Size 6

Since the glory of god saw it fit to give us poor students 'student loans', and I have been in receipt of this glorious gift (which I'll be paying for in blood, sweat and tears probably until I'm 40), it makes a mockery of my lack of self will to avoid the high street every bloody start of term.

And thus, I purchased two pairs of boots from Deichman, 'Great shoes, Great deals ;)', at £24.99 a pop. I was, however, the lucky receiver of getting a tenner off as I had spent over £40...what lovely people the Deichmans are! Anyway, I tried them on in a size 6...

(for this story to make sense I have to tell you some important information. I am usually a size 7, BUT, I have a penchant for very thick wool socks during the winter months. But alas, at the time of my purchase I was just wearing a thin pair of socks and a size 6 seemed roomy)

... So there I skipped out of my house this morning at 9:30 for the arduous walk to Uni. Takes about half an hour, and consists of a large hill which leaves me with a sheen of sweat and an unpleasant dry throat.

These boots though...

'Hmmm...what's that pinching on the back of my ankle'
'Maybe your feet have swollen due to the humidity of the general feet area'
'No, surely not, these socks are breathable. They're for hiking you know.'

The damn boots make me walk on tiptoes for the rest of the day. What a stupid look.

When I got home I realised the good people at Deichman wouldn't take a pair of muddy boots back (you'd be surprised how muddy the walk to campus is). So set about digging out the mud from between the grooves of the sole. With a kebab stick. What an ingenious invention. After a quick brush up, and a reapplying of the labels (clever me, I didn't want to litter on the street so I put them in my bag) I wondered back to dear Deichmans.

Thankfully, there was a large group of chavs outside the shop blowing some vuvuzela's (you know that awful piece of plastic that makes a loud noise, popular during the last world cup?) and this seemed to distract the diligent shop girl from checking that the boots I was bringing back were fresh as a daisy.

I walked out with my size 7's :)

Something old to start anew!

My first blog 'Life and That' came into decline after I forgot the email address, username, password I used... not a good start. HOWEVER, this is the fantastically new blog which I will be posting my 'poetry', and will also serve as a mini-live-journal.

SO, to welcome in this new blog I thought I would post something which I didn't put on the other blog, it's an old piece but new for you. It's particularly poignant for me, as when I look back at some old work I can see how I've changed, and it serves as a reminder that things aren't always as bad as they were or seem. Time does that.

Again, it's free prose as is generally my style. A commemorative piece for the National Express service from Gloucester, which I took around last spring.

Service 444

Good afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to this coach service of 444 to London, Victoria.

It is now a legal requirement to wear your seatbelt. Failure to do so, may result in a penalty.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy this journey.

This journey is a time of reflection, and I have done it many times.

The joys of Gloucester are something you must experience for yourself. Nearly all inhabitants of the coach station are fucking insane.

There’s a girl with blood down the side of her leg, with grey khakis rolled up with mud, sweat, puke.

A smoke puffing woman, sits babbling to everyone and no one. She taps her cigarette with impatience.

Spotty, addidas capped oik stares. Waiting for your glance. Better not.

Dreary.

Why is there is no passionate goodbye, when I get on the number 32 from ‘R’ to ‘G’?

I can feel the cum slide out, into my pants. This is going to be an uncomfortable three hours.

Three hours of the rolling and lurching, the ideas in my head.

Five days together. I think that’s a new record. 

This might, very possibly, be the last time I see you. I often think this on the return 444, Glos. to Lon. Vic..

Five days of shagging, eating, talking and some laughter.

So, why so worried about it all?

Perhaps the folder marked ‘Do not look at this one’, might have something to do with it.

But no, that was just an additional maggot to worm through my brain.    

That maggot was my own fault, and I have no one to blame but myself for it. But, who can’t look at a folder named ‘Do not look at this one’? Curiosity killed the cat indeed.

I quickly closed it.

But this didn’t stop my heart from racing, maggot to start squirming, stomach to start rolling.

Why was I even looking in the first place?! I was curious. And I wanted to find the videos that I sent you. To see if you still watched them.

Seriously. Why name it that?! Perhaps it was a test. I failed. But then, obviously you don’t know me that well to know that something named like that would plague me.

I've seen this kind of thing before. 

Perhaps I’m thinking about it too much.

I am, after all, a compulsive thinker.

And I do, after all, think about you and me too much.

This is stupidity at it's most stupid.