So I went out early on Saturday morning for coffee with an old friend in who happened to be in town for the day. Turned out that that was literally all we had time for. One coffee. Fifteen minutes to briefly catch up with an old friend, and off we we went, our seperate ways.

But I found out why they were in town. To see a heart specialist. They had to rush off to get to their hospital appointment, hence the rather hurried coffee.

So I wound up sitting there in Borders on Charing Cross Road, reflecting on this. That’s (possibly) four people I know with serious heart problems (excluding my Dad). Not one of them is over thirty. Two of them are younger than me. One of them needs a transplant. Heart and Lung, in fact. I haven’t spoken to her in over a year, something that leaves me feeling deeply, deeply shitty. The other two have been treated, and should be more or less fine.

The friend I was with Saturday morning, it’s too early to say. It might turn out to be nothing, or it could be something serious, but it’s sobering to realise that your friends may have serious health problems. It also leaves me wondering: why is it that it’s always the nicest people that these things happen to?

What is it about self-loathing that makes it so easy and appealing? I ask this having just watched one of my best friends dump out one of the most unpleasant pieces of self loathing I’ve seen in a very long time on a message board we both frequent.

I mean, I’m not exactly without my own neuroses, but generally it takes a prolonged hammering at my mental state before I become sufficiently off kilter as to really give in to them (like, for example, several months of self-inflicted stress… :) ). Most of the time, I’m well balanced enough to know that I’m probably not as [stupid/malformed/unpleasant/insert other self-pitying adjective in here] as I think I am on a bad day. In my experience, it’d be a great thing if everyone woke up to someone telling them that they’re better than they thing they are. Mind you, most people refuse to listen when they’re told that. We get shy, get embarrassed and in that state kind of forget that we’ve been complimented, or assume that the person saying nice things is either insincere (and wants something) or is in some way mad or defective. Basically, find an excuse to ignore the fact that they’ve been told something that doesn’t fit in with their view of themselves. God alone knows why. Frankly, I don’t get enough compliments to feel I can ignore the ones I do get…

Yet when someone deals our ego a blow, we listen. Much, much too hard.

Example: a little over eighteen months ago, I asked someone I knew out. She laughed in my face. I mean literally. The sensible reaction, and the view that I now hold is that she was, at best, a tactless and thoughtless cow, and frankly, I’m very glad it never went anywhere. Her view of me is no more accurate that my own most negative imaginings. Basically: fuck her, and the horse she rode in on.

The reaction I had then, on the other hand, was not so sensible, and involved an awful lot of misery and bitterness. Took me fucking ages to believe that I might actually be worth dating again (and of course, someone who doesn’t believe they’re worth dating doesn’t exactly do themselves any favours when it comes to letting people to persuade them otherwise).

I am, unsurprisingly, doing better these days, and lately, better than I have in a long time, having finally come to the realisation that self-deprecation is nor more attractive (or accurate) on me than it is on other people, and thus made an effort to stop doing it, both in terms of what I say out loud, and what I think inside my head. But given that it’s the same friend who made me realise this that is vomiting out self-loathing in public, I wonder why it is that they can see that my neurotic whinging is just that, and get really fed up of it (not that I blame them, mind you), and yet their own is apparently justified and accurate.

The moral of the story: No-one can convince you that you’re great but you. But y’know, other people might help, if you listen to them.

Days like today make me want Out. I’m a city kid, but today, I want nothing more than to drive down country lanes with summer music playing very loud, stop to buy cold drinks and picnic food in a village in the middle of nowhere, and watch the sun set from the top of a hill with a summer breeze in my hair. I need to get away from humans, and just relax away from anything that means anything. Just forget all those little, trivial things, and remind myself of what’s really important.

The best I can do is go and eat ice-cream down by the Thames in Putney. Whatever it was I did in my former life, I’m sorry.

Before the new toy, though, the weekend.

Fucking brilliant is almost close, I suppose. Finished off a column that I’m actually pretty pleased with, one that’s spitting bile and hate, even by my standards. Look for it on Friday at Ninth Art. Then Saturday evening, it was off to Uptight. I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a club as much. I used to love The Mission in Edinburgh, but even that wasn’t quite the right music for me. I certainly spent as much (total) time on the dancefloor as I have at any club I’ve ever been to, barring one night at Rock Raider, when I was 17 and had much, much more energy than I do today. Given how hard it is to get me on the dancefloor, this is a serious achievement. They didn’t play every act I’d been looking forward to on the playlist, but that’s just an excuse to go again, in my book.

