Everyone else's woes, unwittingly triggering mine.
I can't not listen.
But the cost.  The cost.

In spite of the current glooms and despisings associated with my job, there's still a strange joy attached to my journey to work.

Particularly at this time of year, where everything's cold and clear, and the world smells of fallen leaves, that chance to be out walking, in the open air, with both a purpose and a destination, is a thing I look forward to at both ends of the day.

I'll miss it, when it's all over.

No more sunny smiles from Tarek in the AMT booth, as he hands over my latte and croissant.  No more settling down with my book in a comfy seat on the Chiltern Railway.  No more walking through Loudwater Village, past the laughing stream, the noise of the weir.  No more bracing climbs up the steep drive to Fennels Lodge, rewarded by the warm fug inside the front door.

No more comfy rut.

Assuming they pull their fingers out and actually decide something.

The scene at Liverpool Street Station this morning, as I crossed the concourse towards the Underground:

Half a dozen police, talking on radios.  An area cordoned off with blue and white tape. 

One of those folding screens that are put round hospital beds.  Presumably the intention was that it should mask the crime scene from public view.  Unfortunately, the fabric screen itself stands on wheeled legs 18 inches high, so there's a clear view underneath.  The presence of the screen merely draws the eye.  To the large puddle of blood.  Nothing else, but it's enough, of course.

We all walk past.  We look, we have little choice.  We keep walking. 

I can't find a shred of shock in me.  Have I grown so callous?

Had been doing quite well.  Developed a lot of coping strategies for recent emotional upsets, scar tissue seemed to be toughening nicely.

Coming in to work this morning, I could feel the pendulum swinging in the self-pity direction (it seems quite capable of that on its own), and I was proud of myself for choosing not to dwell on those things that upset me, in spite of a rather poor journey.  Arrived at the office in fairly good spirits.

And then I have a conversation which tips me straight over the edge. Here I am once again, John Nice-But-Not-Sexy.  John-Who-Wonders-What-The-Fuck-Mutual-Attraction-Feels-Like.

I guess it'll wear off.

There are (I may have said this before) few things in the world that I appreciate as much as good company.

An appreciative guest (who brings wine worthy of appreciation - yum!), who challenges and stretches my kitchen exploits, and is kind enough to compliment me on the outcome.  Who reads my cards with disarming charm.  Who leaves me their Season 7 Buffy boxset...

It's been a weekend of unusual solitude.  No bad thing, for a change.  The recent months of unaccustomed socialising, though lovely, do come at a price.  Not always been in the best place, mentally, and a weekend of enforced focusing on positive thoughts and "doing things round the house" has done me a power of good.

Wonder if it'll last?

So. 
You can't tell us what the redundancy package will be.
You can't tell us which posts will be moved to Zurich.
You can't tell us how many posts will be moved to Zurich.
You can't tell us what the relocation package would be for those people who do move.
You can't even tell us when you'll be able to tell us.

You can tell us that there will definitely be redundancies.

Well thanks a bunch.  That's real consultation.

And you think we're going to be doing much work in the next week or two, hmmm?

A casual observer might note three things:

1) It might have been better to sort out the details of what was going to happen before starting the "consultation" process.
2) The period between issuing the letter to us, thus officially starting the process, and the date when the yearly results would need to be ready in order to make the end of year deadline is... 30 days.
3) The legally required period for the consultation process to be completed is... 30 days.

Yes, I'm a cynic.

My prescience, though puny, is clearly as accurate as ever.

It's been a comofrtable rut, these last twelve and a half years.  Quite how I've survived this long I don't know, given my lack of any kind of belief in the company over the last few years, or any real effort or pride in my work.  Thought it would all have come back to bite me on the bum long since.

I'd also hoped that perhaps my house sale would finally get itself resolved (only two and a half years now!), and I'd be able to politely but firmly tell the powers-that-be where to stuff the job.

But no.

The third (and perhaps, always the most probable) path has placed itself at my feet, in the form of a UK-wide email.

