Introduction

'I'm too old to be young and too young to be old'. I read that on a bus shelter I was sitting in last week. It was written on an advert for one of these outdoor pursuits weekends that have become quite popular in certain circles. It took me by surprise. I've just left university and things are a little slow. It’s an awkward time of life. I knew it would be but I hadn't worked out why. Then I found myself sat in a bus shelter in the middle of the day, an odd place to sit when you have nowhere to go. So with nothing else to do I continued to read: 'If you have ever felt like this then you are either very stupid or very apathetic.' I thought to myself, to be honest I really don't know and I really don't care. Perhaps this adventure weekend was not for me. The problem is, I find myself, almost a week later, still perplexed by this advert. I'm reading The Guardian, something I do from time to time to convince my father of my superiority. The article was entitled 'Authors of their own destiny'. It claimed blogging was the future so here I am. I've always wanted to write but I wouldn't say I want to be an author or a poet, or even a journalist. I just don't want to be nothing.

At this point I feel I should address the issue of the 'Cafe Terrace at Night'. It will become apparent over time why this painting means so much to me. I will say at this time that of it rests above me on the wall of what my father has recently come to call the 'drawing room'. It sits in a thin black 'Klassen' frame (IKEA order no. 3756). I'm not sure a finer metaphor for modern Britain has ever been conceived. Sat in its shadow, I have spent the last month looking for work, but mostly I have been looking for direction, a process that requires a great deal of sofa time and an unfeasible amount of Earl Grey. Where do I want to be in ten years? I don't know and as yet I don't care. All I know is I do not want to be here: living with my parents, jobless, moneyless, girlfriendless and, most importantly (apparently), ambitionless. I have nothing: so now, I have a blog.

I Digress no.1 : Tom's Town

Tom's Town

Tom's town was quiet.
And Tom was quiet.

Tom's town was old.
And Tom was old.

Tom's town was tired.
And Tom was tired.

Tom's town was dying.

Under the flickering light of the bus shelter Tom sat, his gaze fixed on the poster on the wall. His face withered, his whiskers greyed. Several buses pass. Tom's eyes remained fixed on the poster on the wall. He loosens his tie. He removes his jacket. . He doesn't need much more. Now Tom waits. He doesn't own much and he doesn't know much. He knows he doesn't want to be here anymore. Another bus passes by.

* * *

"Tom what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm doing fine."
"Fine! you been sat here at home for days. You can't sit here all day, we got bills to pay!" Tom sat in silence, his fathers voice was producing a dull ache. Dull aches were fine, he could handle dull aches.
"Son I'm not going to stand by and watch you waste your life. I didn't raise no God damn dog."
"just let me get through today, I'll get right back on it tomorrow, you'll see."
"Oh I will, will I. Why you care about today anyway? Ain't got nothing to do with you? Surely you ain't going to that God awful freak show?"
"Pa, it's a funeral stop calling it that."
"Well that's what it is ain't it?"
"No Pa, It's a funeral and I gotta go." Tom stood to leave, his head sunk to avoid his fathers glare. He grabbed his jacket and tie and left for the church. He slams the door behind with all the petulance of a scorned school girl and the masculinity to match. Tom headed for the street. Before long he was nearly at the church.

He paused for a moment in the shadow of a door way. His eyes mapped his path to entrance, along through the tall grass he had used to hide in from his father as a boy, up to the church wall he used to perch on, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. He had walked this way many times. This time was different. The tall grass was scorched and the church wall was crumbling. He watched as young boys gathered near the entrance. He decided not to join them. Instead Tom waited. The Hearse arrived on time. From it came a horrifyingly small coffin. Tom's eyes remained unmoved. As the coffin disappeared through the church gates and out of Tom's view his eyes attempted to follow. His head wouldn't allow it and turned back to road. He had seen enough.


He decided he would go home a different way. He hated having to walk down the same streets over and over again. Before long Tom realised he had been walking for hours and had lost all sense of direction. It had begun to rain. Lost and frightened Tom decided to duck in to a nearby Bus shelter. He perched himself on the end of the bench, directly in front of him a huge poster adorned the wall. "I'm too old to be young and too young to be old", the poster proclaimed. Behind him he heard two men talking.
"You hear 'bout that young lad Jerry?"
"No" came the reply.
"He finally got him. That bastard finally got him. They had his funeral today."
"Get out of here. What that dumb ass cat gonna do now?"
Still staring at the poster Tom thought to himself "I don't know and I don't care."