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Friday, December 17, 2004

My flat 

(6 more posts before shutdown)

I'm having a Friday night in. Woohoo! Jingle bells! etc

On the other hand, however, I'm also in rather a reflective mood. This will be my last night in alone EVER in my flat. I moved here in 1999, just as things went horribly awry with The Anti-One, and if my first few months here were horribly unhappy and my last year-and-a-bit here really very happy indeed, the time inbetween has been... a state of some ambivalence.

I work here too, of course. This is my home and my office (my home office). There have been times - whole weeks nearly - when, thanks to a surfeit of Duty Free cigarettes and alcohol, I've not so much as stepped outside for days on end. There have been other times when I've hardly been at home at all. I've thrown up and had sex in every room in this flat. I've fallen asleep or passed out in every room in this flat. And one time on the stairs outside. I can direct taxi drivers to this flat from central London - in my sleep. My postman, the square caretaker, the newsagent, corner shop owner, post office man, Chinese takeaway lady, the bloke in the chipshop and two greengrocers all say hello when they see me. My insane turkish barber once bought me a pint in the local pub.

My most promiscuous and most lonely years were spent fucking or not fucking people in this flat. I've fucked strangers, work colleagues, friends and one chick whose name I didn't even know here. (She spent precisely 58 minutes in my flat - I know that because I put a Faithless album on when we arrived and it finished just as she left.) I've fucked a lot of people I didn't really care about or even liked that much here. But I've spent more time wishing I was fucking here than actually fucking here.

I've spent more hungover days in this flat than anywhere else I've lived - and I've drunk more here by myself than anywhere else I've lived. I learned how to drink alone here... roughly at the same time as I learned how to work alone. (I should have written something about the pleasures of drinking alone. I probably won't now - or if I do, you'll have to pay to read it, like everyone else.)

And this is my last night here alone. I've got the bottle of red, naturally, and there is a little vodka to finish off if required. By rights I should be in a pair of shorts playing Grand Theft Auto and eating a bargain bucket of fried chicken and either fucking or not fucking someone I don't really like that much, too. Or passed out in the kitchen. Or some sordidly enticing combination of all the above.

Instead... instead of that I've wrapped some christmas presents, packed some boxes with essential reference books (The Guinness Book of Hit Singles, the Virgin Encyclopedia of Pop, a Stone Roses biography, a thesaurus), made myself a curry and put a last load of washing in. Of course, it is only half ten, the night is young, there's still time for all that... but if I'm being honest (I'm always honest - it's my saving grace, my heroic flaw) the night won't end in one last goodbye-to-the-flat blowout. Apart from anything else I don't want to fuck anyone other than The One ever again. I'd rather eat roasted vegetables with her than fried chicken on my own. I'd rather wake up next to her than on the sofa, or the floor, or the stairs. She doesn't really get PlayStation, obviously, and I'm not about to say goodbye to drinking too much yet, but then you can't have everything. The point is: I'm ready. I'm ready to say goodbye to my flat. I'm ready for the next place.

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