Three years!

Everything’s changing. Three years spent in a strange city. 1095 days studying an utterly useless degree. 156 weeks and seven house moves. Thousands of minutes lost to the M1, journeys made for love. Three years have passed and I’ve forgotten the person who came here. Who was she? Idealistic, judgemental, desperate to change the world and pretending not to care about whether she was accepted. She cared. Sometimes.

Do you ever get the feeling that time is slipping away? Last night I put my head on a soft pillow in a damp room. I was afraid in my unfamiliar surroundings. I woke this morning and three years had passed. In my drawers is the evidence of my time; lecture notes, free crap collected from freshers’ week, a scrap of paper with my poker debts scribbled on it, a photograph of some guys jumping off a platoon into an ice cold lake, a half eaten bag of pistachio nuts. I should probably throw them away. All my possessions are dog-eared, bearing the evidence of countless hours spent boxing up and loading into the back of a vandalised hatchback. The books I arrived with, symbols of a girl making a statement about who she was and what she believed, have been placed alongside Haruki Murakami, Madame Bovary and The Women’s Room. The initial collection of CDs, a close minded catalogue of punk, ska and hardcore from the last three decades, have had to share shelf space with Calexico, Brahms, Neil Young and Fairport Convention. My pots and pans bear the battle scars of kitchen catastrophes and experimentation. I leave here a distinctly better cook.

Last night I went to a gig. I looked around at the faces that have become known to me over the last three years. A pint of cider in hand, I mused about the legacy I would leave on the Leeds scene. A half hearted attempt at promoting, the memory of my drunken dancing, awkward conversations without the aid of alcohol, DIY punch, singalong sessions, standing alone and resenting myself for not being funny, or at least engaging. Chris, who is she again? The girl from London? The posh punk? She was alright.

Perhaps a hint of melancholy haunts this column. My final house move has sabotaged my summer. A flooded kitchen, an incompetent fool of a landlord who I’m pretty sure has Munchausen’s, bed bugs making their home in my personal space and rotting meat in a pan left by previous tenants are all contenders for most annoying aspect. It smelled really really bad. I dreamt about a summer spent lying on our patio. I would be reading Crime and Punishment or On the Road. I would sup Sam Smiths, eat noodles and tofu, and toss my housemates the odd witticism. Pushing the sun glasses to the tip of my nose, I’d cock an eye brow and roll my eyes at the choice of record spinning on the player. In ultra fantasy Haruki Murakami would be there and we’d discuss literature, cats and David Bowie. But that just wouldn’t happen. Instead, I work 8.30am until 5pm. I get home exhausted mentally. My body has sagged into the shape of someone who sits on a computer all day. My brain is fuzzy. My job is to come up with ideas for television, but sitting at a computer for eight and a half hours is the most un-stimulating environment for creativity, so it’s hard to fulfil my role. To illustrate the point: I recently pitched an idea for a series about the history of the parking meter. I’m not joking. Recently I’ve taken to downloading episodes of House to watch in breaks, but House time now reigns over all thoughts. To entertain myself I like to imagine what Dr House would do in a situation. When contemplating what to have for lunch I give the contents of the fridge a differential diagnosis. Dr Chase thinks I should have a tomato and avocado salad, but Dr Foreman thinks instant noodles would be better. Dr Cameron is struggling to reach a decision, but she limps in with an offering of soup and bread. Dr House tells them all they’re idiots and tells me to make pasta instead. Time moves quite slowly. When I tell people I work in television production they appear to find it really exciting, as if my life is glamorous. Errrr.....

I work with a guy who does battle re-enactments at the weekend and used to work in television shopping. He once told me that miners would never go into the pit if they saw a girl with red hair on their way to work. Apparently it was a potent sign that something terrible would befall them. His sister, a flame haired beauty, used to check her watch and then make herself visible at the entrance to their house as the men walked past. What a bitch! Anyway, what a baby I am, complaining about working full time as if my life is hard. It’s not. I realise how lucky I am, but in that realisation I don’t forfeit all rights to complain about how dull a life can be sometimes. The weight of hours wasted compresses my mind so that I go ‘home’ and lay on a sofa drained and immobile. I lose all enthusiasm to leave the house and mix with society as I have no thoughts left. I lost them all to watching people on You Tube and reading the racist, moronic comments underneath. The pleasures of cooking and reading have been lost because my tired mind has no desire for creativity or intellectual stimulation, by this point it only understands the moving image.

Three years have passed and I’m a different person. 1095 days making amazing friends. 156 weeks not wasted, but wanting more. Thousands of minutes and I’ve learned a lot about laughing, loving, despairing humankind and making cheesy statements like ‘laughing and loving’. I’m gone, but I’m not forgotten.

Chris 12oh5
slowergherkin@hotmail.com

End notes:
- From September until June 2008 I will be living amongst the Austrians in the city of Graz. Think of me, write to me, come and share a drink with me.
- I am absolutely loving the film ‘Lives of Others’ at the moment.
- I love you, Pitza Canos. I love you, Slips Deli. I love you, Angel Inn. Franchise in Austria?
- Hail! The Ergs!