Another Day in Paradise


I seem to have the anti-Midas touch: everything I touch turns to shit. My eBay listing has been pulled (by eBay) because the value of the Telegraph vouchers (which I found, was unable to return and therefore advised to sell) is apparently too great for something acquired for nothing. Fucked if I know.

And I managed to set the bed alight. One of the tea light candles I use to keep warm(ish) and lit(ish), so that I can read and write, fell onto the “bed”. Fire, wax, plastic (bubble wrap and sleeping bag) and human skin do not go well together. I reactively put the flames out with my hands – thereby spreading them – and ended up with the napalm effect: burning sugar (in this case wax and plastic) eating into my flesh.

I was in Wetherspoons tonight, talking with my friend Jean Patrique (I choose my friends based on their names and those names being fictitious-sounding enough to work in this work of fiction), and then I met Becca and her sister Tabby (Tabitha). they were seated at a table in the garden and the only one which benefits from the outside lighting. Needing to read and write, I asked if I might join them. They said yes, so I did; as is my way: I’m glad. I didn’t offer up my situation until I was asked. Then – as is often the case – I become a person of (genuine) interest.


I met Becca today and she came to CRI with me. She asked if she’d be allowed in. CRI are fine with guests; in fact guests often have to push their hosts in. There’s nothing to fear here though. Breakfast Club is merely a meeting place for recovering and recovered alcoholics and drug addicts to have a coffee (five sugars please) and talk in a safe environment. Often we don’t even talk; we just sit, read and write (or I do). we have a library and a clothes store; both free and both of which I have used in the past.

I’ve questioned Beck’s motives for wanting to spend time with me, in the hope that I’m not some sort of charity case she feels a need to look after and I’m reassured. It may be that I’ve made myself some sort of research project but I’m happy to submit. I welcome the companionship. Perhaps that’s the co-dependence thing again. I hope she knows what she’s getting into.

I’m writing the journal in my doctor scrawl, with my Harrods pen (actually the Mother Ship’s but she let me keep it). Like so many other things, I thought I’d lost the pen but like so many other things, I found it in my bed (well, I say “bed”). The pen is a thing of beauty: a silver job with an engraved hilt; the silver carved away to reveal a deep blue something (I don’t know what it is but it’s pretty). It writes like a dream, which is why I can go at 100 wpm, where I can only manage about 60 when I (touch) type, or write by hand with a shitty Bic biro (and the ink blots associated therewith). I keep the pen about my person now.

I’m almost half way through Life of Pi by Yann Martel and I remain gripped. He has an ability – like my favourite author, Paul Auster – to dissect and describe the smallest details; the minutae. Some have said that I have the same ability. For me it comes from looking inwards; of observing; of thinking.

Much of this writing is stream-of-conciousness stuff: I think, therefore I write. And therefore I am. Without a companion, I have no-one to confide in, so I just tell everyone everything via this medium. Whenever I’m asked how things are, because it’s such a long story, I merely advise reading the blog. Those who are interested do.

“How’s Steve?”

“He’s Steve”.

“How’s Victor?”

“He’s Victor”.

Welcome to my world (and that of Victor): another day in Paradise.

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