Author: albarclay

I’m on a train to see a friend. This makes a change. Even though I’m pinging around all over the country it’s rare that I go somewhere purely for social reasons. I tend to mix business and pleasure. This is symptomatic of the way in which I’ve made my life work recently. Constant activity, constant change, different place every time. “I’m in Oxford, who lives in Oxford? Let’s hang out.” Occasionally we need to make space for long term loved ones though. Catford and Minnie and Zeph. A last blast of friendship before I get so distracted that I’ll barely be able to write my daily words.

This weekend was meant to be for buying a motorbike, but now I’ve fucked it so it’s a bit more freeform. No point buying a bike I’m not allowed to ride.

Chances are it’ll be season pass on the train and chalk it up to experience. It’s that or a lethal daily trip up the motorway on a puttputt. I’ve looked at the logistics around rehearsals / performance to retake and it’s really just … not very possible. A beautiful dream, stamped on by an indifferent reality. I might snatch a lucky 8am cancellation before a rehearsal next week. But I’m not holding out hope. I got screwed over, but I could’ve rallied myself against it rather than letting it fuck me. I was the one that dropped the bike, irrespective of the circumstances that led to it. Worth contemplating that. Perhaps I was scared of winning. I wonder how many times I’ve let a bit of adversity affect my mindset and fucked something up for myself. It’s another thing to police. I don’t like finishing things.

As I write this, I’ve got Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows on my knee. I read all the Harry Potter books as soon as they came out, but I never finished the last one. I’m trying to do it now just to tick it off the list. I’m only a few chapters from the end, but as I get closer to finishing I distract myself more and more. There are many books like that in my life, many computer games saved just before the final battle and left forever, many tasks that I just need one more drive at to sign off. I don’t want this biking to be another one like that. I don’t want to be forever just about to get the documents I need to ride a big bike. Even if it’s impossible to do it for the reasons I found this time round, which it might be. At least I can write my blog every day if I’m commuting by train. But I’ll always know it’s a compromise.

I have to get better at finishing things. I love the period of uncertainty, the liminal space, the place between places and the time between times. But you can be as much of a hippy as you like. If you’re pathologically incapable of finishing stuff you shouldn’t start it. I’ve got some nails to hammer. And I’ll start with Harry Potter…

Oh deary me.

About time you read about me screwing something up for myself again. I’ve been having far too nice a time recently.

In many ways I blame the bike school, despite my extraordinary propensity for self sabotage. They are taking on too many students and the instructors are run ragged. If and when they get investigated it’ll be the instructors under the bus and someone in the office off to Turks and Caicos with a pillowcase full of gold.

First of all, I didn’t need to pass mod 1 today. Getting my license now would’ve given me more time to sort the bike and more relaxed practice time before the pressure riding from Brixton to Oxford when I’m tired. Yeah I can still get the certificates I need in order to get up onto a big bike. It’ll just involve a bit more juggling, and mean I’m a bit less experienced and a bit less safe when crunch comes, plus it’ll affect my work a little more. Ho hum.

I went into the test this morning thinking I needed it. So I failed it immediately. Because there’s nobody better at making things hard for me but me and I was helped massively in the sabotage by the school. It was like they were actively trying to make life harder for me. Perhaps they were. “They told you it’d be easier to take it here than in London, didn’t they?” said one of them yesterday with an edge. “Uh. No?” I replied.

I got there today to be told I had to make my own way to the testing centre on a 125cc small bike. Fine but annoying and they could’ve told me. The big bike I was supposed to be testing on was there already, apparently. So I worked out my route and puttered over with a bit of time to spare but still with no idea which bike I was testing on. The instructors are still treating me like a tourist and are passionately disinterested in making my life easier.

I get to the testing centre twenty minutes before my test and I still don’t know which bike I’m on. The instructor who is there gives 0 shits about helping me and fucks off with a student almost immediately. He doesn’t return. The rider before me fails their test for the fourth time and sits disconsolately in the car park. Great school this. Three students. No instructor. And I’m not sure what bike I’m on.

