Hustled

I went and saw a couple more flats yesterday. The second one was quite nice.

After that I went for a walk up the Walworth Road. About half way along it I spied a ten pound note skittering along the road. Without breaking my stride I stooped and scooped it up. Seconds later I was joined by a slightly lupine rudeboy wheeling alondside me on his bmx.

"E ya blud you not gonna give man is money back?"

He said, his voice a cocktail of indignation and threat.

"Sorry?"

I queried.

"Man up dere just dropped it innit"

He said gestuing at a old man up ahead. *fine* I thought, though I could already see where this was going. I quickened my pace and walked abreast of the man in question; a black gentleman in his sixties.

"Sorry mate, this guy says you dropped this" I said showing him the tenner.

"No it's not mine" he said, in a soft West Indian accent.

"Yeah it is you dropped it innit"

Said the lost property homeboy staring over at me accusatively.

"You lads are very honest I must say" Said the man (no, I'm honest I thought, this hoodrat is just pissed I got to the Ayrton Senna before him).

"Let me have a look" he said, taking the then pound note from my hand and turning it ruminatively. "No, it's not mine" he eventually concluded, making to hand it back.

"Safe, yeah" hissed the rudeboy, before sharply slapping it out of his hand and peddling furiously furiously pff in the direction of The Elephant (the tube, not an actual elephant).

I sighed, and patted the old man on the shoulder, which was a sort of gesture of mutual commiseration. "Take it easy mate" I said, before turning into a shop, though I might as well have said "We both lost out there", and honestly, I would have far preferred he got it. Rudeboys eh? Still, can't knock the hustle I suppose.

I went out last night with Sam. Had a pizza at the "Mozzarella Y Pomodoro" by the green, which was passable, but not as good as those of the late BRB, which in its new incarnation as The Grove resembles an unpopular stand at the Ideal Homes exhibition, with lots of shiney slightly naff furniture.

After that went to The Montague Arms in New Cross which is also full of tat, though more in the order of stuffed zebra head peering from the walls. There was a cabaret act on playing covers on synths. It was alright. After that went back to Penny's flat and drank red wine. Stumbled home two-ish? not sure.

Awoke today in the clammy grip of the hangover from hell, paralysed with self loathing. Didn't really feel like going out last night and I wish I'd trusted my insticts on that. Why do I put myself through the mill like this. Slouched around drinking coffee and staring out the window at plastic bags gusting past in the wind. I looked in the mirror before and Marilyn Manson stared back: my hair looks like someone has poured a crow's wing over my head, and I have bags under my eyes you could comfortably park a Renault Espapce in.

Right at the minute I feel like a sort of giant perambulating sigh. To use a flimsy analogy I sometimes wish my life was like an Etch a Sketch I could give a brisk shake and rack the balls back up on the life I've been scribbling over.

So here I find myself, suspended in self pity writing a blog post so emo it'll hopefully make Coldplay put down their instruments. I'm listening to a playlist of grey New York rain-raps and contemplating what to do with myself. I really feel like getting out of London so might do that later this week. In the meantime, who knows. Something productive hopefully.