When Days Are Numbered

Lukewarm peppermint tea, slow traditional Koto music, a New York Times bestseller lazily sitting on the corner of my desk with so many page folds it would be fit as a razor. Such things can only spell one thing…just another Sunday has elapsed.

It has been so long since I have mustered up full-blooded inspiration to write in this journal but moving to Old Street has certainly compounded my desire to do so and this vibrant area of the City, bursting with those non-conformist, coming-of-age young adults seeking solace in alternative brands of music, radiates an energy that I and countless others absorb. As I bask in the bright lights of City Road that pierce my curtains, I know that time at my Stoke Newington flat, soon to be confined to the past for purposes of reminiscing, is limited and the Time Keeper is interminably waiting to extricate any memories I have not safely padlocked in my box.

Of course, when I moved to Flat 2, Allen Road at the start of September 2007, I was carrying suitcases and bags full of memories that only served to slow me down; most were emotionally draining to consolidate given that I had no idea how to unpack them. I remember vividly that those were the days I had lost myself; I was not able to ‘shout’ as I had no voice, not able to look at someone and see them, not able to see my worth before others. Those were the dark days where I descended into an unfathomable sadness that left me bereft of fellow-feeling and overwhelming consumed by bitterness. However, I’m sure most of my friends would dispute this has changed at all!

But as always, there is darkness before dawn, and I slowly emerged from this glum state to see the clouds for the sky and enjoy doing all those small things that used to make me happy; rolling individual slices of Parma ham and eating them unaccompanied, dipping hearty Digestives into my tea and rearranging my room every so often so as to make it feel new and fresh.
It is also funny how I have turned to food and still do in times of need. Upon a discussion with Freddie the other week about the general level of our sinning, we concluded, or rather he did, that I have replaced any uncontrollable desire I may have for sex and alcohol, with food. I hereby proudly proclaim Gluttony as my saviour! My reasons for this are that Sex at my age is so far meaningless given that my earmarked Shining Knight is still stuck in traffic on the North Circular Road. As for alcohol, I do not particularly want to be used in a clip for ITV News at Ten showing me clutching my head in my hands post-vomit against a backdrop of girls in short-skirts and guys fighting. Although I must say, I do enjoy a good tipple now and then.
In essence food is incorruptible, food is love and food can be whatever you want to be. Literally.

I must say at this point that my love for food bolstered the friendship I share with my Stoke Newington flatmate Jo. His innate aptitude for cooking and penchant for attention to detail produced the most delicious array of dishes that certainly redefined the term ‘student’ living.
‘Cider Marinated Pork Chops’, ‘Lemon and Garlic Thigh of Chicken’, ‘Thai-style Egg Fried Rice’ and our personal favourite, ‘Sesame and Peanut Noodles’ were all dishes to lick our lips over but not quite like Heath Ledger did as the ‘Joker’…
Jo’s qualities do not stop in the kitchen. In particular, his serenity and modesty of character has made me aware of different perspectives and to consider tolerance before judgement. In his own subtle and unconscious way, he has helped me come to terms with many salient issues that extended well before my emotional low of last summer.

All I can hope now is for my time at the Old St flat to be equally rewarding. This year will not be about restoring my self-esteem but doing my utmost to work hard at Economics & Japanese and to reinforce my academic credibility.
The clock is already ticking.