My test time arrives. Alan appears with a clipboard. I show him my papers. “I don’t know what bike I’m on. I need to practice a bit as I’ve been on a 125 all morning and the weight is going to throw me. Also it’ll be good to get a feel for the clutch and so on. Can I get a later slot?” “No, your slot’s now. You might as well use that bike.”

I don’t even know if I’m insured on it. I don’t even know whose bike it is. I think it’s the school’s. I get on this unfamiliar big bike having been on a tiny one. “This is shit,” I’m thinking. From the moment I arrived at the bike school I’ve been pinged around.

Now a totally different type of machine. It weighs a ton. I only need a few minutes to change my head but I’ve forgotten and I’m nervous and pissed off. I’m not in the headspace to take a control test here. In fact I’m actively angry. I’ve been building towards this for ages and I’ve just been dropped in a hole.

So I drop the bike on my leg at the very start of the first maneuver and then stand there like a drunk trying to pull a carrot until it’s upright again.

Alan walks up to me with his clipboard. “That’s that fucked isn’t it” I say. “Don’t suppose we can just pretend it hasn’t happened and start again?” “Nope.”

Fail before I’ve started. So much for plan A. The only school in Oxford is the one I’ve been with and they’re clearly cowboys. But they’re the only option I’ve got if I’m going to make this work in time and it’s just got a lot harder. I’ve got to wait until Tuesday to retake now by which time I’ve started rehearsals for The Tempest so I’ll be too busy. So I’ll have to wait until performance starts, and then try again on a show day in the morning. Apparently they’ll give me a free day of mod 1. But this is turning into far too much time spent. I’ve got lines to learn, dammit. Aargh.

You’re not supposed to pass first time as then you don’t value it etc etc etc. I’m too old for this shit. Fucking cowboy school. Fucking idiot me.

I keep telling them I’m here in Oxford to work. They keep defaulting to this assumption that I’m here because I think it’ll be easier than London. These motorbike instructors. Like anyone that does the same job for ages, you risk stopping seeing the individual and assuming they’re a type. I’m the twat who’s come over from London to do an Oxford test. No amount of explaining how I’m working here for the summer can break that. I can only fix it by not being a twat. I’m good at that, thankfully. “Disguise I see thou art a wickedness”.

I arrived at the ground wearing shorts. My biking jeans are bulky and I walked two hours to arrive there at 7.45am. So I dawnwalked in shorts and carried the jeans. The instructor was brusque to the point of contempt. “Put on your trousers!” Was pretty much the first thing he said to me, expecting me to look blankly at him and say “trousers?”. I put them on, immediately, outdoors. “Would you like me to put on my helmet and gloves too?” I ask him mildly. “No. We’re going to talk first.”

It’s an uphill struggle to get this guy to stop treating me like a tourist. Kind of helpful as the test tomorrow isn’t going to be happy people dancing. It’s going to be blank humans pretending to have no personality and barking instructions. But for the morning he puts me on a pony and three of us hit the road with me leading.

The other guy is a track racer. He’s about 12. I know I’m too involved with demonstrating caution. He’s too involved with being the fastest. It’s a good dynamic for group of three. His confidence helps me know I can approach this with less tension. At lunchtime the instructor takes me off the pony and gives me something that can fly more so I’ve succeeded in not being a dick. The second half of the day is joyful as I’m not sitting on an anvil and I get to work on skills while realising what a beautiful thing a motorbike can be to ride. I’m eventually given a little puttputt to get home on and it feels vile. I couldn’t go back to 125cc now I’ve been on proper bikes. But the puttputt serves its purpose. 12 minutes by road to get home through traffic. It was 2 hours on foot in the morning. But what a walk!

I struck out into a field, with yellow arrows, nettles and nobody. It put me in mind of the first week Camino. My lower legs were prickling. I automatically but needlessly tightened my laces to prevent blisters. I sang the Ultreya song.

