I'm moving tomorrow, so this might be my last entry for a while until I get broadband sorted out at my new place - unless I can find an unsuspecting wireless network to sneak onto of course, but I doubt it as my building's full of old people.

I spent yesterday evening with some friends at a leaving party for somebody who's leaving the ridiculous industry I work in to go and work in the equally ridiculous industry (if Gordon Ramsey is anything to go by) of restaurants.

My girlfriend knows some of them too, and was there with me. It was a nice evening, lovely people, a fair bit of beer (Corona is now on my list of beers that don't make me bloat and stream... see earlier post!) but still a rather civilised early night.

For some reason the subject of birth places came up, something that we've mentioned in passing before, but my girlfriend is absolutely shocked that I don't really care where I was born. I know it was in a part of London, because it says so on my passport, but it's not something I ever remember talking to my parents about. I vaguely remember the hospital being pointed out at some point in my childhood but it didn't register.

You're probably getting it by now... in the words of the great English poet Catherine Tate, "Am I bothered?" In the words of one giantleap: "No."

If I'd significantly moved away from the area, it would interest me. Although I've often thought about moving away, trying somewhere different, a new challenge or purpose has always come along in the area I live in that's kept me here. I'm far more interested in visiting the places we holidayed when I was a child, that I have patchy memories of. Or my parents first house which I lived in for one whole weekend at the beginning of my time on earth (I spent my first few weeks on Krypton, but that's another story), but of which I have seen lots of photos. But the hospital (ok, Krypton story slightly contradicted already) where I was born? I know I was there, but I have very little recollection of what happened.

My girlfriend thinks differently. She cares deeply about the hospital she was born in, a lot of her friends were born there too, and believes it forms part of her, and goes some way to making her the person she is. I could understand the interest if it was a special birth - perhaps a water birth, or a crazy sprog-drop at the top of a rollercoaster, but I don't see (unless you were dropped on your head) why a straightforward birth in a normal hospital (not Kingdom Hospital) with normal staff (not Doogie Howzer) is part of the construction of your character.

The hospital where my best friend was born used to be at the end of the road I live in now. It was demolished in the mid-eighties, and is now a new housing development. Does this mean he should be in therapy!? His heritage is surely now forever blighted by the fact his incubator haunts the space now dedicated to somebody's shower?!!

Please, correct me. Explain why it means that I "obviously don't give a s***" about my family history? (preferably in a way that makes more sense than a drunk girl on flu medication!). The argument got so silly that - (actually, in my defence, it was less of an argument than a pounding of her opinion on mine, until mine gave up and became hers... which it didn't) - anyway, it got so silly, that the only way I got any peace was to go and sleep on the sofa! How dumb. How childish. How amusing to think about it now.

I wish I'd kept a diary or journal when I was younger. I have very sketchy memories of my formative years. I was never really into photography (I took after my dad in the way I never got round to developing films, until waaaaay after they were any good), and a rash of unsuccessful letter-writing throughout my teens put me off for life.

I say that because I was always the one to be dumped in those innocent years. By the time I got to be a grown up (this is still in question), and a girl asked me to put my feelings down on paper I couldn't, and I think the reason why is that when I had done before it splatted back in my face and broke my little heart (always fell in love easily, always will).

I’m just about to move out of the flat that I've been living in for 8 years, and I hoard more things than the British Museum. That’s a lot of memories, although my twenties were quite a drunken time for a while, so most of those memories are hazy, or vague memories of falling over and sleeping in odd places after a night out. I remember once my neighbour knocked on my open door at 6am. He was concerned I had been attacked, as I was lying just inside the doorway. In a way I had been attacked; by a bucket of cheap white wine and a large-chested girl called Jill who was drowning her sorrows about a broken relationship and wanted me to drown with her.

I often wonder whether, given enough time, I could list all the people I’ve ever met. It would be a lot of people – weird ones just popped into my head like my first piano teacher, Jill Somethingor other. Strict and scary that one, and I think the first person other than my mum to ever lay a hand on me. I was a bit crap at the piano.

Then there was Nicky, the German girl who was staying on the same farm in Somerset that we used to holiday on. I think I was 11, and she was about 13. My brother and me used to fight for her attention, especially by the swimming pool as she was the first girl we’d seen around our age in a bikini. Needless to say, neither of us won the fight, and she went back to her enjoy her German life as a model, probably.

Haven’t thought about those two for years. Not sure why they popped into my head, but I suppose it’s because they shaped my life in some where. I still remember the slap, and I still remember the sun tan lotion (piano teacher and german girl in THAT order in case you were confused). The lotion was Ambre Solaire by the way – first time I’d seen that too, as Mum was a strict no-labels woman.

