stubble scratching

Luke doesn’t smoke, but he steals a lot of cigarettes. It’s a habit we used to share. I was more honest about it. I admitted I was a smoker but was usually too broke to buy my own. Luke’s a drunk smoker. After x number of beers (or bottles of wine, measures of whisky, etc. etc.) he starts chaining somebody else’s cigarettes. Usually they’re his brother’s. Marcus is younger and as such tends to put up little resistance to this mooching.

We sat in the pub opposite the British Library and drank away our hangovers, the three of us, and Luke looked in horror as Marcus started rolling a cigarette.

‘What the fuck’s that?’

‘A rollie.’

‘That’s no good – you’re going to have to roll two every time.’

‘Bugger.’

My hangover was particularly pronounced at this point, and I contributed little. There wasn’t much to add, really, just the odd chuckle. I rubbed my eyes a lot, and scratched my stubble – those little physical tics that seem to accompany the morning after.

Luke looked smart in a bespoke pin-striped suit, Marcus shabby in a blazer better-suited to a down-on-luck pensioner cracking open a tin of special brew. I wore shorts, flip-flops and a wrinkled shirt. I stood out a bit.

‘There’s a beer garden in the British Library.’ Luke’s kernel of information grabbed our attention. The bartering for cigarettes ceased. My beer slowly did its work and my hangover subsided. I stopped rubbing my eyes, though I still scratched my stubble occasionally.

‘Really?’ – Marcus and I, in chorus.

Beer garden was a bit of a stretch. There’s a terrace adjoining the café, and the café sells beer. Still, we pondered, it was theoretically possibly to organise a piss-up in the British Library. This delighted us. We set about a rough plan for such an event.

We’d have to be there for research. We agreed that the beers should be some manner of self-reward – we should do an hour or so’s worth of work before getting hammered. Luke chuckled mischievously, Marcus wandered outside to smoke his roll-up and I went to the bar to get another round in.

Walking back from the bar I was disappointed to find the table of pretty girls next to us had decamped and disappeared into the thronging London streets. Talk moved away from research-inspired drinking binges and into the generalities of life. Marcus and I described the antics of the night before to Luke, explaining the source of our hangover. Marcus drank slower that I did. I poured more ice into his cider and watched the sudden fizz as the new cubes splashed down. He rolled another and we watched them call the cricket for rain, after Australia pulled ahead of England. Marcus and Luke are big cricket fans; my interest casual at best. I turned around to check out the table of ladies and cursed, forgetting they’d left. Marcus placed his rollie on the table and Luke looked down on it with barely concealed contempt.

I looked at my watch and took another sip of beer. Time for the next pub. The British Library?

Not this time.

As we left, Luke clapped Marcus on the shoulder.

‘You’re going to be rolling a lot of cigarettes tonight.’

large books and reflections.

I find long books awkward and a tad daunting. It's the physicality of it: those awkward first pages and the imbalance between those pages read and those remaining. My index finger saving my place on page 15 of 1079. The feel of those pages unread is the daunting thing, the thinness of those first few a perennial disappointment. It would be far more comfortable to jump in around 450. Until that first chunk is read the book feels like a prop, a weighted block of pages merely there to provide an illusion of intellectual superiority.

It's a peculiar insecurity. One easily solved by voracious reading. Like the gap left by a missing wisdom tooth, I will dwell on it until I forget to, then rediscover it again with the next unread tome.

I'm on a train north again; returning from a fleeting London visit to see my parents and catch up with some friends. I never have enough time in London. I always leave with a drop or two of regret, mulling those things I didn't do and those folk I didn't have time to see. The feeling lingers until after Newcastle, usually dispelled by the Northumbrian coastline and the calm that comes with crossing the border back into Scotland.

There's a young couple at my table on the train, restricting my nesting. My giant tome stays shut and I'm currently debating a nap. It's the flat part of the trip - there's not much to see outside. The sun's finally creeping out from the neutral overcast above. I'm struggling to stay awake, but I always worry I'll snore when there are people at my table.