Eventually the path hit the Cherwell River and singing would’ve been weird but oh God the beautiful people. My first proper girlfriend rowed for Balliol. I haven’t thought of her for years. I just googled her. She’s a director for BP. Walking down that river I saw all those men and those women with their incredible physiques smashing out their practice in the early morning just to be better, to challenge themselves, to be part of a team, to try to win. I’m right with them. Fifteen miles a day. Enough with the old habits. I fucking hope I pass tomorrow but if I don’t I’ll pass before I need to somehow, come hell or high water. Ultreya. Et Suseia. Ever onwards.

For my first Oxford train test, I take the slowest route possible from Brixton starting at 5. I suspect it’s not going to work but it’s worth a try. I will leave rehearsal in Brixton at 5. This is the cheapest option.

Circle line round to Paddington from Victoria which is a mistake. The slow train, changing at Reading. I get to the venue at 19.24. The show would start at 19.30. If I did that the other actors would actually literally murder me. The slow route is not an option. Good to know. There’s a much faster direct train. It’s considerably more expensive but if the bike falls through I’ll get a season ticket, use it and hopefully be fine. Especially if I avoid the Circle Line as it always stops too much. Yeah. This is my head at the moment. Train times. Bikes. Logistics.

I’m in Oxford now to try to make sure the bike option doesn’t fall through as it still looks like the best one. I smashed my theory test, so the trip to Rochester was worth it. Lovely ancient run down Rochester.

Now for the practical stuff. Practic-Al.

It’s off to walk one and a half hours to a training ground at crack of dawn tomorrow, where I’m going to ride around cones all day in the sun. The first half of the practical test is mostly that – going very slowly around cones while someone with a clipboard and high vis takes themselves very seriously, stands in annoying places and occasionally ostentatiously writes something down. There are lots of ways of fucking it up and I’m very capable of all of them. It’s about trying to minimise the chances of losing speed and putting my foot down, or hammering the front brake. Then God willing it’s out on the road where all you have to do is inconvenience another road user and you’re out on your ear. Plus the fact that real traffic can lead to real dead Al. It’s a lot to come up against. I’ll be lucky to find the headspace in time. But I gotta try.

I’ve got a great launchpad, and one which arguably would never have come about were it not for this blog. Ginny was at primary school with me. Now she’s got 4 kids, works for the NHS, lives in Oxford and knows the bits of my life I’m sharing through this wordy outlet.

She’s extended the hand of welcome to her slightly preoccupied old friend, an instinct I understand well having done it so much myself over the years to friends and strangers. I’m writing this on my lovely little pull out bed in the study. A man is reading a story aloud next door to one of the kids. He’s doing all the voices. It involves cabbages. I’m already bone tired and it’s only half nine. Ginny was already at work when I arrived – her shift ends at 2am. I might not even see her this time round bearing in mind the hours she works and the fact I’m only in town for two days and I’m mostly going to be driving around cones, remembering to cancel my indicators and trying to persuade a complete stranger that I’m safe enough in charge of a great big terrifying engine on wheels for them to put ticks on their clipboard and advance me to the next stage of this clusterfuck which is finding the bike and getting insured on the damn thing.

Now I remember why I drink so much. A week or so sober and I’m a veritable maelstrom of unexamined feelings. It doesn’t help that I’m physically exhausted. Sitting on a moving engine for hours trying to notdie is going to do that to anyone. I have tears close tonight and I’m not entirely sure why and it’s probably just exhaustion and worry. I’ll probably sleep quite early and have crazy crazy dreams and wake up feeling fine and go ace the test. Right now I want to phone my mum and cry.

I’m in Rochester. There was a cheapass Airbnb right next to the only testing centre in the UK that could get me a slot for my theory test on time. It’s at 9am tomorrow and I wasn’t going to risk rush hour trains and at that price it’s worth it.