As I was clearing out yet another set of drawers a short while ago, I gathered up about 100 business cards that I’ve accumulated over the years. Whilst this doesn’t tell the story of my childhood (we rarely exchanged business cards in Sunday School), it does map out much of my working life for the last 10 years or so. It brought back memories of the people I had fun with, argued with, was lusting after at the same time as collecting business cards. I think it’ll give me a good start to documenting my life to date – I might start it here on this blog and see where it leads me.

Anyway, the ramblings of a bored box-packer must end for now. I can hear sighs of relief from my laptop.


PS There is more to me than drinking by the way. I've realised three out of three entries are about booze.
My mother would be ashamed.

Throughout life, you're faced with difficult choices. I have one such conundrum to deal with. Thankfully, it's neither life, death, love or marriage.

Although I enjoy beer, for the last few years a trendy food allergy has meant I have to stay away than more than the odd pint or bottle.

I have had a long term relationship with red wine, but thanks to another allergy, my nose usually streams like a firehose depending on the combination of wine-type and food-type (I’ve never established the successful combination, but when I occasionally find myself drinking copious amounts of wine and stuffing my face full without any need for tissues, I’m usually too drunk to make a note of the ingredients.)

So whilst beer and wine remain an occasional friend (the former) and a forbidden love (the latter), I needed to find a regular, reliable alcoholic beverage to enjoy at any time day* or night (*accepting that it’s still not the done thing to drink before lunchtime).

Two years ago my friend bought me a bottle of Laphroaig and it changed my life. No, of course it didn’t, that would be stupid, but the world of single malt whiskies unveiled itself and I couldn’t resist. This book by Iain Banks compounded my fascination and I looked forward to a lifetime of whisky tasting.

But no, just to add more social dysfunction to my already wet nose and bloated beer belly, my body then decided wake me up at 4am after any single-malting with chronic heartburn. I still manage to sneak the odd dram, but only when my oesophagus isn’t watching.

So, where to now? White wine? Well, yes, love some of them, but it gets me absolutely wasted very quickly an I end up doing things like touching girls that I shouldn’t, shouting very loud gossip about people who are right behind me and vomiting in public places.

Vodka became my friend. We’ve got on very well for a while now, having previously just been mild acquaintances. But now I have a problem.

I’ve had a huge week of drinking fun (the first in a very long time), starting with a pub quiz on Tuesday, followed by the odd night I documented in my first post, chased up by an afternoon of playing the 24 game (there’s this brilliant new thing available called Playstation 2; I’m going to have to get one now I can pretend to be Jack Bauer) and then a night with old work colleagues (guest star Mohito popped by for a few). Finally, Friday night was a double-30th birthday party and a bluegrass band… and it was here that I came across the problem.

I’m done with tonic water. THE drink of my 31st year has been the vodka and tonic, but last night, I was left smacking my lips together like someone had just filled my mouth with lime juice and salt (they hadn’t.) Do you know what I mean? The tonic just got to me.

I’m not sure soda is the answer, lemonade is going far too feminine and fruit juice of any kind would just get me laughed at by my beer-drinking pals. So where do I go? There must be a hidden mixer that I’ve missed?
 

Hi there, I've been looking for a new place to put my thoughts. Maybe this is it. I guess I'll have to see. I've had a very strange night.

I went out with a small company (2 people) that I did some work with last year. They're good company and have no qualms about consuming 4 bottles of wine on a Wednesday night.

There's the boss, we'll call him Sam, and his assistant, a lovely French girl we'll call Amelie.

The last time we all went out, Sam's girlfriend turned up to join us and it was a good night. They went off early (as it turned out, to have a massive row that eventually led to their demise), leaving me and Amelie to enjoy the bar, then sit together on the kerbside (classy) and drink more wine as people walked by. I loved it. It was one of my favourite nights out ever, just utterly random, she's utterly lovely (looks like Allison Mack from Smallville) and such good fun.

Tonight was a little different. They've had a heavy day of work, and Sam was in a philosophical mood. He confided in me that the reason he's now sleeping with anything that moves is a reaction to being in love with Amelie. He's apparently made this clear to her (despite being her boss!!), and it's just something they deal with. It put an odd edge to the evening, as I was torn between wanting to sit on the kerb with this girl one more time, drinking wine, and talking shit.. and wanting to get the hell out on the grounds that they obviously have a very strange relationship that I could do without being part of.

Might share more tomorrow (this is just enough to trigger my thoughts when I read it back), but it ended with me walking Amelie to the station and her saying how disappointed she was when our plans to meet tonight seemed such a long way off a few weeks ago.

Confused? Maybe a little. She utterly consumed my thoughts over Christmas. Her boyfriends lives with her. My girlfriend lives with me. One day I need to grow up! Hello Mindsay. I hope I enjoy my stay.