"Notice of possible redundancies"

Strong probability that the UK office will be closed, some staff and facilities shipped off to either Zurich or the US, and the rest laid off.  I have this horrible suspicion they'll be trying to persuade me to take the BuildLab to Zurich.  I shall certainly refuse.  I wonder how that's seen, legally, in terms of their obligation to offer alternative employment within the company?

Interesting times ahead.

A curious (and lovely) moment of perfect balance last night.

I was completely at peace with two of my greatest friendships. 

Does that sound like a rather obvious thing?  Not to me. I know the feeling won't last - I was ever one for worry and neurosis - but for that one perfect singularity of contentment, I shall be forever grateful.

Hang in there John.  You know this is only a setback.  You know that you'll find a way to deal with these feelings, these jealousies, these horrible, heart-tearing, impossible-to-resolve desires.  They're excruciating now, yes, they rob you of almost all rational thought, yes, but they'll pass.  They'll pass.

Please God, let them pass soon.  And stay passed.

I really don't like this mood.  It's fairly rare, fortunately, but makes for a pretty miserable time when it crops up.

It's the "so, if I'm never going to find someone who loves me, what's the point of continuing" mood.

The one that, had I the courage, might lead to me heading out of the window, or somesuch.  I haven't the courage, of course, so don't worry.  Not that you did, I expect.  Yes, that's the other aspect of it - even though I know people do give a shit, this mood stops me believing it, so I'm convinced that I'm completely alone, and that nobody would care if I wasn't here.

Thing is, it seems quite probable that I'm not going to find anyone to love me - to have come this far in life, and been in love quite a number of times, and always without it being reciprocated, it seems pretty likely that there's something fundamentally wrong with whichever bit of my emotional makeup controls such things.

It's odd.  Long before I came out, I felt much the same.  When I did finally start meeting gay men, I honestly thought things would change.  But all that happened was that I met a whole lot of new and lovely men, who had a whole new set of reasons for not being interested in me.

So.  "Not Boyfriend Material", then.  For anybody, presumably.  46 years of evidence suggests so.

Window?

No, still a coward.  Bed.

There's a strong feeling of approaching the end of something.  Or the beginning - it's the same thing, after all.

At a loss to know quite what:  Job? Life? (!) Current period of self-delusion?

There's quite clearly a doorway looming in the near distance, but I don't know where it leads.

A little excited, a little apprehensive.  Very tired.

I so nearly didn't go.  At around 3pm, the panic levels were high enough to boil a kettle, and I was in full-on room-pacing mode.

To my surprise, I was able to sidestep my terror, pop out to Tesco for a present (some Port), come home, shower, dress, get on the train... without once thinking about being scared.  I still was, of course, but it didn't control me.  There was a point, around Ilford, I think, when I was actually quite surprised to find myself on the train, so thoroughly had I managed to avoid thinking about it.

And of course, the evening was fine, I had a nice time.  Outside Retro, as I arrived, was a young man, speaking on his mobile, who seemed to recognise me at once.  Took me a second or two before I realised it was J, who I've spoken to online but never met.  A smile and a wave. Nice.  G turned up, too - was lovely to see him.  We haven't seen each other for months, and I can't think when we last had a real conversation.  Worth going just for those two encounters, to be honest.

Should have made the effort to do hugging though.  Far too hesitant, me.

It's been growing all week, this feeling.  I know it of old, and it's very difficult to escape its results.

A desperate need for affection, for the attentions of close friends, a need to be held, to be wanted, to be cared for and about.

Inevitably, there's a strong probability that the touchstone reassurance of dear friends won't be forthcoming today, because those whose words help most are either neck-deep in their own difficulties (it would be quite wrong of me to impose my own ills upon theirs), or (at least for the moment) in circumstances that prevent them chatting easily.

Worse, this evening is a social one, in a situation that has quite a potential to upset, if things go awry.  I won't stay away, for that would be an admission of defeat, but bloody hell it could be tough this week.

A cool mist fills the dark and sleepy roads.  Streetlamps float above the buildings, disembodied, their lamp-posts lost in the whiteness.

