Maybe it's the Christmas season bearing down on me like a plane with no engines which is causing my natural bitter apathy to dry up like a blonde in my bed. Perhaps it's the fact that I've 'written' a 'book' (albeit a shit one) that has me walking about with a disturbing sense of well-being. Perchance it's the book I'm reading, the brilliant How To Be Idle, with its assertions that one should enjoy lying in bed thinking of nothing in particular, that work really is a pile of overrated, guilt inducing wank, and that it's laudable to be lazy, that has settled my otherwise jittery mind.
But I'm vaguely content.
I'm not sure how. I could eat better, for a start, and stop smoking so much. I could cycle more, and not give in to lethargy first thing in the morning and opt for the tube instead (where I have, inevitably, found myself yelling 'Can't you people WAIT?' at a dozen or so commuters who force themselves onto a train as a dozen more fight to get off). I could also go to bed earlier.
Oh, and I should get back into dating full-time, if only for my Large Northern Flatmate's sake (He's frequently stated that he "can't wait to meet the poor cow" who ends up with me.)
But tonight, as I waited for a tube train after a gruelling day's work, I spied a young girl aged about 17 who, as such, was not really my type. She was rosy of face and slender of body, but what really interested me, what really intrigued me and had me smiling, actually smiling and unable to turn away, was the little jet-black puppy she held in her arms. I couldn't take my eyes off him (for I'm sure it was a he), with his huge eyes and nervous little dogface. For some reason, his front legs were dangling over the girl's protective arm and he paddled them rhythmically as if he was trying to swim away.
Internally I clapped, like an enthusiastic child or a very excitable gay man. I jumped up and down. I thought, 'Hee hee hee hee heeee!' in a high pitched voice. I wanted to run over to the girl, say hello, and then stroke her puppy all day. And then I recalled my childhood; it was a menagerie. I would look forward to coming home from school where I'd grab Tiffany, or Gemma, or Mishka, or Crystal (Dynasty was big when we adopted her) and squeeze and tickle them til they ran off with significantly less fur.
On the train, I found myself stealing sly glances at the puppy, to make sure he was alright. When hordes of people marched onto the tube in sullen indifference, I checked to make sure he wasn't too scared. When I got up to leave the train, I had one last look, one final furtive glance at the little treasure with a cute wet nose and tiny little tail.
And then it occurred to me - aren't stubbly dodgy looking thirty-something men supposed to be enticing young girls with puppies, and not the other way round?
Then I remembered, I'm in the grip of a terrifying manic episode and all this is just the eye of the storm.
Next week: Trying to kill myself with Pringles and Scotch.