"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>tits out, pants down, overnight to london; touchdown, look around, everyone’s the same

>you are filled with a certain confidence and overabundance of adrenaline when you look at flats. you criss-cross the same tube lines over and over again, searching that special place. a place to flop, a place of solitude, a place of sunlight and warm kitchens and comfy mattresses and high celings and cozy companions. it’s difficult when the ones you set your heart on are denied. or the facilities fall short. you’ve got time kicking down your door, reminding you of the mistakes you’ve made. should have snapped this one up. should never have ventured to that one in the first place. what a waste of time. the clocks tick, they are laughing at you.

hurry up fuckface and find a fucking flat already!

last night as i flipped my laptop closed and grew weary of the americans sitting in the hostel lounge who were zinging each other with Borat one-liners, jan called (remember?). threw on the only clean clothes i had left and met him outside queensway tube station. hopping into his mercedes, the metropolis became a blur of orange lights, green treetops, dotted lines, and a horizon blocked by the chaos of london traffic.

first words out of his mouth: “whoever that fucking guy was, he’s an idiot for leaving you. you are absolutely stunning.”

how do you say that you agree with someone without coming off like a conceited tit?

ah, fuck it. THAT’S GODDAMN RIGHT.

i sat in the passenger seat on the left. steering wheel on the right. gotta get used to this. so jan drove us into this huge tesco parking lot, and i actually got behind the wheel. to my surprise, i was actually quite calm, it’s just the stick shift that’s on the opposite side. rode around the empty lot, but when offered the chance to take it to the streets, hopped out of the car quicker than 10 popes rammed in a volkswagon. i still can’t cross the street without looking the wrong way, forget driving on the wrong side of the road.

we stopped off at this thai restaurant that had actually already closed, but they reopened just for us to get some takeout. spicey soups, curried tofu over stir-fried sprouts, white rice, tangy steamed vegetables. yapping away the night like our voices powered the hours, we rode up to this place called Alexandra’s Palace in the north of london which overlooks the city, like Mount Royal in montreal. stars burning like impending supernovas. orion’s belt. ursa major. cassiopeia. city ablaze with twinkling lights. BT telecommunications tower. financial district. london bridge. sat in the warm car, slurping up food.

realized i hadn’t eaten since breakfast. a hunger like a gut dissolving into particles. i am starving but i refuse to admit it. i’ll find the money, i’ll earn the paycheque, i’ll get the job, i’ll soldier on.

the gates of the palace closed and we drove on again, going from 0 to 80 kms in 6 seconds. weaving in and out. dodgey areas become stunning little neighbourhoods. crowds of drunken hooligans turn into little old couples walking their dogs.

park the car.

and do some “stuff.”

some good “stuff.”

ahem.

begin the shivering walk back to my hostel, our hands folded in each other. too cold, let’s grab a taxi. 10 pounds and i’m back again. say goodnight, see you tomorrow. disappear into the cover of night. but moments later my mobile rings:

“just wanted to let you know that you can blog about this, if you want.”

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