In the almost silence, where all sounds seem streets away... paws on pavement.  From the wall of cloud in Melcome Street, a small shape emerges, at a gentle trot, brickish fur grey in the early light, plume of a brush held out straight behind, curiously elegant.  He pauses, catches my eye, we seem to nod good morning, and go about our business; I to work, he off across Baker Street, and towards the Marylebone Road in search of breakfast.

The way people greet each other has always held a bit of a fascination for me; the rituals, the body language, the smiles or absence of...

This morning, on the bus, I saw a greeting that was entirely new to me.

A middle-aged chap got on.  Black, smarmed-down hair, thinning, with more than a hint of a comb-over.  Anorak-ish sort of coat.  A latterday Arthur Putey.

He made for a set of four facing seats across the aisle from me, that was occupied by an equally stereotypically-dressed young lad - woolly hat, trackies, hoodie.  Feet sprawled across both opposite seats.   As soon as the older guy approached, he moved them, and sat up.  They reached out a hand to each other, as if to shake, but then merely touched palms, almost stroking each other's hands as they withdrew (I was put in mind of the "give me some skin" gesture in Stand By Me).  There were warm smiles.

Then the older guy folded his arms, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.  The younger carried on listening to his iPod.

Curiously touching. 

It did occur to me afterwards that the gesture may not have been a "greeting" in the conventional sense... so much as the passing of an object.  A cynical man might imagine a small polythene bag being transferred thus, although the middle-aged chap seemed an unlikely candidate either as pusher or user.  Maybe I was party to a meeting of spies.

I'd so hoped that the end of September would see an improvement in moods and fortunes.  Seems not to be so, however.

This morning is like an emotional hangover.  The events of last night (minor enough in themselves) produced a torrent of intense and vivid dreams, the after-effects of which are still with me.  Finding it very hard not to burst into tears at the slightest thing.

I accidentally did up my belt to the fourth notch this morning.  On the one hand, this is rather nice, waist reduction always being welcome.  On the other, I'm still quite a lot heavier than I was when I could last use that notch, maybe ten years ago.  Body shapes change with age, I guess.  Going to have to start finding time to go to the gym - I really need to sort out my upper body, which is still very saggy.  Still, it's all good.

Kafka on the Shore has turned out to be a captivating book.  Not quite halfway through yet, but I'm completely engrossed.  Murakami's characters charm and move me, in their curious, sedate, jigsaw dance.  I was worried that, having found The Wind Up Bird Chronicle so wonderful, other books of his wouldn't match it.  It's delightful to find this fear to be groundless.

Most wonderful deep red sunrise this morning.  Bad for shepherds, I daresay, but hopefully an omen of new beginnings.  It would be apppropriate.

There's a very thin line between rational and irrational thought.

The things I find it possible to worry about, which have really don't merit worry at all, are quite impressive.

I can look at a situation and think, "that's fine, this will happen later, and then that will happen tomorrow, and everything will be fine".

At the same time, there's the little demon on my shoulder, saying, "but... shouldn't this be happening right now?  Why hasn't it? Why don't you do it?  Go on.  Go on go on go on."

Sometimes I give in to the demon, and of course, it does provide a temporary fix, but I try not to too often.  It's a slippery slope.

Does fascinate me, though, this ability to have two utterly contradictory thoughts in my head at once, the Left Brain calmly watching the Right Brain seethe and squirm, the Right trying to persuade the Left to give in.

In other news, my new beard is looking fantastic, and my 36" jeans are starting to feel a teeny bit loose.

Shut up Tim.  Shut up Lorraine.

If you must have loud arguments/conversations where you just talk and misunderstand each other, could you either do it in another room, or invest in a fucking door between Lorraine's office and mine.

Hard to explain exactly what's finally prompted me to write the letter to Jim.  Certainly the feeling of "two and a half years is long enough" has been growing in strength over the last couple of weeks. 

