On Saturday we catch a flight back to London Stanstead and then a train from London Stanstead to Liverpool Street and then a tube home. And this whole journey seems like the death of a party / after every party I die, a death that comes as no surprise – I'm not even going to pretend that I'm bothered by it. So it's about 1130 when I get home and I watch some Greek TV and eat something that I don't remember right now but it doesn't count anyway because technically I'm still on holiday, and then I take four Nytol which don't really do anything for me, so I stay awake and have an imaginary argument with some guy at work in my head – an imaginary argument which goes a little bit like this:
Guy at work: So I was reading Affluenza the other day and there was an interview with this guy who lives in New York and he's extremely rich, bit he's terribly unhappy. Which goes to prove that money doesn't make you happy.
(this part of the conversation has actually happened, the imaginary part starts from here on)
Me: Yes, great, that's a sample of one.
Guy at work: Why? Do you think that money brings happiness?
Me: No, I just think that no one with half a brain can ever be happy. Money doesn't even come into it at all.
Guy at work: And why's that?
Me: Because this is a life where I get a life threatening illness when I'm 25, an illness that could come back at any time and finish me off. It's also a life where I am torn apart and bullied into a corner several times as I am growing up because fellow children make assumptions about my sexuality, not to mention a life where I have to come into an office and waste my time performing meaningless tasks that contribute nothing to no one for most of my waking hours. Finally, it's a life where I get people like you picking on everything that I eat / wear / say on a daily basis, and a life where you wake up every morning knowing that someone will send you an email or make a comment or say something about you, that will cut you up inside (for anything from a few seconds to several days).
Then, satisfied that I've won this imaginary debate and as happy as anyone who can argue convincingly that life is not worth living, I leave home and go to Clapham to meet up with Scott.
There's some local Gay Pride happening in Clapham on Saturday (= lots of people drinking and ___ in the sun), so I turn up near the bitter end around 2100 in the evening when most people have gone, and both the pride and the sun are running satisfyingly low.
Then I stand there for a bit with Simon and some other friends, then Scott goes to use the toilet in some bar, then Scott comes back, then we head off, then Scott realises he's left his sunglasses in the toilet in some bar, then Scott goes back to find them, then he comes back only to tell me that they're gone, then he mopes for a bit.
Because these are some ___ sunglasses that I bought him for his birthday (?), our two-year anniversary (?), some even like that anyway, and they were quite/very expensive.
Then we're walking to the tube station and as we go past a restaurant we see two gays sitting outside, and one of the gays is putting on some sunglasses and showing the other gay and these are the sunglasses that Scott lost.
So Scott runs up to the gay and shouts "these are mine" and grabs them from his hands. Then the gay says (with no conviction whatsoever – almost whispering really), they're mine. Then Scott says no, they're mine and you just found them in some toilet. Then I say to the gay, OK, if they're yours where are they from and how much did they cost. Then the other gay butts in (a lot more confident and brash – obviously a more experienced liar, which makes me hate the cunt) and says, "erm..actually they're Russell's". By that time (and before I have the chance to ask who the fuck Russell is and can I have his phone number right now, or perhaps we should get the policeman standing over there) Scott has checked the handles of the sunglasses and has found out that the left one is loose (something he pointed out to me earlier in the week cause it was annoying him) – a final proof that they're his. Then the other gay (the brash one) tries to argue a bit more, and I say "oh just give it up, I mean COME ON", and then we walk away. So that was lucky.
So what we learn from this incident is:
a) If you're a lying cunt, please don't lie in my face about something we both know is not true
b) Don't bring your made up friend Russell into the conversation, it usually doesn't help
But more importantly:
c) If you snatch some abandoned sunglasses from the men's toilet, at least wait until you get home before you parade them around asking your friend whether they look good
Does anyone recognise this story? Are the sunglass finders perhaps reading this? Please get in touch.