I know you hate my blogs about existentialism and the like, and would prefer to read about who I slept with a week ago, but believe me: this way, I have way more copy! Besides, it is important for me to address this issue. And for you to read it.
One of my good friends from work told me a theory of his, about two weeks ago. He said that everyone over the age of 18 still think of themselves as being that age; like a mental checkpoint in time. He said that he regularly thinks of himself as 18 years old and is shocked when he realises that his friends are all getting older, and thus, so is he.
I told him that I didn’t believe such crap; that it was a load of baloney; that I am in fact capable of remembering what age I am at all times. It reminded me of all the times my dad has asked me how old I am.
So anyway, these two girls came into my restaurant earlier this week; sisters. We used to be close friends, when we were younger. I was around 15 at the time, as was one of the girls. Her sister was three years older than us.
There was a bit of tension when they came in. We acknowledged each other, said “Hi”. I thought it best to leave the room at that point, staying out of the restaurant and having a whale of a time in the bar playing with the coffee machine. I really love the coffee machine. I work in a bar and restaurant, by the way.
Now when I’m at work, I get a lot of thinking done – particularly when I’m at the coffee machine. Gotta love that coffee machine. However, the thinking I was doing that day was pretty lightweight; yet I managed to mess it up. I thought the older of my former friends must have been 21, since the younger one and I were three years younger than her and… hang on…
So maybe there is some credence to my friend’s theory. Maybe I have been proven wrong. I must say, it was a total head-fuck, and I still find it difficult to believe that I am 20 years old. Yet it’s not the first time my beliefs have been proven wrong, or at least mortally wounded. I mean, I’m a Catholic and God knows how many discrepancies have arisen from that seemingly minor detail conflicting with my everyday life. However, I’m thinking more along the lines of the time I had a big argument with my philosophy lecturer about how I could definitely tell, at all times, whether I was awake or dreaming. Bear in mind that I also told the same lecturer that I was a staunch, practicing Catholic.
I truly believed that I was able to tell between reality and what goes on when I sleep, yet over the past couple of days, I have had a few things sticking out in my memory that I cannot place. I know I have picked up this certain information from someone, or somewhere, yet I cannot think back to where I got it.
The first such memory is an in depth discussion about pedal notes in music. This is all well and good, but who the hell would ever talk about pedal notes in a conversation? Who would even care? Even I don’t care that much! I wouldn’t question this conversation normally, but I was trying to think how it came about, or where it led, and I cannot recall any details about the conversation other than that I was being a smarmy dick to whomever I was talking to, claiming to know every last detail about pedal notes and trying to give the impression that I was somewhat clued up about musical theory. I’m not.
The second memory is that someone, real or otherwise, said the following sentence to me: “The most famous portmanteau is the word ‘Prada’,” followed by a description of how Prada means “Practical/Fashionable” or something similar. Now, I’m less clued up about fashion than I am about musical theory*, but I swear I thought Prada was someone’s name. If only I didn’t spend so much time thinking at the coffee machine and could “Start Living In The Real World”. Someone should write a book about that.
*This sentence reminds me of Miles Kane, whom I want to kick in. He was quoted in Uncut magazine (which I bought for an underwhelming list of the 30 greatest David Bowie songs, evidently fabricated by said magazine) as saying: “Does the aspect of re-inventing yourself appeal? You should see me at the weekend. Eyeliner, the lot”. This, along with several other quotes which paint him as someone desperate for fame and not doing it very well, riding on Alex Turner’s rather short coat-tails and spouting a load of shit about how “amazing” he is, makes me hate him. Although I did like their cover of In The Heat Of The Morning.
Enough of that bollocks, I want to have an affair with the woman across the road from me. Yeah, you heard! I don’t particularly find her attractive. In fact, I don’t find her attractive at all. Sometimes, when she wears shorts and stands next to her dollhouse-like bungalow, she looks like a child’s doll. An ugly one at that. Even so, I couldn’t compete with her total catch of a husband. He has so many things I don’t have, like an open-top sports car and a rather fetching mullet. This isn’t why I want to have an affair with Pam. I say Pam, her name is really Jackie, but I only found that out last year. For the decade previous, I thought her name was Pam. So anyway, I don’t really want to have sex with Pam/Jackie. I don’t really want to break up her marriage to the total catch with the sports car and the dodgy-cum-enviable hair, I just think it would be funny for a little while.
But I am no longer the kid I used to be. I have learned to take responsibility over my actions; to show restraint and resist temptation; to think about the consequences further down the line than two hours away… Yet I can’t even remember what age I am half the time. I swear, I get more and more like my dad every day…