The whole reason I’m rushing myself up onto a big bike is because I don’t trust the rail companies. If I miss or fail this test tomorrow then I’ve wasted a ton of cash on non refundable practical exams I’m not going to be allowed to take in Oxford.

Rochester right now though. A little pocket of England I haven’t really examined. And despite my curious soul, I’m not going to examine it tonight. I’m going to grab something comestible, look at some lines, play some DVLA video games about “hazard perception”, which are less about real life than they are about guessing the intentions of whoever made them, and do another mock test just for the hell of it even though I’m an encyclopedia of stopping distances and signage and rules and details and obscurely worded ridiculous bollocks designed to catch out and not to reveal competence. No point having a spongebrain if you don’t use it. The theory test is a commitment test first, and a theory test second. It’s also an English comprehension test, as sometimes the questions are so obtuse and bassacred that you need a comprehensive lexicon to surmount them. Sebastian Vettel would definitely fail this theory test if he did no prep. It’s designed so you have to prep. So I’ll prep.

Then I’ll wash, and fall asleep keeping this malaise at bay. From experience when I feel like this I’m about to get sick. That had better not be the case this time. Too much to do.

Today I met Paul in the car park of the Sattavis Patidar centre. I’m training through Lightning because they’re based near Oxford. That way if I fail mod two I might (probably won’t) be able to get another shot at it before crunch. Plus they have a base in Wembley, here, in the car park of this obscurely named event centre. I’ve googled a bit and can find no sense in the name. My best guess is that it’s a conflation of all the names of the “team of architects” who built it. They use it for events, and the car park is huge. But after we get back from some street riding we discover the car park to be full of cars for an orthodox wedding, and Paul has a heated discussion with shoutyman who is trying to use every inch of space to park wedding cars. Here’s a photo I took in the morning. It looks like a selfie but actually it’s about the guy who is literally spraypainting the “fresh” white flowers lilac. He had loads of them. It stank like the Old Vic Tunnels. And it was a wonderful discussion about the distance between fantasy and reality. Real cut flowers. Sodden with spray paint. Dried in time. “Wow those flowers look so bright!” I didn’t want to directly photograph him as he’d probably get weird about it.

We ended up missing out on the last couple of hours training because of the wedding as there was no space to do it. Paul had a proper rage on after spending all day reminding me to relax, and eventually chose to sit talking to us so we felt we had our money’s worth. He’s a good teacher. I was happy and knackered.

The test, the theory test, all of it is just spraypainting flowers. If we are the right colour when the examiner is looking at us then we pass. I just need to hope that the colour runs deeper. I enjoy not being dead.

“You chose the right time to move to Margate,” I remark to Jon. He and Fliss moved here (to breed?) a few years ago. They got themselves a doer-upper. It’s huge, but would make me completely freak out considering I haven’t managed to install a power shower in over a decade in my bathroom.

Usually when I come down here we carry a load of rubble to the dump, or strip something down or build something up. Constant accumulation of small tasks. Jon is at it the whole time. He’s been on the go for years now and every time I go there it looks better. And now there’s another child – Felix. Absolutely tiny, and mewling like one of the many cats that Jon and Fliss seem to pull into their orbit wherever they go, who wander around the house and garden kicking shit over and shouting at stuff. So does Ethan. Two boys. Big house. A million cats.

Both of them here are worried about this bike nonsense, Jon consciously practical, Fliss consciously protective. Damn it’s a relief mum isn’t around or we’d be doing nothing but fight right now. Jon and Fliss have accepted I’m as stubborn as a mule and Jon has turned his considerable mind to the task in front. He’s a bike instructor. He’s helping.

He took me out on the mean streets of Margate. At one point he swore at me – which made me immediately do the thing he swore at me about, thereby giving me a very practical reason to stop doing it. At the end of the day his energy was positive enough. I didn’t get the “I think maybe you should abandon this idea,” talk. I’ve got to remember to cancel my indicators and take a better line in the road – both habits left over from car driving for decades post test. That and observation, not hovering over the front brake, and basic endurance. Keeping concentration even when I’m hot and tired. He took me pillion to the station.