Maybe it's the feeling of being trapped by circumstances, of seeing a way out of drudgery, being dangled like a carrot, but just, just, out of my reach.  Several times the carrot's swung close enough to almost touch, but each time it's swung away.

Maybe it's simply that my not inconsiderable patience has finally run its course, or that the advice of my friends has gradually overcome my innate tendency to just muddle along and let things take their own course.

Maybe it's the realisation, sparked by others' recent difficulties, that, if I do get this sorted, then the things I want to do next could include, and assist, those others.  That sounds cryptic, I know.

Unusual amount of post-clubbing flotsam on the tube this morning.  The first (5.20) Circle Line train seemed to be liberally sprinkled with people gently (or less so) coming down from the excesses of their Sunday evening.

One trio, who sat opposite me - two rather tired-looking girls, and one very very awake-looking man.  From the look in his eyes, I'd be tempted to suggest that his wakefulness was chemically assisted in some way.

Further down the carriage, a couple of guys happily and sleepily intertwined (aaaaah).

I do like early trains. 

Actually, no, funnily enough, I haven't forgotten that, because I'm fairly certain you didn't mention it in the first place.

Sure, I was flattered when you messaged me out of the blue and started paying me compliments.  I'm not generally much of a one for casual encounters, but there are times when the idea, at least, seems quite attractive, and to be suddenly approached and flirted at by a handsome young man, does make it seem more so.

However I'm sure, hormones raging though they were, that if, in the midst of all the metaphorical eyelash-fluttering, you had mentioned that you were a rent-boy, and not actually interested in me for anything but money, I think I would have probably remembered.

Self-esteem?  Overrated, I expect.

Bastard.

"Don't ever fucking break your leg", said a complete stranger, overtaking me at a fast limp, as we emerged from High Wycombe station.

Well no... oddly, it's never been high on my list of Things I Must Do Before I Croak.

"High time I chased Jim again", I thought, realising it had been around six weeks since Elaine last told me they were "putting the wheels in motion" again, to buy my house.

tap tap tappety-tap.....

Number unobtainable.

Shall have to call round.  Can't tonight, but tomorrow...

Dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit.

Thank you for that.  Of course I shall buy it.

I logged on to Amazon, thinking about browsing for a bit of Kafka (see 14th September).

Amazon's home page, before I'd even begun to search, contains a recommendation.

Not what I was looking for, of course, but it's quite clearly what I need to be reading next.

Farewell peace and quiet, farewell clean air.  Farewell waking with the dawn, capable of anything.  Farewell the fresh tang of sea air, heavy with salt and seaweed.  Farewell the pace gentle enough to properly enjoy wonderful company.  Farewell, beautiful Wales, farewell Shell Island.

Hello London.

My morning ritual seemed today to be a journey away from life.  Away from the things of life that really matter, and towards the madness that so many around me embrace wholeheartedly, believing it to be what life's about.  I walk amongst them, I sometimes act as they do, but I am not of them.  This is not me, I am not here.  I am still there, climbing Mochras' dunes, breathing its air, seeing again that first glimpse of the sea in the morning, evenings of waiting for the last golden gleams of sun to wink out behind the Llŷn, nights spent warming my toes at the campfire.

This is not life.  This is a kind of death.  Life has a different smell.

 

Somehow I seem to have contrived to work my way backwards through Alan Bennett's autobiographies:  Having begun with Untold Stories, I'm now enjoying Writing Home, similar in style, written a few years earlier.  Next step, The Lady in the Van.

Alan's an ideal companion for a train journey - witty, self-effacing, always keeping one on the edge of either a gentle smirk or a moment of quiet sadness - just often enough generating a pang of tearfulness, and much more often, an entirely unexpected (and inescapable) belly laugh.

Well-read himself, he refers often to literature, yet, though I myself have perhaps a tenth of his reading, I never feel excluded, or as though this is some elite club of which I know nothing - rather, I find myself wanting to read the books he mentions too, so I know what he's talking about.

