12 Sept 2014
I’m in a park writing next to my two bags of possessions and really, this is the high end version of being homeless. If the definition of the word is to be without a home then that is the situation I am in – the other words and ideas associated with the homeless don’t apply, like being dirty, begging, sleeping on a park bench, drinking meth, and so on. I’m not that bad, just in a situation where I can go wherever I want, which would be ideal if I was suited up, super rich, and carrying no bags. (These things are like carting around a dead body (they’re heavy enough) but police won’t take them off my hands like they would a corpse. Maybe I should have packed one of those instead of a laptop.)
Friends gave me a couple of good luck charms before I left – Rachel’s was a St Christopher’s medal/medallion (one sounds like something I don’t deserve, the other something I couldn’t pull off – which is it?), I’ve got it around my neck and almost forgot it’s there. Which makes sense. It would be weird to think investing thought in an object made it more lucky . . . imagine how many people would just sit and stare at their lotto tickets. Or their dicks.
People wear them when they travel (medallions, not dicks); I haven’t looked into the tradition or where it comes from, but it’s nice to know she’s wishing me luck – as opposed to giving me a St Antichristopher’s medallion, which would be really big and bring me bad luck. If I had one of those, I’d end up getting pimped out in an underground cavern in Ukraine. Hopefully the opposite happens since I’ve got the good luck one. (The opposite isn’t me pimping other people out in Ukraine; it’s something more fun/less evil somewhere more fun/less scary.)
There’s an old guy across the park that keeps spitting. He has a dark peach top, khaki shorts, walking shoes, and yet another terrible London haircut. People here are either well-dressed or think they’re well-dressed – in terms of haircuts, the difference is astronomical. I hope if I end up with hair like his, people tell me so I can do something about it; like shooting my hairdresser. I had a hairdresser in New Zealand called Vicky, she’s awesome. It would be a shame to shoot her, she’s a good person – but I don’t deserve a haircut like that. Lucky all this is hypothetical, because she’s only ever given me good haircuts and I’m more likely to cry in my room over a bad haircut than carry out any proposed threat involving a firearm. I’m anti firearms anyway, except when people that are pro guns accidentally shoot themselves in a superficial place, like their thumb or foot. Then I’m pro firearms.
The only thing stopping me going for a walk is the two really heavy bags sitting next to – you know the guy with a terrible haircut that kept spitting before? (If I didn’t tell you he keeps spitting: he keeps spitting). He got up, walked around a bit . . . then came sat next to me. My seat is in the sun, so that’s an excuse to move, but he does make me uncomfortable. Is it wrong to think that way, or am I justified because there’s heaps of seats here and he chose the one next to me? What’s going on? I want to read his thoughts so I know if I’m in danger or not.
Beefeaters were meant to be poor because they ate beef which was the cheapest animal, and calling someone a neckbeefeater is like calling them super poor because they eat the worst meat on the cheapest animal. It’s like calling someone chicken mcnugget. I think it’s easier to just call someone an arsehole and be done with it.
There’s millions of people in this city, including actors, dancers, models, beautiful women, people I look up to, people I’m friends with, people I know, people I wouldn’t mind knowing, and people I’m indifferent to . . . but it has to be this guy sitting next to me. All the pigeons look even more diseased than the ones in New Zealand. Maybe everything that is diseased in the UK is super diseased, like a multiplied version of everything where I’m from. If the guy next to me sneezes, will part of his brain fall out? I hope so, then he’ll stop trying to read my writing. That’s mean, he’s not trying to read my writing. But I bet he would if he could. Isn’t that a compliment to me? Not really. He freaks me out. I don’t want to judge, so I won’t.
Except for this occasion, where I judge and say that is a terrible, terrible haircut. I’ve finished now. No more judging.
I was finished, but then he spat again. Dude, can you just fuck off?
It’s another ridiculously hot, sunny day in London. Maybe that’s why people here have tans (some of them anyway), which I was not at all expecting. I should move into shade, and I would . . . if these bags didn’t weigh 27kg. I like them better on the ground than on my back. There are worse places they could be than on my back; like on my eyes. Then they’d pop and I wouldn’t be able to see. That would be worse. Seems unlikely though.
Phone’s out of battery, I have no idea what the time is, where I can charge my phone, which bag the charger is in, where the adapter is, or how long it would take to charge. Sometimes I think the phone would be better crushed underfoot, or thrown at the face of a gang member before quickly turning around so he thought it was thrown by the gang member from the opposing side that’s conveniently standing next to me, who he then attacks and punches in the gut before they grab each others’ lapels and roll into the Thames. I don’t think gang members have lapels, they have tracksuits and no teeth. I can dream though.
The guy next to me just took his shirt off. Damn it.