Still not fully recovered from my writer's dip, I spent Thursday in the mall, trying to get rid of money. Who would believe me if I said that even with all the closing-down-discounts I did not spend a fiver on beautiful new shoes, nor a quid on a new top. All I bought was 15 eggs and crumpets. And I don't even like crumpets.
That afternoon Freddie wanted to take me cycling. That cheered me up, 'cause in all honesty I think my low spirits might have something to do with a huge lack of physical exercise. But after three minutes his bike broke down. Instead, I took him to The Crown and Sceptre, the pub opposite his house, where we had two pints. Now that was a laugh, I think Thursday night was the first time ever that I genuinely won two out of two games of pool.
But overnight I slipped back into the writer's dip, realizing that I had not even tried to write, while there was a massive assignment waiting for me. Don't get me wrong, I don't have a writer's block. I have no trouble whatsoever producing masses of text. The problem is that all I write is crap. I'd rather call it word-diarrhoea. (And in case anyone thinks that's a well-found metaphor, I stole it from Ronald Giphart.)
So I went for a walk, got ripped off by Nomi, ate free fair trade chocolate and watched The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya. When I was almost forcing myself to write, I heard Freddie whistle down my window. It was a lovely day, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Would I like to go for a walk with him? Of course I would! I'd just wasted hours on feeling miserable and watching hentai, so I could not justify reclining something healthy and fun.
So out we went. We walked down the canal into the woods. After a while we ended up near some dodgy looking industrial site, with loads of heavy machinery making a hell of a noise. We climbed a house high hill of rubble so that we could look over the fence. We felt like spies, not meant to be there, out of place almost. It's no use trying to describe it, 'cause it doesn't matter one bit to you readers, but it was a captivating sight, incredibly fascinating, all those containers and the massive construction to make and transport mortar, and the big machinery smashing previous buildings. We really had to tear ourselves away from it, to go on and explore. South of the Huntsmoor Park there are a lot of lakes, which caught our interest as well.
There were no pathways, we just ran through the shrubbery, with black industrial mud and rubble getting into our shoes. It was massive! And scattered around the place we found loads of deserted sleeping bags, gas tanks and bits of cars. Wheels, seats, doors and even an intact bonnet of a silver Subaru Impreza.
'Chavs,' Freddie said.
When we saw a little creek we wanted to go down there. But then we spotted a red van.
'What on earth is a red van doing there?' I asked. We had no clue, but it didn't feel right. 'Wood & Son' it read on the side. What was their business in the middle of nowhere? Surely that had to be dodgy, so we didn't go down to the water yet. And that's when we found the rest of the Impreza. Or rather, the spot where it had burnt down. There was no actual wreck left, but a black spot on the floor and stuff scattered around it. Bits of engine; a piece of pluche to wrap around the seatbelt so that a child will like to wear it; shoes, a sweater and trousers; a cd by HIM; a pack of cigarettes; a bottle of detergent. And a document called 'details of employee leaving work'. Who is Philip Sawtell? And what happened to his car? Why did he leave behind his clothing?
'You're all on edge,' Freddie remarked.
'Well, this is very exciting, innit?'
On Freddie's facebook profile it says 'fiction tends not to interest me, real life is much more interesting'. I laughed out loud when I first read that. That's quite a different story than Arian, with whom I virtually had every field of interest in common.
'Thank you so much for taking me up here,' I said. 'You sure as hell know how to cheer me up!'