Oh well.

rusty hangover

My writing feels rusty. Like some manner of creative arthritis, my fingers need coaxing to tap and pound the keys. The gaps between the joints have atrophied a touch. I'm like a stop-motion skeleton clicking away. The words are there, I just need to remember them. And where they go. And, occasionally, why they go there.

It's kind of like a hangover. A really bad hangover. You know those sorts of hangovers - the sort where it takes you a minute or two to work out where you are, even if it's your own bed. You touch your face to make sure it's there. Then begins that slow assessment, working out where the pain is coming from, clenching you fingers, wiping the goo from your eyes. Maybe there's a trail of drool dried at the corner of your mouth. You smack your lips and wince at the taste of your mouth. There's a pint of water next to your bed, but steering it to your lips is a challenge. You look in the mirror and recognise the face, but can't place it. Even working the shower is too much for you. By the time you figure the taps out, opening the shampoo becomes impossible.

In the end you're clean and dressed but still feel as though you're having an out of body experience. Or that you've borrowed someone else's body. Someone else who treated that body they lent you very badly. You'd like to register a complaint, but through the haze the truth dawns, and the body's yours. And you did that to yourself.

And so my writing drought has wrought a writing hangover, not caused by an excess but by a dearth. Where my words don't look right, don't read right and don't feel right. They feel somewhat like someone else's, but they're mine.

And like a hangover, I did it to myself. There's no one else to blame.

sunrise and salmon bagels...

I hadn't been drinking.

Not excessively, anyway.

I just didn't feel like sleeping. One DVD finished and I popped in another. It was one of those late nights: bed felt like more of an effort than staying up.

The last movie on was John Boorman's Excalibur. I loved that movie. Let down by its budget effects but still impressive: proper, filthy mediaeval production design but with the proper nod to the chivalric tones of Chrétien de Troyes' epic work. It's an energetic piece that mixed well with my insomnia.

I lived in the centre of St Andrews at the time, in a flat on the top floor with a view towards Sallies Chapel. It was an awkward place; the floors uneven, poorly insulated and the occasional sloping ceiling. Seagulls on adjacent roofs would sometimes make ungodly racket in the wee hours. There were a lot of stairs to climb to that odd wee flat. I liked it, don't get me wrong. Its quirkiness pleased me, as did the luminous pink couches.

The window in the sitting room overlooked Market Street. It was May 1st, and the sun was glorious at 5 in the morning. Through the open window I heard noise and the significance of the date settled into my sleep-deprived head. The first of May is the day when a couple of thousand students decide to go swimming at sunrise. As May Day celebrations go, it's quite a lot of fun. Far groovier than a Maypole.

I had no intention of going swimming, but I thought it might be a way to walk off the insomnia and laugh at drunk, sleep-deprived, shivering wet students. So I grabbed my Sox hat and bounded down the steep steps and wandered towards the beach.

Already the exodus had begun. Towel-clad, blue-lipped and dripping, they stepped tenderly. Some held near-empty bottles. Some squelched in their soaked shoes. Their rugby tops were damp. Makeup ran and normally perfect hair resembled a blind bird's nest.

I got to the beach and bumped into Lish, who said I should join her and her friends for an after party. I had nothing better to do. I was still a student, and the idea of starting a party at 6 in the morning appealed.

All we had was a case of Beck's and a doorstep. And the sound system of The World's Filthiest Land Rover. It was enough. We listened to cheesy tunes at full volume and opened beer after beer. We brought bedding out from the flat - why we weren't in the flat I'll never know - and engaged in morning banter. The swimmers warmed up and drank more beer. I think we laughed so hard we couldn't breathe. We took turns rocking out in The World's Filthiest Land Rover, bouncing along to the ridiculously cheesy music (Meatloaf was involved).

The beer ran out and we went in search of coffee.