Now I’m on the platform waiting to go back home. I’m not allowed on the high speed train with my ticket so I’m waiting to travel steerage. Four hours on a bike and I’m already knackered. In less than a month it’ll be four hours on a bike plus rehearsals plus show every day for two weeks. Good food. Good sleep. Vitamins. If I’m not fit as a fiddle by the end of this summer I’m doing something very wrong. Break it down into little bits. Give each bit my full attention.

Margate is thronged. It’s high season. Everyone is crowded on the sands. Dreamland is going to be packed. The seafront businesses are going to be making their year’s worth of money this week and next, now the school holidays are starting to roll in. It’s definitely livelier now than it was when I came here to do a show about the need to regenerate. I was playing Turner and a Margate Counsellor in a time hopping piece of theatre. Back then Dreamland was shut, the scenic railway was a threatening creaking skeleton blotting the horizon, the harbour arm stank, and for some reason they were building an art gallery – like anyone would come to Margayt to look at fackin pickshers. Great to see how much it’s changed. It’s a positive vibe in town these days – certainly at this time of year…

It’s hot in the city. Everybody is outside on the streets. Protests bang against hen nights bang against organised walks bang against mates on the razz and all of them shit litter all over the place with no thought whatsover. Cans and coffee cups and wrappers and bottles, mostly, lining the roadsides and pavements. An avenue of detritus for *somebody else* to clean, and in the middle of it the spasmodic revelry of the monosyllabic drunks.

Walking through Trafalgar Square in the early evening, all the faces were flushed and the volume control was wonky. Piles of cups and bits of food packaging lined the crowded pavements. Freckles were fully frecked. Necks were pinkly fecked. Drunks were hotly decked. A lot of people are going to wake up tomorrow morning lobstered and headachey. It’s milder tomorrow. They’ll all stay in bed.

I noticed three people being tended to as they sat wide on the pavement, drunk and heatstruck. You can tell I’m sober at the moment, or I’d have probably found the crowd vibe and ended up talking to someone from Ipswich about spiders. I walked through it up here on my platform. It’s nice up here. Much less cluttered. I might stay a while.

 I cut left, and strolled over the footbridge and through the tunnel to Waterloo. Time is running out to see my friends before I embark on a month of too much stuff. I wanted to go see Helen and chant with her. I’m covering all bases to make sure I don’t get smushed by a truck on my commute. I’m getting in as much bike instruction as I have time for and can afford. I’m staying sober and adjusting my sleep routine. And I’m trying to make sure that the spiritual side of things is covered as well. Better safe than splat. It’s a house of cards though, the big bike. If I fail my theory test I can’t take mod 1. If I fail my mod 1 I can’t take mod 2. If that happens I have to commute on a small bike which is scary as all hell on the motorway. Even if I get my mod 2 I still need to get paid by the Germans before I can buy my big bike. Even if I get paid by the Germans I need to find a big bike I’m safe on that I can afford. And then I’ve got to not fall over on it. If the Gods are kind I’ll be commuting by bike to Oxford for two weeks. If they are cautious I’ll be doing it by train and at the mercy of leaves on the line, bomb alerts, strikes and the predictable apathy of overpriced rail networks. Fingers crossed. I’m rolling the dice.

But tonight I’m turning in early. First train to Margate tomorrow. I’m combining seeing a friend with making some bike time. He’s just got his instructor licence back, but he’s also got a brand new baby, hence the early train.

I reckon that brand new A-Class would be happy to cruise at 120mph and you wouldn’t even feel it. It’s hungry for speed. It’s a job keeping it at the national limit when it wants to leap forward. Plus it burns virtually no fuel. From what I’m used to its almost impossible to have that sort of economy.

Without any coffee I essentially teleported myself to High Wycombe. The car talks nicely with my phone so I was shouting music requests all the way and getting them through the huge system. It’s London on a Friday so there were plenty of other people heading out, but from time to time the road opened up and I was thoroughly enjoying myself whilst observing the legal speed limit at all times officer.