Since they're the two authors he speaks of most, Proust and Kafka are likely to be travelling on the Chiltern Line soon...  Kafka I already have some familiarity with, of course, but my knowledge of À la Recherche extends no further than Monty Python's All-England Summarise Proust Competition, in other words, not very far at all...

I can do this.  I can.

I have before, and I must.

You see, there's this darling little thing called "email".  You open a little window, and you type a message into it, then (and this is the really good bit) - you see this button here, marked "send"?  Yes?  What do you think happens when you click on that? That's right, well done! It sends your message to me.  Then I can read it whenever is convenient, and reply to you in exactly the same way.  Isn't that lovely?

Oh? You knew this already?

Then why the bloody hell do you keep popping into my office every ten minutes, interrupting whatever I'm doing (without even asking if it's convenient) and telling me all this trivial nonsense that I won't need to know about for days yet?  Hmmm?

Is it urgent? Will bad things happen if I don't act on this in the next ten seconds? Will the world end? Will small furry animals die, screaming in horrible agony? No?

Then send an email.

This morning, a bland routine would have been just what the Doctor ordered.

The 04:53 was, at least, on time, but travelled just slowly enough that I missed the first (05:20) Circle Line train.

"There is a good service on all lines".  As one train sat on the opposite platform for ten minutes, going nowhere; an unexpected train arrived at our platform, only announced on the matrix boards as "not in service" when it was already halfway out of the station; "Cicrle Line via Kings Cross 1 min" on the matrix for five minutes, then another five minutes with no time specified - usually implying imminent arrival (yep, that's a good service).

At Marylebone, my usual friend in the coffee booth is replaced by a smirking youth with armpits I can smell across the concourse.  As he snaps the lid on my latte, he presses with his grubby thumb on the "spout" where one is supposed to sip.  Yesterday's overcooked croissant.  Platform for the 06:09 not announced until only a couple of minutes before departure.

Just outside South Ruislip, we stop for five minutes, then crawl.  Not a long delay, but just enough to ensure I miss my bus in Wycombe - I see it driving away at the bottom of the hill, 300 yards away, as I leave the station.  The next bus, the 317, is then late, so I stand and shiver in the surprisingly cold morning for fifteen minutes.

Positive note:  Sit behind a stunningly pretty young man on the bus. Woo!

All bottles of milk in the office fridge have gone off, (for once though, fortunately, the milkman has delivered on time). I remake my cup of tea twice.

Having ranted, now feel remarkably chirpy.  Don't ask me - it's a mystery.

Suddenly crying for my father.

Eric Coates' "Calling All Workers" on the Proms.

He would have loved it.

Oh dad.

Romford.  South Street.  Three men looking at the cards in an estate agent's window.  One, perhaps in his seventies, his face bearing the patterns of a hard working life.  The other two, late twenties, football shirts, one jeans, the other tracksuit bottoms. Both as solidly "Romford Working Men" as the older chap.

Nothing at all unusual there.  Almost stereotypical, for a Saturday morning in Romford:  The pub twenty yards further along the street is full of such groups of almost identical men.

One of the two younger men had his arm draped lazily across the shoulders of his companion.  Still nothing very unusual there - all very chummy, and I would have thought nothing of it, even in Romford...

...until I noticed that with the thumb of that hand, he was gently stroking the cheek of his friend.  With that tiniest of gestures, the scene changed.  I make no guesses as to whether these were friends, lovers, gay or straight, but to see such tenderness between men, on a public street, in a town like Romford, made my heart leap with joy.

It's lack of sleep, of course.  Four hours per night, several nights in a row, is not going to be good for the limbic system.  Pour a little beer into the mix, and the stage is set for some fascinating emotional extremes.

Comparative stability has returned however, after a jolly fun night mingling with a lot of people I didn't know, drinking acceptable bitter from a wobbly plastic glass, and quietly laughing behind our hands at the socially inept.  This is a shameful thing, I know, and not something to be proud of, yet, to me, all too often suspecting myself of social ineptitude, the schadenfreude of a situation like this is curiously comforting.

John Cleese, Ronnie Barker, Ronnie Corbett, The Frost Report.