The guy at the juice bar knew us all. He rolled his eyes and finished getting the shop ready for the day while we collapsed in a corner and drank our coffees. I had a quadruple espresso. We chatted about what to do next. Some wanted to do donuts at the end of West Sands, some wanted smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels. We split in different directions. I, as ever, followed the direction of food.

And there we sat, in the West Port at 11 in the morning, with espressos and smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, drunk and happy, making a mess of things. One of us managed to get more cream cheese on their face than in their mouth. We laughed and paid and stumbled out into the bright late morning sun. I pulled hat low and gave Lish a hug. I needed home and bed.

I climbed the steep steps and noticed my flatmate had gone to the office for the day. I pulled my curtains shut and succumbed finally to my bed.

Some amazing friendships started that morning. Started with movies and insomnia and beer and coffee and bad music and almost entirely by accident.

And now one's gone, almost entirely by accident.

the passing of vintages

I've not been here for awhile.

One day it was March and I was on a train and now it's almost the end of June and I don't know where it's all gone or how I can begin to catch up with myself. I'm not sure I can. I think of the little bits and pieces of my life passing by, unchronicled, and I wince. My notebooks are half-finished at the moment. Begun in heady enthusiasm, frantically scribbled they become forgotten too quickly.

There have been a lot of nights in the pub.

There have been some nights on stage.

The odd bonfire on the beach.

I've hosted wine tastings at 2 in the morning and one day I woke up with a corkscrew in my bed.

I explored cellars in Champagne and raised several glasses with dear friends.

I took a bow for Shakespeare two or three times.

I ran a half marathon and didn't die.

I've cooked a few cracking meals and cracked a bottle or two.

I smoked a cigar or two and a joint or two.

I've overslept and watched the sun rise.

One morning, in the wee hours, I talked to bunnies.

I've not baked bread.

I twisted my ankle walking home drunk one night.

I still haven't bought filing cabinets.

I got drunk and dragged my manuscript out from its purgatory under my desk and read passages from it, reminding myself it existed. I inflicted my prose on others and they didn't seem to mind too much.

I went swimming in the North Sea with 2000 inebriated students.

I helped 2 friends move.

I've said goodbye quite a few times, but said hello enough to balance it out.

I sat in the passenger seat of an Audi R8 and grinned like an idiot as it went very fast.

I sat in the driver's seat but was too frightened to hit the gas.

I've thought so much about writing and done so little about it.

I came up with another idea for a novel, but forgot it three minutes later.

I started only one other blog post in all that time.

I turned 33, rather quietly.

I looked at a new vintage of a wine I love, and realised that time isn't going to stop just because I'm not paying attention to it. I breathed deep and paused, holding the bottle and trying to remember every other year I tasted and loved. I rubbed my thumb on the '2007', wanting it to reveal a 2002 or a 2005, wanting some of that time back, not yearning for the past but for more of the future ahead of me.

Now the summer has settled and the Red Sox are in first place. My manuscript needs dusting, my blogs need entries and there will always be another vintage. Since I can't stop it I've got grab as much as I can before it passes me by.

jostling tracks

The light falls sparsely on the borders, the clouds creating a patchwork upon the countryside. This trip is old hat, almost a commute. The jittery train dashes north from London to Scotland and the landmarks are comforting and familiar. Once we pass Berwick the tracks hug the sea most of the way to Edinburgh. I stare out over the horizon and down the crevices that dot the coast, watching the waves crash. I wonder at the houses built by the water between the train and the sea, envying the seclusion and beauty - the starkness that comes from living on the very edge.

The trip to London was short, business-like. The city, even the Underground, seemed quiet -even when crowded. The tube reminded me of commuting to school. Trying to stand against the shake of the train, refusing to hold on, testing balance in the way that you test anything you can when you're young. The utter embarrassment when, with a jolt, you lose your balance and knock into a disapproving fellow passenger, the laughter of your friends, the mumble of apologies. In my earphone cocoon I thumbed through the memories, their distance and clarity both a surprise.

