07/05/05 - Second Hand
Old is invariably better than new. There's an unrivalled sense that 'no one will have one like it' to be gained from hunting out the jewel in the church jumble. Your satisfaction on stumbling across an early Guy Laroche suit or a signed Neighbours annual far surpasses any sense of elation that's said to follow when you wander home past someone wearing an identical top to the one you've just bought on the high street.
But after years of tat-hunting, I've had a revelation. Jumble is like lovers: they've both been dumped by the past owner for a reason. New love, like a bargain buy, shines bright. No flaws, no blemishes, they're perfect.
It is only when you get them home for a road test that you realise faults are universal. Take the CD player from the car-booter: you listen for a while, then the laser skips and you realise the 'in good working order' sign was a lie. Or the charity shop mid-1950s jacket that radiates someone else's antiquated BO as soon as your own body heat penetrates the fabric.
Like the bloke who thinks it's OK to ignore you until Saturday because you said something he didn't like on Monday, or the old boyfriend who thought it a good plan to put the washing-up (un-washed-up) in the cupboard so he 'didn't have to think about it any more', they've all been chucked before and wound up back on the market for some unsuspecting fool to pick out.
14/05/05 - Hand
Dark happenings bring untold pleasures. You acquire some 'special needs', and suddenly the world affords you a set of privileges you never knew existed. Cheap tube travel, free eye tests and the licence to hold any hand you like. Sometimes it's quite nice. I recently met up with a man whom I'd known years ago. I'd been the subject of his teenage affections. Back then, he'd have paid hard cash to hold my hand. I'd have paid even harder cash not to hold his. He was passing through and called me up.
We went for a drink. After he finished his mono-drone about his big house, great job and fast car, I said it was time I went home. We agreed to share a cab. He hailed one. I stretched out my hand for guidance in the dimming evening light. It was an innocent gesture. I had no choice. But for him it was the chance he'd been waiting for all his life. He wasn't going to let it pass. He grabbed it hard and didn't let go. He gripped tight and, in an attempt to prolong our corporal contact, feigned an interest in the cheap plastic ring adorning my finger. He held my hand up to his face. 'Is that real silver?' he inquired. 'No, it's plastic,' I replied naively, and wondered why he was so thick. His true intentions came to light only as he lowered my hand. I expected him to release his grip and politely return it to my lap. Instead, seizing his one big chance, he plunged it opportunistically into his seemingly gleeful groin.
21/05/05 - Party
Some people will drown you in the milk of their human kindness. Others will soak you in unenlightened bile. In short, some people give a shit, and some people don't. In the days when I was 'normal' (before my sight started its decline), I'd hear tales of people who deviated from the norm being turned away from nightclubs, restaurants and shops for such nonsensical reasons as they were a 'fire hazard' or their guide dog was a bit smelly. It was idiotic, but it was something that happened to other people, so I didn't care that much.
Now it's happening to me. I had a party in a pub. The room was dark, so I asked the barman to put an extra light over the bar, so I could see the faces of the guests thrusting their kisses and presents at me. Halfway through the night, a woman approached me with an angry face. She asked if it was my party, then told me it was 'against the law' to have the light on. 'Why?' I asked, wondering what law specifies humans beings shouldn't work or get drunk with a light on.
'It's bothering the barman,' she said. 'It's getting in people's eyes. You can't have it on.'
'I've got night blindness - I can't see in the dark,' I explained. 'I agreed it with him earlier.'
'I'm sorry to hear that, but this is a bar!' she spat back with astonishing empathetic ineptitude, then switched off the light, plunged my party into darkness and left.
28/05/05 - Tattoo
'So where were you last Sunday night?' ask my friends.
'Out with a guy,' I reply.
'Ohmygod!' they squeal, bobbing up and down in their seats. 'Who? Who?! What's he like? What does he do? Do you like him? Tell! Tell! Tell!'
'He's great. He's gentle but argues back. He can cook, reads Gramsci and talks about stuff that matters.'
'You have to get it on with him! This is the one!
'Long hair, gold tooth, tongue stud.'
'Rock! I like it!' one replies.
'He's my height and probably weighs less than I do.'
'He's small, then - but don't let that put you off. It's what's inside that counts, remember?'
'He's got a handlebar moustache.'
'Ironic!' says one with sarcasm.
'He's been married twice - once for love, once for money.'
'Oh ... '
'His entire body is swirled in a tattooed pictorial narrative of his life.' They frown. 'He once sewed up his eyes and mouth with a hypodermic needle in the name of performance art.' They wince.
Among his friends is a man who's tattooed 99% of his body jet-black, an "artist" bloke whose "art" consists of stitching fruit to his back and dancing in a naked stage show, and a woman who laces up her genital piercings with a pink satin ribbon before she goes out at night.'
Jaws hit floors.