from the Saturday. Maybe I could go on internet chat and
cure those, in a relaxed, post-prandial fashion. I didn't, partially because
I was now beginning to feel a mixture of paranoia and jealousy. I was also,
quite possibly, beginning to mis-understand things a little. For someone
who's been off the booze for a long time I suppose a bottle of wine's
actually quite alot.

I slept in Wednesday morning, so I 'phoned the office to take the day off,
explaining. They know how long it takes me to travel there every day, so the
idea that it might be a bit silly doing 5hrs commuting in order to be there
for four hours or so is an eminently reasonable one.

Then I go do something stupid. I wasn't under the influnce at this point,
just high on the freedom of possibilities
so
              ...through to Edinburgh, city of most of my favourite
experiences of late. But what to do here in the middle of the day?
Start a PARTY, of course, and I know a bar that consists of fast cars and
dancing girls and guys you can chat with, all propped up around the wee old
wooden bar, just like in a wild western whorehouse. The afternoon goes on,
on, into night and as soon as you realise it the pianist at the Sheraton is
thanking you for enjoying his music, he leaves, the folks around that bar
are beginning to bore one and one is soon into a concierge-organised tour
through the top hotels in Edinburgh. Of course! Nothing but the best for me.
No room at the ..., but there's one at the ...: shall I order you a cab for
there, Sir? But there is a booking error at that one (what kind of an error,
exactly? one is aware of euphemisms: they result in paranoia, and I hate
them ), so the man at the desk offers to phone around a few others, but he
starts mentioning the names of establishments I don't recognize so I stop
him there. 'Just check the... '

'They've only got a suite, Sir'
OKEY DOKEY! Order a cab, right away!

So the next two days were spent living out of a mini-bar, padding around the
rooms, gazing at the view, chuckling when I found that there were two
bathrooms. Listening to music, reading from a book of Francis Bacon
interviews... room service arrives, uncalled for, to re-stock the mini-bar
(it has an electronic sensor in it which sends down to room service for the
missing bottles, evidently).

But would I call up anyone to say, 'come join me here'? Was I really
enjoying all this absurd luxury? Nah. I was on the spirits, finding
oblivion... thinking about stuff like

Does anyone love me?
Well, hey, that's a bit tin pan alley, says I back to myself. After all, my
parents love me. Through everything they have made it so abundantly clear. I
know some people have had the terrible misfortune of having one or other or
both of their parents not loving them, or not demonstrating it enough or not
even being there to be able to demonstrate anything at all. I have had 2no.
parents all my life who have always loved me. For the sake of completeness
on the family front my brother does too. Ditto grandparents (deceased), so:
Does anyone else love me?
The answer to that is no. There are a very few; a couple of old friends,
maybe, who I don't really keep in touch with, for reasons of international
distance, who are very fond of me, but

     ... I realise I asked the wrong question because the above is all, of
course, about Platonic Love. Yeah, I knew it would take that next half
bottle of gin to get to the point:

Carnal Love. Maybe that's an expression I could use.
Does anyone love me carnaly?
Well, I sure don't think so. The problem with me in that respect is not than
anyone loves me carnally at the moment. My problem is that I don't think any
one has ever loved me in that sense. And at the age of 31 that really begins
to bug one. It's enough to turn one to drink.
Have I loved and lost via marriage? Nope. Have I loved and lost via some
long term loving relationships? Nope. Have I loved and lost via one long
term relationship? Nope.
Does anyone like me carnaly? Does anyone fancy me? Not that I'm aware of it.
Did anyone, ever fancy me? Well yes, they did. Quite a few. But that was a
long, long time ago, when I got to meet plenty of girls. The only way I know
how to meet plenty of girls now is in, hey, you might have guessed it: BARS.

...next bottle

Do I know anyone who would come up and FUCK me, right now?

nope. Ah well...

So a few days later I'm back off the booze, and thinking of places to meet
girls that doesn't involve bars...

Of course there are possibly a few other places one could hang out. But
really, I've tried quite a few of them and it really doesn't work for all
sorts of reasons. Take for example, the 'special interest group': a gym,
say, or a writer's group, or a fan club (that's not a dig at sinister, btw),
or a political discussion group. How many of these things can you stand to
go to before you really have to admit that a) you're not a thematic anorak
and you're fed up doing the necessary tedious research to keep up with the
scene; that b) you don't fancy anyone at any of them anyway? That, not least
of all because all the eligible girls are out there, having fun, not stuck
in some hired room.

So I figure I'll just have to find away to hang around bars, tolerating the
taste of cola.


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