KFC (K and a Friend in Conversation)

In a KFC somewhere...


Him: (Smiling) Ah, good old junk food...nice.


Me: Really?

Him: Yeah! But in the ends, chicken and chips costs £2 pounds, KFC take it too far with their prices.

After eating said KFC...

Me: (Holding my stomach, envisioning multiple bathroom trips when I get home) That was horrible. Never again!

Him: Yeah, it wasn’t all that. Not for the money they charge anyway.

Me: KFC, it’s a lot like sleeping with your ex.

Him: (Confused look on his face) Come on, what are you talking about?

Me: Well, it sounds like a good idea at the time, possibly even a great idea that you have craved for some time, but once it’s done, you kind of wish you hadn’t, in fact, there is a pretty good chance that while doing the deed, you feel slightly ashamed of yourself.

Him: (Big man chuckle) You are too much!

Me: I’m serious!

Him: (Big man chuckle, again)

Me: Especially the feeling after, all that guilt. You try to do a billion good things to make yourself feel better, and swear that you will never do it again, but you know, one hungry night, you just may succumb to those familiar herbs and spices.

Him: (Shakes his head) You're not well K.

Act 4

He dreamt of his main squeeze, them hitting the night scene, draped in the finest robes, the flyest stones, elegance, decorum, the whole thing, in this particular fantasy, they were out, he and she, hands intertwined, eyes locked, sharing space and time, in a room brimming with avant-garde deocr, men and women of all sorts, from the door to the bar, they stood, inhaling the aroma of intoxicating potions from afar.

She sipped an elderflower bellini, he nursed a sour martini, he held her hand, proud to be her man, proud to be her other, her friend, her love, he cherished her, and all she represented, he smiled at her, "I love you" he mimed, she returned the sentiment, they both meant it, all of a sudden, the scene turned bright, excess light, she started to fade out of sight, he knew this feeling, the onslaught of daylight, and in a flash, his eyes opened, the dawning of a new day had left him awoken.

Staring at the ceiling, retracing feelings and pondering the dreams' meaning...

Three things I learnt this week.

1. The term ‘baby boomers’ refers to people born in the 1940’s and 1960’s. This group of men and women are one of the most influential cohorts of people, as they make up the bulk of the modern workforce, pay for many to receive state education, medical treatment and pensions. They are due to retire very soon, let’s hope the state reciprocates the sacrifice and dedication the baby boomers have shown.

2. Trying to arrange a simple pick up and drop off of band equipment, can be filled with as much heartache, joy and tribulation as the work of Homer. Think transport problems, intra-band conflicts, shady meetings in car parks, all of which takes place amid a cold and dreary London landscape. And where would such a voyage be without a deeper, philosophical rumination, which in this case was, ‘why am I out here in the cold lifting drums, while dem man are at home?’

3. People come, and people go. It is very easy to focus on their departure, which is often fuelled with emotion and misplaced words, but rarely, do we remember them by their stay, the way they managed to occupy so much of your life, of your time, of your thoughts.

Act 3

Back home, where he sits atop his throne, the centre of sanity, where he can be, himself, the tragedy, is that home consists of bad memories, a reminder of what shouldn't be, his place to dwell, the room at the top of the stairwell, was light years away from the outside hell, he shut the door upon entry, threw his everything on the floor and tiptoed gently.

Pictures of past pleasures plastered two of the four walls, old friends, an old him, smiling, having a ball, he lay on his bed, arms by his side, slightly intoxicated, an alocoholic high, the room span some, the results of cognacs and dark rum, he closed his eyes for a second, but at that moment his phone beckoned, the familiar 'beep beeping' of a text message:

"Hey love, hope u r well, im swell, u coming for dinner friday? need to know how many, ask them lot aswell."

He shook his head, he knew her type, not a friend, just someone who enjoyed his company on random nights. He trusted nobody, least of all women, serpents in satin, the title he'd give 'em. 'Forget her!' Right now, he craved rhythms, syncopation and harmony, he grabbed his headphones off the nightstand and threw on a CD, Miles Davis was what he heard, he held adoration for the man, over the years he he had become a hige jazz fan, he felt the tension, the build, their brilliance, their skill, herbie on keys was enough to please, he closed his eyes and slipped between the sheets, rubbing his legs in an attempt to generate heat, music gave him hope, its beauty, its joy, it helped him cope, in musical bliss he lay, entering his dreams in a silent way.

Chapter 6

At some stage, his longing for her, his desire to remain relevant in her life had surpassed his original feelings. He no longer cared about 'them,' about cultivating a unison that would see them transcend their habitual lives and surroundings. He no longer valued the art of nurturing feelings and developing memories, nor did he value love and the joys it brings, about the pleasure possible when the right lives intertwine at the right time, he was only interested in maintaining a shred of importance, he only cared for relevance, to be able to project his neediness someplace other than nowhere. What started out as a love, an unbridled fusion of feelings and foresight had morphed into obsession.

For the first time, he felt her hatred for him. In her eyes, he saw a level of loathing he never thought possible. With that look, at that moment, he understood her cold demeanor, her monotone greetings and effortless sex, for she was void of all feelings. Her actions had been lead by misplaced obligations and interests were feigned as a pleasantry.

In his mind, the last 18 months suddenly burst into a concerto of clarity. He was able to see himself through her eyes, his pitiful, needy adult self, unable to read signs, unable to comprehend when a relationship had soured. Yes, he was the reason for their displeasure, for the months of repressed comments and awkward silences, he was the perpetrator of a murder most foul.

**

She never returned any of his calls after that night, instead, she sent him a text several days later which read:

'I'm staying in a hotel for a week. Be gone when I'm back.'

**

8 months had passed when he found himself again walking along that road. It all seemed too familiar, the houses, the smells, the lives of others. He peered past her curtains, in an attempt to catch a glimpse of her. But what for? To try and talk her into some kind of re-run of their relationship? Or worse? Maybe a night of halfhearted for old times sake fondle between the sheets that would only serve as a reminder of his past failings? 'No,' he whispered to himself, crouching down in front of the window, wringing his in despair.

She had probably grown, met a worthy suitor, and he would appear to be nothing more than a forlorn man, still unable to grasp the beginnings and ends that love and life offer. He glared at the familiar contents of the room through the window. Maybe she hadn't changed, maybe she too missed him. Maybe she sat alone at nights, self-esteem ravaged, replaying the epic in its entirety in her mind, all the while craving for the stale comfort that comes from being in a loveless relationship, maybe she needed him. Maybe...All this and more ran through his mind, but in the end, he said "sod it, I'm going home."

And with that, he turned his back on the past and the present and walked, alone into tomorrow, camouflaged in the counterfeit tranquility that the city at night offers.

END