I visited two pubs, one a local. Neither was The Dove, much to my surprise. There simply wasn't the time. A few quick texts to friends, confessing my presence and apologising for the fleeting nature of the visit. The beer tasted good, though. Earned and deserved after a long day feeling a fish out of water. The wine trade can be quite vast and daunting on occasion. Yesterday was just that sort of day.

We cross the bridge across the Forth and the waters are busy. Ships and tugs and launches all scattered across the blue expanse.

Back in Fife and inching towards home. The weather's better than London and the sun's bright.

There's something about time on the train. It's mine: no one else's.

the moments along the way

The last week flew by.

I'm not even sure I can attempt a chronology of events.

There were birthday parties and beach parties and ill-health and whisky mishaps. I worked and rehearsed and worked and wrote and worked and baked bread. I failed to shake this relentless cold which, even now, drives a steal spike through my sinuses and takes an electric sander to my chest and throat. I lived entirely on bread, cheese, peanut butter and jam. And the odd unwanted petit four. And espressos.

I saw my flatmate once or twice, but never for more than five minutes.

I walked into a party full of folks dressed as Peter Pan, Lost Boys and the odd Wendy. Everyone was drunker than I was. This doesn't always happen.

The hostess and birthday girl - one of the Peter Pans - gave me an immense, heart-warming hug and offered me 'cake, vodka jelly or scary punch.'

There was a time, not too long ago, I would have said yes to all three. We danced a bit of a jig and had a laugh before I told her I'd rather grab a beer if she had one. I said it sheepishly, embarrassed at my own timidity in the face of cake, jelly and scary punch. Everyone was drunk. Drunk and young.

I grabbed a piece of couch and watched for a while, chatting to a friend about very little in particular. Girls, mostly. He left to go to the pub.

Later someone drunker landed on the couch next to me and ranted a bit about writing. His eyes lit up with inebriated inspiration and the words spilled out as his arms flailed with the intensity of his mission.

'Steam punk, man! It's all about fucking steam punk! We have to do it!'

While I have a vague notion of the current steam punk trend, I had no idea what he was talking about. He grabbed my shoulder.

'Dude. Seriously. You need to write a steam punk novel. Imagine it.'

He held my shoulder and stared at me and I could barely keep from laughing out loud. I took a sip of beer and hoped it wouldn't shoot out my nose.

He stared.

'Can't you imagine it?'

'Uh...'

'Look, it's simple. There's a massive cannon set up in the castle and they shoot it at this invading ship, BANG! And then, 'cause it's steam punk, the cannonball has this massive charge of electricity and it, like, stops - right in the middle of the fucking ship, and all these sailors are staring at it going like, "what the fuck?!" and then ZAP - they're all fucking electrocuted. Because it's steam punk. You've got to write it.'

'Uh... why don't you write it?'

'No, man - we ALL have to write them. A whole bunch of steam punk novels. You, me, everybody! Then there'll be this cult movement. Everyone'll be talking about it. The St Andrews Steam Punk Movement. We're fucking doing it. You know we are.'

'Uh... ok?'

'I'm going to another party.'

He staggered out into the night, looking for the next party, muttering about steam punk cults.

One of those moments along the way, during the whirlwind, that sticks out and brings a smile.

birds on the water, coffee on the boil

The cygnets have nearly lost all their grey. I saw the four of them fishing at the mouth of the Burn, where it spills next to West Sands and into the bay. Their parents were nowhere to be seen.

They'll be gone soon. I don't know where. Somewhere with a nice bit of water and a lack of predators hopefully.

My first espressos of the day. I started with tea and moved on to coffee. Usually it's the other way around. Usually I hammer the coffee down until I need something a touch more soothing. Today I've got it backwards. I will most likely move back to tea. The mixture of these espressos and Carmena Burana thundering through the flat is akin to plugging my fingers into a wall socket. I'm not sure I can type accurately as fast as their desire to move. It means I must occasionally break from typing and air-piano grandly along to the music. It means that my fingers get angry when my brain stops telling them what to type. They care not if it makes no sense, if it's gibberish and the mutterings of lunacy, they just want to keep typing, my ears want to hear the click of the keys, and my brain's not entirely sure what to give them. Adverbs help in this situation. Adding that -ly, weighing down sentences with needless enhancements keeps the fingers busy and lends a pleasing wordiness that seems good at the time but in the cold light of a caffeine comedown will need brutal and savage editing. Strunk & White's Elements of Style is firmly fixed to my writing conscience and must not be ignored.

