So I finished my selfimposed exile/hermit-style weekend. I'll never write hermit jokes ever again. 'Ahh', I hear you (one person, from Denmark, for some reason. Dunno why. Never been there. Love to go though) go, 'that was the only good thing you've ever done! In your life! Like, ever!' Ah well. Kill your darlings, I suppose. Even if these darlings do not strictly liked. By me.
I left the house this morning, excited with my achievements over the last two days. I liked breathing fresh air again, after two days writing, justifyably spent in a not-exactly well-air conditioned room. I felt contented and reasonably happy. The stage seemed set for a day of deadening disappointment and sorrow. Bring it on!
After a short stop at school for some admin, I went to Hove. For desperate reasons. I need a job. So I was going to give my cv to a lady behind a counter for bar work. She couldn't have looked less interested. They said they'd already found someone. I said ah, is it the glasses? She said no. But I didn't believe her. Ah well. Moving on (P.s. still looking. Shit!).
Hove can be described as an even more gentrified version of Brighton. With broad avenues and people cleaning car windows and having a stroll along the Boulevard. The main thing that's continually disturbing me in Hove is the presence of Nick Cave. Every time I turn a corner, there's a voice in my head, going: Nick Cave might live here! This voice is personified by the small indie kid with ruffled hair that lives inside of me*, squeaking about Nick Cave and wondering which part of his hungerstricken wide-eyed body he can give up for an autograph. But he's an idiot. It's unlikely that Nick Cave has a house in the middle of Hove with a huge sign outside, saying: Nick Cave lives HERE!! But he still looks at every single house. And even longs to ask people in the street, and asks old ladies: Sorry, are you Nick Cave? And then gets glassed in the face. By me. Cos that's how you treat your inner voices; metaphysical violence. Listen and learn, schizophrenics, listen and learn.
I was looking for the library and searching for people to ask directions. I was actually going to Costa coffee, nearby, but that's a bit of a liability, to ask strangers to a coffee place. And Nick Cave's phone number. I saw a man with the looking like a cross between a character from a Dostoyevsky novel, Moses and Alan Moore. I.e. dishevelled with a beard. But empty eyes. And shoulders on the wrong side of his back (a pet hate of mine, after two years of physical theatre-classes). I was unsure if me asking him directions would improve or deteriorate his situation. Though, in retrospect, he probably would have known Nick Cave's phone number. Finally I asked a lady, who told me where to go (it was miles away).
Hove smelt interesting today. Like a Steiner School smithy. It was apparently important for eleven-year olds to be aware of Iron Age-life. In the most Middle Class place in the country. (by the by, I'm watching Ancient Worlds on BBC Four; cos I'm cool and happening. And because it's presented by a strangely faced man with a nice voice. And because it's about Hittite literary history. What's not to like?) Before I found the coffee place, however, I found an Oxfam bookshop. I must have spent an hour in there. The smell was great, even though there were several people in there, ruining the pure mouldy-paper scents. I eventually bought Lord of the Flies (haven't read that classic yet), some plays by Euripides (beat that; University bookshop! You've been p0wnd! Yeah...), Bullet Points by Mark Watson (which is quite brilliant, enjoying it greatly) and Puckoon by Spike Milligan (for my dissertation. I know. I'm a waste of student grants).
I told the man behind the counter (who could not have been any younger than 74) that I liked this book shop. He didn't believe I had never been here before. Apparently there's a very -local- clientele.¶
He said this was the best Oxfam bookshop on the South Coast. Better than the one in Brighton, certainly. I said, 'how come? Is their aircon actually poisonous?' Admittedly, not very funny. But he decided to humour me and not keep me hostage in a Pulp Fiction-style back room. So all the better. They also had, and this was quite wonderful, an Oddities section. This was filled with beautifully bound and weird 19th century books about stuff. That's for next time!
That evening, I went back to I.O.U. Comedy; which was unequivocally brilliant. So there. Deal with it, critics!
* Here you can add, if you wish, a variation the brilliant Absolutely Fabulous joke. Eddie: 'I just know there's a thin person somewhere inside me.' Mother: 'Just the one, dear?' Magic.
¶ Use League of Gentlemen joke here if you want to. I can't be bothered with writing jokes any longer. I'll just use other peoples' talents and let you amuse yourselves if you want to.
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