Sunday I spent mooching about Richmond with Andrew and Andrea. A lovely, relaxed day with fine food, excellent views and good company, although between all the exercise yesterday and the dancing on Saturday, I am now in several kinds of agony. More reasons to get in shape, right there.

Apparently, my friends think I’m a miserable bastard. In a good way, presumably, because these people are my friends. But I remain confused by this. I’ve been confused by it for years, although it’s been some time since I was accused of it. Perhaps people have just given up telling me I’m a miserable bastard. I doesn’t really bother me, although it used to. I just find it amusing that one group of people can ask me if I ever stop smiling (not often, apparently), while another can accuse me of a miserable bastard.

Because, y’know, I think I’m generally quite cheerful. I laugh at the world. It’s a ridiculous and lunatic place, and I love it as much as I hate it.

Like I say, I’m just amused that people think me a miserable bastard. Unpleasant and cynical, I could buy. Slightly neurotic lately, true. But miserable always leaves me faintly confused.

I swear, I will never understand you humans.

Apparently, I am “disgustingly lucid” this morning, according to my co-workers. Mind you, this may have something to do with the fact they they were out on the town last night, while I only had two drinks, a lot of water, and a rather nice dinner last night. Yeah, I’m feeling chirpy. This is quite unnatural for me.

How is it that parents can read your mind, even when you’re on the other end of the phone? I phone my mother up this evening to talk about a couple of things, and within two minutes, she’s asking what it is I’m not telling her. What I’m not telling her is that earlier today, I was hit by a car. Nothing serious – a few wee scrapes and an adrenaline rush. No more. The driver was more frightened than I was, but then, I’ve done this sort of thing before.

But I’m not telling Mum because I didn’t want to worry her. Yet somehow, she can tell that I’m not telling her something, even when the conversation goes nowhere near cars, blunt trauma or tarmac. So, in the end, I fess up, thinking “oh god, now I’m just worrying her needlessly.”

And she laughs. Lots.

I woke up this morning and thought “Oh shit. This is going to be bad.” Because I didn’t have a hangover.

I was right. It was bad. It’s never good to have drunk so much that you can wake up after seven hours kip and still be drunk. Thankfully, by the time that the hangover arrived, I had managed to drink a load of water, and take a couple of asprin. That blunted the worst of it.

But I’ve been pondering giving up drinking for a while now. Seems like it might be a good idea. Going out would be less expensive, and I’d be less like to turn into a slurring eejit, barring some kind of concusion.

On the other hand, it means no more Jack and Ice, no more Bushmills, no more of my alcoholic smoothies, and so on. That would be bad. So I’ll just try and cut down. Mind you, I went out yesterday not intending to drink very much, and look what happened…

I spent today cleaning the bathroom. I’m high on bleach fumes. God knows, it needed cleaning – I’d been waiting for Huw to do his turn at cleaning it, but since he’s in the states for another week, it obviously wasn’t going to happen, and if we’re going to find a new flatmate, to replace him when he fucks off to the states, it needed doing.

Between that and working on more things for 9A, it’s been a busy day. And I’ve been looking forward to this bit all day. Candlelight again (I find it very relaxing. Sue me.) and tonight it’s Jack Daniels over ice, and butterscotch angel delight. And the Ramones. I’m trying to remember the last time I felt this good about life, and I’m forced to answer “February”.

Which really isn’t a good sign – I appear to have managed to get used to a state of constant tension. Well, perhaps “get used to” is a bit strong, since I know I’ve been a bit, um, erratic over the last couple of months, especially the last few weeks.

I’m not stupid enough to think that this magically means I’m back to my old self, but given that I hadn’t noticed how stressed I was (which sounds stupid now I say it – I knew I was busy at work and at home, but I really hadn’t noticed how unbelievably tense I was/am, which is pretty typical of me) I am at least optimistic that I can actually at least start to do something about it and stop behaving like quite so much of an idiot.