On a bus from liverpool to preston. It’s been a strange and, in places, uncomfortable week back in my old stamping ground.
This is the bus I used to get to (and from) work. I’m listening to a John Foxx & Louis Gordon bootleg from 2003. It all feels hyper-poignant.
I’m considering the idea that maybe moving here in 2006 was, in fact, just another piece of my mid-life crisis. And those I met down here were just going through their own variation of the same.
A three-and-a-half year relationship, one that started out exciting, slowly turned turgid and finally ended painfully for all concerned. And all it boils down to in the end, is a couple of arseholes disappointed that they’re no longer nineteen.
I’ve stayed with a friend for the last week. She no longer listens to music – at all. Instead, she sucks up quiz shows and other gaily-coloured garbage. The rapport, based in music, books and movies has gone. Our thinking, once similar, has diverged. Maybe completely.
And considering that possibility, that maybe all we ever had in common was our mid-life crises, it’s time to nail the coffin lid down and let go of it all.
I wrote 1919 (all of it) down here. Some of it in the house I’ve been staying in since last week.
Since then, (2007-8) I’ve only written one more novel that dealt with a relationship as its primary facet. Another bite-sized chunk of human experience I seem to have outgrown and/or left behind.
On a more positive note, I’ve had a couple of experiences that’ll infect what I write in the next wee while. Bunnied with two friends I haven’t seen in three years. A night in a rugby club, listening to war stories. Watching the movie of ‘the hunger games’ and reading the second and third books in the trilogy. (And yeah, I’m still angry with Suzanne Collins for sneaking back in time and publishing her rip-off of my ‘light entertainment’ before I’d even thought of writing the bastard – bloody unprofessional, if you ask me!)
And yes, I blinked back a few tears at the end of ‘mockingjay’.

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