A morning of pharmaceuticals. Engaging young people with work in the pharmaceutical industry – and why not? My nephew did that industry for a while. I’ve been working with reps from big pharma all morning. They were delightful. If it floats your boat, do it. I’ve benefitted greatly from expensive drugs, so as a consumer I’m happy to point people towards working with the manufacturer, so I did.

On the way back into town I got an emergency call to “work” 5.30 – 7.30 flyering outside Kings Cross. I used to do that a decade or so ago for pretty good money. This was for friends and I said I wouldn’t invoice. They’ve done me proud over the years.

Now they’re building awareness and momentum for a big project. “Wolf of Wall Street – The Immersive Experience.” Tickets are already on sale. They’ve got an installation in Kings Cross, as part of the station complex. I didn’t realise I’d have to have an induction.

I was sent to the Kings Cross Station Contractor’s office, where you have to watch a video and fill in some forms. The video involves actors finding a tupperware with a flashing red LED in it shoved behind a pipe wrapped in what looks like a Harrod’s bag. They lean over this bomb and open it like a Christmas Present “Ooh look, there’s wires” one purrs as if they’re commenting delightedly on someone’s dress on Britain’s Got Talent.

The same fun actors also follow a few suspicious characters around a bit. It’s at strokes amusing, at strokes interesting at strokes dull. I laughed twice and realised that the friendly conversations I have had with conductors over the years – some might have been because someone on the platform had flagged me as behaving suspiciously.

The video is well made for what it is, and the actors are having fun with it which makes it more palatable. Considering everybody has to watch it I’m glad it’s not an alarmist overserious preach of a video with scary music, as you’d expect.

After the video they made the obligatory jokes about my surname and the Bank, before letting me go in order to get over to the Wolf installation and just … be there. They needed someone on site for security. I chose to spend the time giving out flyers. I wanted to freely experiment with what would make people take them. I ended up having a lot of fun, and finding the few people who chose to pretend I didn’t exist merely laughable. I walked along beside a chinless thirty something target audience male for a good long distance talking, simply because he wouldn’t acknowledge my existence at all. He held his head completely still. I found it exasperating, and I felt a mixture of pity and hostility towards his cowardice. But he was in the tiny minority.

The majority of people were delightful and surprisingly playful. I received much more humour and kindness than I got fear and aggression. I also reckon I gave a bunch of good flyers out to people who will buy a ticket to this curious unusual show. I think it’s gonna be a blast. I hope so.

Home today briefly. I slept like a rock last night, Brian the same in the room next door. We both commented on it in the morning.

Up early and reluctantly to cross town and meet Bill. He’s unloading some gigantic speakers into a warehouse in Lea Bridge. He needs a second pair of hands.

As I’m waiting on the platform at Tottenham Hale I instruct payment of nearly £1800 to a garage in Mortlake to fix somebody else’s car. It’s been a slog to get it, and feels like a relief to send it off, but it’s probably the most I’ve ever spent in a single transaction and all I get for it is fewer emails. It also brings me square to the bottom of my overdraft. Thank God I’ve got some work coming. Screw you, marble slab.

Once we’ve loaded the speakers, and bigod sir they weighed a ton, Bill toddles off in his mostly fucked Luton. I toddle off on foot. I take it slowly back home. It’s a rare day today, with sun and wind in tandem, not as close as it has been. A day to feel connected to nature. I have a bit of a walk before hitting the admin.

Invoices. Lots of invoices. All the invoices. There’s so much expensive motorcycle training coming up, so I can get myself fit and ready for the Oxford commute. I need to make sure I can pay for it. I’m not going to do this by halves. I am quite fond of my knees.

