Being on your own somewhere is pretty interesting. I rather like my own company – but I like to choose when I have it, I don’t like it foisted on me. The knowledge that you’re going to continue being on your own unless you stick your neck out and speak to some random punter can fuck with your head. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but in this game you really have to pick your way between the turds.
The dilemma: if some random punter in the street started trying to make friends with you at home, you would immediately brand them a wierdo and tell them to sling their hook. But when you’re on your own, on the lookout for friends, every single person you meet suddenly holds infinate possibilities and a hand extended in friendship feels like a lifeline. Which is why I accepted the offer for a drink the other day from some seemingly harmless chap, who turned out to be Columbian. He lured me back to his apartment under false pretences where he tried to grope me. I split, feeling rather bitter and annoyed at my naivety.
Is everyone a potential axe murderer? Or rapist? And why is it you can be alone, craving company for several days without meeting anybody new and then as soon as you want your own company some wierdy cunt comes along and starts insinuating themselves on you.
Take the other evening. I meandered down to the quiet, moonlit beach with an icecream and thought, ‘This is nice. I shall just perch on this rock over here and watch the ferries coming and going, the light surfing on the waves…I really should appreciate this magical beach more often, of an evening – afterall it’s what I came here for….’
…. and within 30 seconds my private reveries were shattered by some freaky, hunch backed bastard holding an empty plastic bag, sidling up to me with a voice like a Spanish Hanibal Lectar …’Hola Clarice… que taaaaal?’
Never trust anyone with an empty plastic bag. They are scientifically guaranteed to be an axe murderor. The plastic bag is to put you severed head in as a trophy once they’ve dragged you off to a corner of the beach, stripped you and hacked you up into teeny tiny pieces with a spoon.
So I said: ‘Please Fuck Off!’ gathered together my belongings and flounced away up the beach with a huffy snort. Can’t I have five minutes to myself when I want it?!
Meeting new people feels like dating. You take numbers as if they are going out of fashion and make enthusiastic promises to meet for coffees that more often than not don’t materialise. For the last few days I felt like I was stalking this poor girl who works in the café where I sit with my laptop sometimes. I kept peering at her and I think she felt my looks. I don’t know what it was, I just had a feeling we were in the same boat. She seemed a bit out on a limb….
“So…what do you do when you’re not working?” I chimed in suddenly the other morning as she was delivering my capuccino to me.
I’m not sure who was more taken aback by this sudden outburst, she or I.
But she smiled, shrugged and looking a little embarrassed said, (insert Goldmember-esque accent): “….well, I don’t hev many friendsh here.’
“Great!” said I. “Me neither.”
So we swapped numbers.
The Dam, (as I shall call her, for that be where she is from) invited me for a few white wines in Sands beach bar a few days later. She looks terribly innocent but it turns out back home she works in advertisting and is an absolute booze hound, partying, glamour and men- mad filther. We have plenty in common. I’m hoping I’ve found a wingwoman. And so far I’m pretty sure she’s not an axe murderer. Though I’m always on the lookout for plastic bags.....
So I’m off home for Glastonbury ....when I come back will I be staying? The truth is it’s anyone’s guess – I can’t wait to go home... four days of frolicking in the charming English countryside with all my favourite people has the potential to just tip me over the edge.