Boys, Parties and Whining*

This morning I sat on the station platform, trying to avoid eye-contact with the crowds on the opposite side of the tracks. They were heading South into central London, like sensible people, instead of North into Luton, like me. I turned my head and allowed my gaze to be drawn up the railway to the point where the tracks became a shimmering dot on the horizon, searching for signs of my train that was soon to whisk me off to my head-explodingly dreary temp job for another day of monotonous-doesn't-even-cover-it data entry and filing.

I was particularly tired this morning, not having climbed into bed until nearly two in the morning. I had been making a recording last night in Highgate which hadn't finished until about midnight, and then the tubes and trains had conspired against me to make my return journey exceedingly late and freezing cold. The sun was out this morning, though, and my spirits were lifted considerably by the glorious blue skies warm sun combination.

Now I'm back, sitting in my too-familiar-by-now internet café trying to think of things to write and trying to block out the faux-cheeriness of the local radio DJ's chatter as it slithers out from tinny speaker just above my head (but sadly just out of reach of my fist).

There are a few things I can think of to talk about, but I have no notion of how best to segueway between them. Bullet points, I'm afraid, it is.

- I went out for a drink with the guy I met on the train the other day.
I have never been in the presence of such nerves in my life, it was most disconcerting. We sat at a little table in a crowded bar, me trying to make conversation and wondering why he was looking at me funny, and him answering my questions in monosyllables and definitely looking at me funny. Eventually (after about forty five minutes) I gave up and, without offering any obviously-fake excuses, said I had to go, kissed him on the cheek and left. As I walked down the street to the tube I heard a shout and saw he was running after me, so I turned and stopped. He caught up with me and breathlessly apologized, saying he was just really nervous and not used to meeting up with girls he didn't know. I said it was ok, and to message me if he wanted, then left.

Actually, it was fine. I suppose I just don't have the piece of my brain that instructs me not to meet up with strangers I meet in bars/trains/on the Internet. As much as I didn't really understand his nerves and wasn't about to take on the task of coaching him out of them, I don't think any less of him for it. Nor should I. I just shrugged my shoulders, got on a train to Brixton, found my friends and got drunk. I imagine he did something similar.

- On Saturday I went to a house party (Dan, Sam, Mike and Oli's house party, to be precise). The theme was "When I Grow Up I Want To Be...". When I was little I genuinely wanted to be a cheese shop owner, so I dressed accordingly. Well, perhaps a real cheese shop owner's dress wouldn't have been quite so low cut, and maybe just a touch less see-through, but I did have an apron which declared "Léonie's Wonderful Cheese Emporium" in large, proud letters, and a name tag. As is always the case for the parties thrown by these boys, the costume efforts were impressive. They themselves went as superheroes. There were of course rather a few ballerinas (both male and female) and sportsmen/women (not one of my particular ambitions), but also astronauts, army men, a judge, some cowboys, a Playboy bunny, a hippy, Ginger Spice, a penguin, a bear, Eponine from Les Mis, some female mechanics (inspired, of course, by Charlene from Neighbours), a good few ninjas and many, many more. It was an amazing party, demonstrated by the fact that there were still about ten of us dancing wildly in the sunlit living room at about eight o'clock the next morning.

- My temp job people have offered me two more weeks of work. I don't know why, because I'm sure I am one of the least diligent temps ever to have graced the office. I gritted my teeth, thought of the holiday in Portugal I am saving for, and accepted with thanks. This was supposed to be my last week here, but now I have two more. After which I will aim never to come to Luton again, except to get on planes and go to Primark.

My eyelids have started to feel heavy and there is a screaming child somewhere near me, so I must take myself and my despicable snobbery back to work. The sun is still shining and the thought of office work still makes me cry, but I must be resigned to today's fate and go.

*Perhaps I should move to MySpace?