Wouldn’t it be lovely not to have had to pay almost two grand, I find myself thinking. But on the plus side this situation has propelled me off the booze indefinitely, and that’ll save me countless hundreds of pounds over time depending on how long I keep it up for. It really seems to be easy come easy go at the moment. I’m a focus of energy. A conduit, moving the stuff around at astonishing speed.

Tomorrow I’m up with the lark again. Enterprise Park Lane know me. I get a lot of random company hire cars for my part time job. Sometimes they are nice to me. Johnny rocks up at 7pm with an A- Class Merc that has 49 miles on the clock. It’s just off the line. “Break it in nicely,” he says. “I’ll only be putting about 60 miles on it,” I reassure him. Everything is automated, and it’s pretty compact. Johnny gives it to me completely empty – on the reserve tank. I nervously crawl to the garage to put in £30 of – (surprisingly) – diesel, and the range jumps to 215 miles. Mercedes have clearly sorted out fuel economy! That’s a game changer, make no mistake. I need one of these new engines. I reckon a tenner would’ve got me to High Wycombe and back.

But it’s another early start tomorrow, putting more butter on somebody else’s toast through me. I’m turning in, looking forward to breaking some miles into the pristine Mercedes. Making sure I’m rested just in case some rush hour maniac comes at me full tilt. I won’t get lovely treatment from Johnny and co at Park Lane if I total the brand new A-Class…

Final day in Yeovil today. One tricky character in the room turned the whole day a little bit sour. It could’ve been much less of a slog. Still, I’ve earned my keep in good company. A bunch of actors, 250 kids, several disinterested supply teachers, one neurotic client. They’re a good lot, the guys I work with. Unusual characters, with some seriously interesting CVs, passion and a work ethic. These are the people who don’t like to let the day go for nothing if they can help it. These are the hardworking mentor types. I’m sometimes surprised to be among them, but I’m always glad. They’ve looked after me over the years, this company. When it’s just inconvenient for me to work for them I’ll try my best to be accommodating. The work itself can be satisfying despite neurotic clients. She was probably having a good day. I was just picking up some seriously weird energy from her. The day was still good for the kids though. The company offers a sterling product.

I was recommended to them by a friend who caught me refilling a pint mug under the table in a pub. It was Jon’s engagement party and I’d just been excluded from a deeply loved dayjob for obscure reasons. I was at a low point internally. Cashflow was terrible, but rightly he said “What the fuck are you doing?”

The next evening I was being driven to Sherbourne to be gainfully employed. And so began a period of years where I’ve drawn a relationship with them. My inability to say “no” has caused me some inconveniences, but it’s always good when the money comes in. I told them I wasn’t available next week at all though, of necessity. It’s one of their busiest weeks of the year. The diary is empty and I could make a lot of money, but I have an unconscionable amount of line learning to do, plus I want to get on a bike as much as possible. If they knew I was free I’d end up working every day, looking like a tit in rehearsal and riding into a tree with a full bank account – maybe even enough to get new teeth. But I couldn’t tour America if I’d eaten tree. That would suck. As would I. I need to work as hard as possible now.

I’ve been watching “hazard perception” videos online. They didn’t exist when I learnt to drive. They’re like boring computer games and have about as much correlation with real life. But I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that when I find my ride I’m safe on it. After all, I drove back from Yeovil today and, as I think back over the drive, I did a few things by habit behind the wheel of a huge great Hyundai i800 which I’d be mad to do on a bike. Things that are done because you KNOW the aggressive driver behind you has seen you. He might not have seen you on a bike, and if he goes into the back of you on two wheels you’ll probably need a new face, hands, neck, knee, elbow or corporeal body so it’s not such a big deal that he’s liable on insurance.

I’m sleepy now though. Glad I stayed sharp long enough to get the Hyundai back to Enterprise but it was tiring. Bastards usually pick it up when you’re a business client but I wasn’t back until 7 so I had to take it to Park Lane and drop it off in a huge underground garage, and then get home with all my bags. Now I’m under Pickle, listening to the wind beginning to pick up outside and break this heat. And I’m off into a deep booze free sleep.