The benefit of having your own house at my age is that you don’t have to go anywhere. Your friends all volunteer to come to your doorstep. The alternative is to cramp into a smallish bedroom, and risk having parents come up and tell you to shut it and turn off the music.
So, instead, everyone happily drops everything they’re doing and comes to us. To the horror of our neighbours this means that there are a lot of teens hanging about outside our house, either with Mark and the car, or with me.
Bikes, chavs, toffs and us, all mixed up, hanging about on the pavement outside our house. The shutters in the neighbouring houses must flap like crazy as people bemoan that the property prices drop for every hour we’re here.
Since we’ve been away for so long, today was a day for reconnecting our social networks, and reminding people that we were in fact still alive and residents of this town. Therefore, at one point we had ten people at the house.
We could have thrown a wild party, except that we have nothing to drink. There were three lonely bottles left of the beer that Mark and his dad brewed earlier, and those were quickly stolen out to the car. So, you had underage people, standing around a car with the bonnet open, drinking beer. Yes, this is chavland.
Eventually though the number whittled down to three visitors: Abbie, Stephen, and one of Mark’s friends. The inner circle, so to speak. Which meant that we had to engage in a session of mindless violence and wanton destruction, like we are supposed to at our age. Well, apart from the fact that the only things that were destroyed were digital representations of ourselves.
I rule. I killed everyone. I feel much accomplished. But isn’t it strange to talk about girlfriends and summer doings while you unleash the power of a sawed-off shotgun into someone’s face? I mean, in one second you’re listening to a recount of the amorous life of your average insecure teen, and in the next you’re stroking his blood and left eye off your digital clothing?
I am afraid I’ve binged a little too, today. Yesterday I had my Grados repaired, and today I’ve binged on music, so I’m sitting here up in our little office sated on everything from Mozart’s “Queen of the Night aria” to Atreyu’s “Blow”.
Right now Mark is catching up on missed football on the telly downstairs, and Watson is trying to gnaw on my foot so that I’ll go and throw his stupid ball. He has a deep fascination for a baseball sized plastic red and white ball, and has a deep and unquenchable desire to run after it and then bring it to me for a new throw.
While one of my online friend’s cat is prowling around in Essex masquerading as a lion, and getting on the news, my dog wants to run after a little ball. He has no ambition this dog except to eat, run around, and sleep. Which reminds me that I need to cut his claws soon because he’ll start to leave grooves in the floor boards shortly. But damn it, I’ve missed the little blighter.