Awake, ye blog.

"Just tilt you're head back please sir. Sir! Come on now, just do this one thing for me"

The man had a frightened look in his eyes. He swung his left arm out and struck me on the shoulder. I had been trying to avoid staring at him ever since he shuffled in and sat next to me. I knew he was troubled.

His wife was screaming.



She was squeezing his hand.



He fell on the floor.

I got up, nervously gesturing to the other civilians that we leave the room, though they were having none of it. Many just stooped and stared. Leant and glared.


I've never witnessed someone have a heart attack before last Friday. It didn't feel real. It looked painful. It appeared pretty fucking scary. Pretty.fucking.scary. I felt for the man.

My check up after last year's operation was hopeful. At least I wouldn't be having a heart attack that day, though I do have to go back for more bastard tests.



I picked up my leather holdall and walked out into the sun. I felt whimsical, a bit cocky, I suppose. I pictured another man walking across a bridge, with a holdall on his back, the sun in his eyes. He was "choosing life". He'd just stitched his friends up in a drug deal and run off with all their money. His name was Mark, like my brother's, only my Marc spells his with a 'C'. Like Marc Bolan.

I hadn't just stitched my friends up, and I didn't have a bag full of money. I had a bag full of pants and socks. The same bag I've had on my back throughout this whole damn year. I wasn't choosing life, the washing machine, the kids. I was choosing to put that off. Again.


I was going to Manchester.



Again.



I boarded the train and walked through two carriages that were relatively empty. My ideal would have been a set of four seats, alone. Though I weighed up the chances and realised this improbable, the next logical step being a set of four seats with somebody relatively pretty perhaps taking one.

Her name is Rebecca and I've decided that she is relatively pretty. Rebecca told me that she has finished University and is looking forward to a Summer with her boyfriend who is in the Police force. Rebecca took up two seats and all the over head luggage space with her University bric-a-brac. Rebecca ate two cheese and pickle sandwiches and drank two cartons of Ribena on the journey. I fucking love Ribena.

We said goodbye at Stockport and she got off. I put my entirely unread book in my bag and opted for fifteen minutes of Joni Mitchell. I listened to a lot of Joni Mitchell in the states, lines like "...Constantly in the darkness, where's that at? If you want me I'll be in the bar" make me chuckle. I heard that Joni Mitchell was the rock stars' hooker, bedding all sorts of famous people. I hope so, that makes her even more interesting.

Manchester was Manchester. Full of people I know and love. Full of people that can't talk properly and can appear sinister. These two groups of people are not related in any way, I always choose the former.
The rain splashed onto my shoes and I ate Pizza. Someone told me to "Fuck off" and someone told me they love me. I watched a hideously indulgent movie that left me a bit pissed off and I watched Radiohead in a cricket stadium.

I enjoyed peering from a distance, trying to see Thom Yorke's gammy eye, and I enjoyed the light show they had. Radiohead are a good band, it's just a shame that Thom Yorke is such a cunt.




I walked home through Hulme. Hulme is the gateway to Moss side. It's supposed to be where lots of people shoot guns and bite curbs. I think it's more full of mini motorbikes and people thinking school is shit. A wasp buzzed around my head. I told it to fuck off. I'm scared of wasps, they are the chav bee. I imagine they drink stella and watch football matches from the rafters. I wondered why this wasp was out so late. Perhaps it was lost? Or perhaps the hive curfew had been extended due to it being midsummer. I scratched a spot on my face and it bled, I thought about wiping the bloody away, but decided against it. "Blood on the face can sometimes make you look intimidating" I thought. Perfect when walking walking through Hulme. On reflection it was clear I represented a drunk youth on his way home from a "Rock Concert".

I slumped onto my brother's painfully designed futon and don't remember falling asleep.


I think about when this will end. When I will get a real job. When I will have a house share in some poor part of an English city. When I will have clothes in a wardrobe. When I will make connections with people that will last longer than a week. I feel it's soon.

My Mum has a nice house. Nice food. A real Piano that I play for hours and digital television. Though Leicester is slow. Unfamiliar. Without opportunity. Without friends.

London is large. Anonymous. Frightening. Expensive. Cut throat. It has a heart beat, one that is driven by the sheer magnitude of it's inhabitants, not one I could settle into. I go there this weekend for an audition of sorts. A replacement offer to appease a job I was unsuccessful in being picked for. One that will be enjoyable, good experience but still no solution to my need for a home.


Before all this takes hold though, I'll stay in Leicester for a bit. Think about the glorious south west. Ring my friends. Tut at Robert Mugabe. Press buttons on keyboards. Howl into a microphone. Stare at photos on facebook. Pluck wiry hairs off of my shoulders and upload my own photos of Spanish Music festivals.