Of Cambridge and the like...

Last night I was determined, once I had decided going into work was out of the question (the Heffalump is in residence, and anyway it's my bloody life), that I was going to go somewhere today.

The original plan was Norwich, but a combination of poor weather and the realisatioon that I felt pretty shattered brought this down to Cambridge, which is my usual default setting for going out when I can't be bothered to bring any imagination to the decision.

However, within twenty minutes of getting there, I realised that I had basically screwed up. I was too tired to concentrate on racks and racks of crud in search opf the hidden gems, which is the purpose of shopping on Mill Road, and FAR too tired to deal with the crowds in the city centre. As anyone who lived in Cambridge will know, the big influx this time of year is long and unruly crocodiles of foreign students, usually with matching backpacks and/or T-shirts, who barrel their way along roads like the one between Sidney Street and the Market Place, mowing down anything in their path. When a young lady from one such croc saw something interesting in a shop window, and dawdled straight into my path then stood there gawping, my blood was at sufficient temperature that had I not reined myself in at the last moment, there could have been a major diplomatic incident... (I believe, though I haven't been for a long time to check the comparison, that this is more of a problem in cambridge than Ocford, because at least in Oxford most of the major streets are wide enough to cope a bit better, though I daresay the High can get a bit clogged).

I had also forgotten a problem with Cambridge, which is that its much-vaunted beauty and glory only really becaomes evident when sunlight fills the old stone, and the honey glow of the place can be seen. On a grey, windy day, even in July (British Summertime, my arse), Cambridge feels barely any prettier than anywhere else.

Having realised that I had no chance of coping with the situation, I did th obvious thing for any intelligent person - I went to the pub. Thankfully, this being Cambridge, the pub in question was the Cambridge Blue.
I do tend to rattle on about the Blue rather a lot, and I accept that ultimately it is just a pub.But I would honestly say it is my favourite pub in the country, because it has everythjing a good pub should have - interesting surroundings, atmosphere, a healthy mix of locals and visitors, a nice garden, excellent food, and above all a fine range of drinks, well-kept and intelligently served. After a wedge of Sunday Pie (no, I had no idea either, but it was bloody nice), bread and salad, I was almost ready to face the world again. Even the early-doors regulars were interesting...

Back in Ely, I have spent most of the afternoon vegging out in front of the cricket (a perfect spectacle for a mind unable to think coherently), with twop trips out for shopping:

i) getting tickets for Macbeth - the woman who owns the bookshop who sells the tickets treats me like she's never met me before, despite the fact that she's the secretary of the Dramatic Society, and I'm in the blasted play. I've never worked out if it's specifically me she doesn't like or if she's like that with everyone (I think the fact that I am a recent emigree from London doesn't help...), but in the end if she's going to be standoffish fading to unpleaasant to me, then I am going to feel far less guilty about buying my books from Ely's other (and FAR better) bookshop.

ii) a brief shopping trip to Iceland, which ended up as a right bargain, because the biggest item didn't get charged. The checkout girl (who had just come on, and dithered quite spectacularly over various things) ran through all my stuff, rang the bell when this item came up, then proceeded to process my card for the shopping without having charged this item. I didn't notice until I looked down at the total, and came to a snap decision that if a supermarket can't be bothered to train people to think on more than a 5-second cycle, then I'm not going to do anything about it. ooh look, a castle...

I am now sitting, feeling less tired than I did, and debating whether to make enquiries about tickets for tonight's (final) performance of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, back at Cambridge Arts. It is one of my favourite plays, and I have Theatre Tokens waiting to be used (which some readers were kind enough to buy me, and I have not yet made use of), but it does mean getting off my fat arse, and at the moment that's something of a struggle...

Some other things...

I didn't go to the theatre, in the end...

i) a couple of months ago, I mentioned a very good programme on Radio 4 about automated voices, and the people who do them, called "Cashier Number Six, Please". I mentioed nthat it should be on the BBC website, and alas it wasn't.
Well, for anyone who was interested, but didn't hear it, it looks as if it's being repeated at 1:30pm tomorrow, on radio 4 FM.

ii) Called my one remaining friend back on Teesside - the guy who I stood Best Man for last year. First piece of news from there is that his wife is four months pregnant. Which is wonderful, of course ... but still it's another one of them, and another less of us, and means the long evenings of drinking, watching the telly and laughing at inconsequentialities are over. Now it'll be the baby, the whole baby, and nothing but the baby ... and of course one more person to ask me when I'm going to get a girlfriend / married / on the housing ladder / breeding...
Hey ho.

iii) also from that call, I told him about my work situation, and that I had quit, though not leaving for another two months. Everything was suddenly "What are you going to do next? Hopefully you'll find somewhere to settle down. Next time we speak, I hope you'll be sorted with a job". And so on.
I quit my job because I can't stand it any more, it's damaging my mental health, and I spend a significant proportion of my working days wanting to shoot myself. Leaving such a job, I feel, should be seen as a positive thing, not an act of reckless foolishness.
At times like this, I hear Larkin's words from "Toads" - "and yet, no-one actually _starves_". I start imagining taking a year off, getting my head straightened out properly, writing a novel, doing some travelling, recapturing the spark...
But that's a pipe-dream. I need a job to live the life I have become comfortable in, I don't want to be back in debt, I need to lie in the bed that I and the world have made for myself. And I probably need the mental stimulation, like everybody does...
And I don't honestly think that any early promise I had can be recaptured. It flashes the odd fin now and then, but it's gone. I'm the person I am, both better and worse than the person I was - the messy stuff has been freeze-dried, which makes it more concentrated but less volatile, and easier to keep bottled. A lot of good shit has gone too, I fear, and its loss drives me to despair sometimes, but that's just the bargain we make with the world, for better for worse, for richer for poorer.

iii) just started "Shadow on the Wind" by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, and it's shaping up to be a cracker...