Thursday 26 July 2001

I still don't care, this heartbreak malarkey is clearly easier than Eastenders and Hollywood make out.

Actually that's not quite true, I'm trying to get her back, but I don't know what to do and there's a small bit of me (and a large part of my friends) that's telling me that it's not worth it. We've reached an agreement in our still frequent and amicable phone calls that while she's working on her current project (just a week left) we won't talk about it. Fine by me.

Monday 23 July 2001

She's ditched me again. That's the third time this year.

Got a phone call last night as I folded my clothes for a week away (my flat is little more than a clean clothing production line with Sky). In tears she explained that she didn't want 'us' to continue because after 9 months she still wasn't sure, but that she didn't want to lose me as her closest friend. I listened in a cold silence as a spiralling pit yawned in my stomach, told her I'd been expecting it, hung up and went out and got drunk.

I woke at 4am, and while my blurry head adjusted to the half-light of my room, the chasm reopened and I fell in, my stomach whirling and churning. It wasn't pretty. But after an hour my thoughts crystallised into one conclusion - I wasn't going to accept her answer. As a conclusion unfortunately, it doesn't help, making me sound like a petulant toddler, screaming and screaming until I'm sick. Also it probably ultimately leads to a seedy experience living at the bottom of her garden and picking up court orders.

The second conclusion I reached, once two cups of tea to the good and ensconsed in a Nottingham bound First Class compartment, was that I'm beyond caring. Although spectacularly at odds with previous behaviour, it's sustaining me at the moment.

Thursday 19 July 2001

She's procrastinating again.

We spoke briefly on the phone last night and she'd like to not see each other for a while (actually just a week and a half, because we're going walking next weekend and that's SET IN STONE). She'll call me if she wants to talk, I'm not to call her. This would be alright if she needed some space to "sort her head out", but the fact remains she's had nine months, that's three quarters of a year, to try and think in a straight line and I don't think another week (in which she will be working too hard to do much other than sleep, eat and go to a Robbie Williams concert) is going to help much at all. She'll carry on as normal, be vague and unsettled next time we meet, and not have made any decisions at all.

I don't know why it's annoying me because I'm not surprised.

Wednesday 18 July 2001

We're going to split up.

This funny fandango we've been at for the last year (or thereabouts) is in stasis - not going forwards (to a 'proper' couple) or backwards (to 'just friends' again). It's stopped because she's indecisive, I know what I want, and have told her, but she's trapped between two choices, both involving an element of hurt, unwilling to bring any pain onto either of us.

So what must happen is that I will have to make the choice for her, and the choice is to split. In many ways such an outcome is ideal, she gets the decision made for her, and can feel like she's been wronged, I get to feel like the wise, all-knowing one and I can feel like I've been wronged too. It's just that it sucks.

Monday 16 July 2001

Bit nervous of this 'blog malarkey at the moment. Not only do I feel a bit Nathan Barley for even having it, but I've also got no idea what to use it for or who will read it.

Oh well, let's stick something down shall we.

The train was late this morning. As if it wasn't bad enough being turfed out of bed at 6am and schlepping semi-conscious across London to a grimy St Pancras. as if the super-strong and harsh tea that seems to be the main benefit of First Class wasn't penance enough, the second leg of the journey contrived to be 70 minutes late.

What upsets me more about train delays is the way other passengers refuse to be philosophical about the whole affair. I quite relish a bit of quiet time for snoozing or staring at the sunny countryside or reading, but I find the waves of fury and frustration radiated by my fellow travellers quite unsettling to my inner tranquility.

As they swear under their breath and mutter angrily into their mobiles at the cab they mistakenly ordered (there are always 400 cabs outside the station with 400 bored cabbies, what's the point of booking one in advance) I want to jump up, grab them by the lapels and shout incoherently at them, my spit flecking their Mark's and Spencer's shirt and tie combo, until they sink into a stunned silence.

But I guess that would defeat the point.

Friday 13 July 2001

Friday afternoon, sweaty office, watching the minutes tick past on the clock. Lazily hitting refresh on websites that update often enough to provide interest, not able to summon the energy for a proper surfing session (and anyway, I'm at work, I'm not supposed to do that sort of thing). Waiting for the earliest possible time it's considered decent to leave - 4:20 is looking like a good bet.