The problem with the coffee is that it tastes so damned good. Espressos in particular. And I can make them in the comfort of my own home. It fuels the writing, not just the caffeine but the ritual - the short espresso cup next to the pint of water next to the mug of tea. Everything I need is there. I sip and type and flip pages and repeat. I write a sentence or a paragraph and take a sip and the texture and flavour reward every turn of phrase.

The door to the balcony's open and it's raining in the brilliant sunshine. One of the swans is fishing near the harbour lock. I can't tell if it's one of the cygnets or not. I hear the shouts of the lobstermen and watch as the swan drifts into the sparkle of reflected sunlight. I'm writing it all down, my fingers demand it. It's otherworldly, out my door and somewhere else entirely. And then it's gone, drifts out of view but drifting still in mind.

I think I'll make some more coffee and write some more.

I cannot think of anything I'd rather do right now.

monday repose

The weekend falls back into a bit of a haze. There was a lot of drinking, a lot of whiskies ordered alongside a lot of beers. A lot of headaches suffered and snooze buttons hit. Saturday morning it took a few moments to realise the remains of pizza on the table were the remains of MY pizza.

I performed in front of hundreds of people Saturday night, still suffering from Friday. Then the pub beckoned and back I went. Friendly faces appeared and we opened a bottle or two of wine. A shitty band took the stage and seemed incapable of using their instruments with shrieks of feedback. The only sanctuary was beer and banter and then, when the noise became unbearable, an escape to Aikman's and more beers - this time with whisky chasers. Just like Friday. Someone stole my Red Sox hat. The barman called time.

I wandered home hatless in the cold, refusing to succumb to pizza a second night. I got home and found my stolen hat on my bed. I drank a beer I didn't need and snacked on cheese and salami.

Now Monday's here and the coffee tastes good. I baked bread and wrote and cooked some lunch. Whatever I needed out of my system seems gone for now and there's quite a lot to do. Fuzzy memories and fresh baked bread, the echoes of laughter and the bemusement of all that's passed are not a bad way to start the week.

sinking fowl

Cormorants often look as though they're sinking. It seems like they're struggling to stay afloat, like they need to get the better of their buoyancy. I watch them from my window, their dark shapes barely bobbing along the top of the water. I expect them to disappear underneath the surface but they never do.

Time's sped up and March has arrived. The bitter cold today suggests that once again those heralding the start of Spring (myself included) have been a touch premature. Whether this cold is an anomaly or the beginning of another cold snap is beyond my meteorological capacity to predict. Even the Met Office seem noncommittal.

Life's been mostly quiet. Writing comes in starts and stops and while the clarity of my goals is pristine, my discipline still wants for patience.

A couple of nights ago an impromptu dinner party lit the flat up with wine, banter and goodwill. Nothing elaborate - penne bolognese with Ben & Jerry's and a supermarket chocolate tart for dessert. Chat ranged from bar friend etiquette, to pick-up lines, to the sorts of acrobatic feats on display in certain strip clubs. Lines that seemed etched in legend at the time now fade in memory, drowned out by the echoes tear-streamed laughter. That all-consuming outburst that you get lost in, laughing so hard you can't breathe. It seemed endless and then it ended, the guests head home and my flatmate and I sat sipping beers, watching The Boss raise hell at the Hammersmith Odeon in '75.

These unplanned blips punctuate my life at the moment; an unexpected dinner party, a trip to see my god-daughter, the odd evening of improv comedy (I'm performing again and loving it).

I need these things. It all blends together otherwise.

Without them I'd be staring out the window, wondering if the cormorants are sinking.