I bought a new guitar today (a Guild Gad-F20 for those with the guitar knowledge); a beautiful instrument for a mere £549. I think that’s the single largest sum I’ve ever paid for one item, and I felt a little shaky for at least the next hour, worrying that I’d made the wrong decision and spent loads of my savings with a few clicks of a mouse. It was due to be delivered tomorrow, but I received a call from the supplier saying that they’d checked the guitar and it was damaged beyond sellable (I discussed this with a friend, and he thinks ‘damaged beyond sellable’ probably meant the neck had been snapped off – the usual wear and tear) and they’d have to send away for a new one, which would take 7 – 10 days. The retail price has now risen £80 (because of the economic downturn) but fortunately I’ll still get it for the original price, so I now feel relieved to have bought it at the right time (the shaking has subsided) – what with my plans to move out next month, I can’t really justify spending another £80 on what is really a few polished bits of wood, and some bits of metal.
So yes, I’m planning on moving out next month. As I hit my 22nd birthday last month, I realised that I'm getting on a bit (just reaching my physical peak according to some article I read a few months ago) and I need to shake things up a bit – I love Billericay (boy, I do) but it doesn’t in any way provide a challenging or exciting existence. My friend Lucy is in a similar position, and so we’re pursuing two rooms in the east London area (preferably Bethnal green, Shoreditch way). We went to look round one place – a 7 bedroom funky townhouse in Aldgate, with a lovely roof terrace - with a 'I wouldn't lean on that if I were you' railing. We went for drinks before the meeting – to catch up and also to quell our nerves slightly at the impending housemate interview. Unfortunately, we were both a bit tipsy when we arrived (15 minutes later than we’d said we’d be there). After the tour, we were asked to sit in the living room to ‘chill out’ for a while. The alcohol had made Lucy dozy, and as she sat down, she found it hard to keep her eyes open. I was on fire though – cracking jokes, telling stories, relating my hobbies, giving interesting facts (these facts were met with silences before I inserted the old ‘well, I thought that was interesting’ – probably not a good sign). After 5/10 minutes of slightly awkward chat we left, and as soon as we were out of earshot, burst into laughter. It was a weird experience being interviewed on a personal level, rather than a professional level. Still, an email the next day suggested that we’d passed, and the rooms were ours. Sadly, neither of us could afford the larger, more expensive room (which we really knew before we went to look at the place), so we had to say no. Good to be wanted though – even when one of us was asleep, and the other wouldn’t shut up about inane rubbish, five strangers gave us the mark of approval.
Anyway, shortly after buying my Guitar, I wandered across Millennium Bridge at lunch to go to the Tate Modern. London was looking beautiful. The sun softly shone in my face, the warm breeze brushed my bare arms, and even the hundreds of tourists taking photos of St Paul’s didn’t bother me. Usually I huff at them for walking slowly and suddenly stopping right in front of me and walking five across on the pavement with no consideration for those who need to pass the other way, but today it didn’t vex me at all. I even considered offering to take photos for families – there’s always one person left out who has to take the photo (usually the Dad), and I bet they’d love to have a photo of the whole family. I could either do it as a good Samaritan (to make myself feel good) or I could do it in exchange for cash. I’d probably have to dress down, as a student maybe, not as a homeless person, because people might not give 50p (recommended pricing) a photo to a professional. It would obviously be a strictly summer pursuit, as there aren’t so many tourists round St. Paul’s over winter, but at 50p a photo, or even 20p, and a 1 hour lunch break, I could make myself a fair amount. And if put on the spot, I bet tourists never really know what our weird foreign money is worth). There’s actually this homeless guy who always parks himself at the end of Millennium Bridge with a sign and a hat for money, who I could possibly forward this business plan onto. I don’t think he gets much, as this guy in a wheelchair sits a short distance away playing one of those Caribbean tin drums, and I think people would rather give to him. The flaw in this plan is that there’s always a chance that people wouldn’t trust their nice, expensive digital cameras to a stranger who’s clearly desperate for money, and could probably run quite fast. Though if they’re homeless, they’re probably starving and might not have the energy to run. A tourist probably won’t analyse how hungry and therefore how much energy the guy who’s just offered to take their photo for cash has. I’ll look into this, and report back at a later date.
Whilst in the Tate shop, looking through a picture book of red army propaganda, I spotted a book by David Byrne – ‘The Bicycle Diaries’. Being a huge Talking Heads (and consequent Byrne) fan, my eyes lit up. Whilst the content and style of the book seemed like it would be The David Byrne, no other information suggested it was by him, and I didn’t want to foolishly waste my money on a book about fold-up bikes by some random dude. I got back to the office and googled it, and it was only by The David Byrne, wasn't it? I’ll go back tomorrow and buy it, but whilst on David’s wikipedia page, I saw a link to his Journal (which I’d heard about recently because of his criticism of U2’s un-green world tour – he makes a good point). So I spent a short while reading Dave’s journal, and it’s a very good read. It’s fluidly written and covers a lot of subjects. I recommend it. A year or so ago I started a blog (with a total of two or three entries), and this spurred me on to start it up again. Sure my life isn’t as interesting as D’s (see Thom Yorke identifying the fashion designer who designed Byrne’s shirt - this has, as of yet, never happened to me), but every now and then something happens which I’m sure I can relate in a vaguely interesting way. The real trick is to keep them fairly short, so I’ve already ruined this one. And nothing that happened today should really be of any interest to anyone other than myself. But it killed 30 minutes for me, and if you were sensible enough to skim-read, then it probably only wasted about two minutes for you. And you can get that back by waking up a bit earlier tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment