RLP
Bluelighter
A tale of four cities - A short story by RLP.
I'd been living in New Cross for two years by then. We'd always had our ups and downs but early morning and evening commute through the industrial heartlands of South East London epitomised our relationship. The braking round tight corners was a dull piercing noise, feeling the latest crotch brush my leg on an overcrowded, overheated, overground train, delayed, as per. A multitude of people and yet solitude. Even the bright orange lights of the Sainsbury's was repressive, it's very own Mecca calling the weary twenty something professionals and full-of-regret-immigrants to part with what little money they had left. Still, time spent commuting was time spent thinking. I'm not sure if it was nostalgia or escapism but I couldn't bear London anymore. The capital had become stale, and my zest for life was rotten. I packed my bags quietly when she was out with friends one night. I didn't have much - it all fit into one suitcase. I took my usual overground north to Canada Water and then the Jubilee to London Bridge, but this time it was different. Rather than continue heading west I went North, alighting at Kings Cross. To this day I don't know why I chose Kings Cross. Friends have since hinted at the possibility that the Northern Line is directly north which reflects onwards and upwards. Other, more geeky friends point to the possibility of my platform 3/4's at Kings Cross which reflected how I felt about myself. Nonsensical bullshit. A better explanation was that I simply had no idea where I was going and stumbled that way. Whatever.
Four hours and a new era later I was sat slowly slipping an Americano in a Starbucks across from the station. I looked back at the neoclassical architecture that rose majestically across the road and listened to a conversation I couldn't understand. I looked at my suitcase which was lying limp on the floor. Fuck.
A month had passed and I'd slept in eight different beds. None belonged to a female, or, if they did, none of them shared it with me. The coast was within tube distance and I spent a lot of time out there early on. I wasn't used to the sea air, it was comforting. I could look out into the horizon past the crashing waves on the shore front and could picture the next land mass appearing over the miles. It was a stark reminder to myself of the situation I found myself in. I wondered if someone is Esbjerg was wondering the same thing looking out West. I waved. Some school children sniggered behind me. It's at this point I should probably tell you I was in Newcastle. Newcastle is a lovely city, the people are friendly, the beer is cheap and there are more Greggs stores than there are banks. It kind of makes sense when you're here - why would you put your money into a savings account when you can invest in a steak bake?
Weeks, months and a year went by. I'd found work but it was uninspiring. I began to pine for what I had. They say the grass is always greener on the other side, but I didn't want grass, I wanted Louisa back. I didn't even want it for me, I just wanted to know that she was safe, that she was happy and that she was making the most of her life. My time out of the capital had also made me realise that my boredom with routine had led me to a depression I didn't I had. A misty fog which stopped me from seeing and feeling what I really wanted. My time up North had given me time to think, to really think, and I could only think of her.
I travelled from Newcastle to Kings Cross, taking the Northern Line to London Bridge and skipping over to Canada water and down, retracing the footsteps in reverse from twelve months ago when I had walked out on the only person who believed in me. I didn't know what was going to happen, what I was going to say. I didn't know if she would be mad, angry, upset or happy to see me. Maybe a combination of all of them? Our flat was down a small three steps and those steps felt like coming down a 45 degree decline. I steadied myself and knocked. A man called Darren answered the door and he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. My old commute of dispair had turned into a new commute of dispair.
I don't know if you've ever had the experience of trying to contact your exs friends after you've walked out on her, but I've since found it's quite hostile. No one wanted to give me the time of day. I was called a cunt, more than once. I didn't know where to go from there. I quit my job in Newcastle - it was wank anyway and I had enough money to see me out for a few months if not more - and pitched up back in London trying to rekindle friendships from the year past. Charlie, Adam and Gravy were all delighted to see me, alothgh n my absense it was obvious that those three had semi-cut me from their social norms. Mark had moved in with his girlfriend Natasha in Bristol and Kurtis wanted nothing to do with me. I quickly learned how much little money I had after nights out in London than in Newcastle and ended up sofa surfing between the three. They didn't have to do it, they probably shouldn't have done it, but I owe each one my life. Why?
Having been back in London for six months I bumped into Louisa's mum by chance. Once again I was called a cunt, but I did my best to explain my reasons for being a waste of space and, for reasons unknown, she took pity me on me. We spoke about how she was doing, what she'd been up to, what they'd done for Christmas. Eventually, I got the three words I'd been wanting to hear for 6 months - three words that would be better than any other three words ever again. "She's in Paris."
Once again I found I was on my way to King's Cross. I took the rather stupidly long underground walk from the NL platform to St Pancras and booked on a Eurostar to Gare du Nord. Once again I found myself as an unofficial tester of beds. I tried the University, the Paris office of the company that she worked for in London, the phone book, various train stations. I had no idea what I was doing. Spies get trained for years to be able to locate people and it often takes them ages anyway. I didn't have that much time, my money was running out. Sooner or later I'd have to return home. Besides, the French fucking suck, and despite claiming culinary superiority over every other nation, they really are just a bunch of cheese (avg quality) eating surrender monkeys.
And then, out of nowhere, I found her.
----------
And why a tale of four cities you ask? Well, Barcelona is a lot sunnier at this time of the year than London or Newcastle. And there's a beach, a proper beach. Life is a beach.
PS: You all suck. Not one PM in the time I've not been around.
I'd been living in New Cross for two years by then. We'd always had our ups and downs but early morning and evening commute through the industrial heartlands of South East London epitomised our relationship. The braking round tight corners was a dull piercing noise, feeling the latest crotch brush my leg on an overcrowded, overheated, overground train, delayed, as per. A multitude of people and yet solitude. Even the bright orange lights of the Sainsbury's was repressive, it's very own Mecca calling the weary twenty something professionals and full-of-regret-immigrants to part with what little money they had left. Still, time spent commuting was time spent thinking. I'm not sure if it was nostalgia or escapism but I couldn't bear London anymore. The capital had become stale, and my zest for life was rotten. I packed my bags quietly when she was out with friends one night. I didn't have much - it all fit into one suitcase. I took my usual overground north to Canada Water and then the Jubilee to London Bridge, but this time it was different. Rather than continue heading west I went North, alighting at Kings Cross. To this day I don't know why I chose Kings Cross. Friends have since hinted at the possibility that the Northern Line is directly north which reflects onwards and upwards. Other, more geeky friends point to the possibility of my platform 3/4's at Kings Cross which reflected how I felt about myself. Nonsensical bullshit. A better explanation was that I simply had no idea where I was going and stumbled that way. Whatever.
Four hours and a new era later I was sat slowly slipping an Americano in a Starbucks across from the station. I looked back at the neoclassical architecture that rose majestically across the road and listened to a conversation I couldn't understand. I looked at my suitcase which was lying limp on the floor. Fuck.
A month had passed and I'd slept in eight different beds. None belonged to a female, or, if they did, none of them shared it with me. The coast was within tube distance and I spent a lot of time out there early on. I wasn't used to the sea air, it was comforting. I could look out into the horizon past the crashing waves on the shore front and could picture the next land mass appearing over the miles. It was a stark reminder to myself of the situation I found myself in. I wondered if someone is Esbjerg was wondering the same thing looking out West. I waved. Some school children sniggered behind me. It's at this point I should probably tell you I was in Newcastle. Newcastle is a lovely city, the people are friendly, the beer is cheap and there are more Greggs stores than there are banks. It kind of makes sense when you're here - why would you put your money into a savings account when you can invest in a steak bake?
Weeks, months and a year went by. I'd found work but it was uninspiring. I began to pine for what I had. They say the grass is always greener on the other side, but I didn't want grass, I wanted Louisa back. I didn't even want it for me, I just wanted to know that she was safe, that she was happy and that she was making the most of her life. My time out of the capital had also made me realise that my boredom with routine had led me to a depression I didn't I had. A misty fog which stopped me from seeing and feeling what I really wanted. My time up North had given me time to think, to really think, and I could only think of her.
I travelled from Newcastle to Kings Cross, taking the Northern Line to London Bridge and skipping over to Canada water and down, retracing the footsteps in reverse from twelve months ago when I had walked out on the only person who believed in me. I didn't know what was going to happen, what I was going to say. I didn't know if she would be mad, angry, upset or happy to see me. Maybe a combination of all of them? Our flat was down a small three steps and those steps felt like coming down a 45 degree decline. I steadied myself and knocked. A man called Darren answered the door and he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. My old commute of dispair had turned into a new commute of dispair.
I don't know if you've ever had the experience of trying to contact your exs friends after you've walked out on her, but I've since found it's quite hostile. No one wanted to give me the time of day. I was called a cunt, more than once. I didn't know where to go from there. I quit my job in Newcastle - it was wank anyway and I had enough money to see me out for a few months if not more - and pitched up back in London trying to rekindle friendships from the year past. Charlie, Adam and Gravy were all delighted to see me, alothgh n my absense it was obvious that those three had semi-cut me from their social norms. Mark had moved in with his girlfriend Natasha in Bristol and Kurtis wanted nothing to do with me. I quickly learned how much little money I had after nights out in London than in Newcastle and ended up sofa surfing between the three. They didn't have to do it, they probably shouldn't have done it, but I owe each one my life. Why?
Having been back in London for six months I bumped into Louisa's mum by chance. Once again I was called a cunt, but I did my best to explain my reasons for being a waste of space and, for reasons unknown, she took pity me on me. We spoke about how she was doing, what she'd been up to, what they'd done for Christmas. Eventually, I got the three words I'd been wanting to hear for 6 months - three words that would be better than any other three words ever again. "She's in Paris."
Once again I found I was on my way to King's Cross. I took the rather stupidly long underground walk from the NL platform to St Pancras and booked on a Eurostar to Gare du Nord. Once again I found myself as an unofficial tester of beds. I tried the University, the Paris office of the company that she worked for in London, the phone book, various train stations. I had no idea what I was doing. Spies get trained for years to be able to locate people and it often takes them ages anyway. I didn't have that much time, my money was running out. Sooner or later I'd have to return home. Besides, the French fucking suck, and despite claiming culinary superiority over every other nation, they really are just a bunch of cheese (avg quality) eating surrender monkeys.
And then, out of nowhere, I found her.
----------
And why a tale of four cities you ask? Well, Barcelona is a lot sunnier at this time of the year than London or Newcastle. And there's a beach, a proper beach. Life is a beach.
PS: You all suck. Not one PM in the time I've not been around.
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