the bad feeling years
For once it felt quite Christmassy at work. A three-day power cut left us huddled together in the staff room by torchlight, bundled up against the cold. All very cosy in its way, although for some reason I was also reminded of that scene in The Exorcist where they go into Linda Blair’s room with their coats on and shine a torch on her, and the words help me appear on her body. Well, Christmas, The Exorcist - both have a religious basis. And both are largely about possessions.
Now the lights are back on, the words help me become more appropriate. Suddenly, it’s manic. Phoenix has gone crazy. It’s not like being wired up to a machine, it’s more like being connected to the nervous system of an hysterical maniac. Everything you happen to sell more than one of is assumed to be a runaway Christmas bestseller, so you get boxes of it a couple of days later. At least this will be useful to know if I ever do write a book…
I also went to Sam’s for the first time since it was done up (though done over might be the more appropriate phrase). Yes, they’ve splashed out thousands (apparently) on matt black walls, a lot of slightly Gothic chandeliers, and a carpet that just screams: cheap rented accomodation. It’s more like they’ve stripped the place back to uncover an earlier club from, say, the early eighties. Indifference wafted over me like dry ice as the new sound system brought out to perfection the dull thud in every song.
Only the company rescued the evening. I talked to Rhys, visiting from Wales, who I managed to offend a month or so ago by refusing to argue with him about the merits of 24 on my blog. Yes, I upset him by not arguing with him; I won’t make that mistake again. I thought we had resolved the situation, but now he is taunting me further on his own blog by blatantly celebrating things with which he knows I have a problem. Like The Living Years by Mike and the Mechanics. A song whose message is that if you need to tell someone something, do it during their 'living years', because although their dead years are more numerous, they are not quite so easy to contact then.
Don’t start me off, Rhys.
Now the lights are back on, the words help me become more appropriate. Suddenly, it’s manic. Phoenix has gone crazy. It’s not like being wired up to a machine, it’s more like being connected to the nervous system of an hysterical maniac. Everything you happen to sell more than one of is assumed to be a runaway Christmas bestseller, so you get boxes of it a couple of days later. At least this will be useful to know if I ever do write a book…
I also went to Sam’s for the first time since it was done up (though done over might be the more appropriate phrase). Yes, they’ve splashed out thousands (apparently) on matt black walls, a lot of slightly Gothic chandeliers, and a carpet that just screams: cheap rented accomodation. It’s more like they’ve stripped the place back to uncover an earlier club from, say, the early eighties. Indifference wafted over me like dry ice as the new sound system brought out to perfection the dull thud in every song.
Only the company rescued the evening. I talked to Rhys, visiting from Wales, who I managed to offend a month or so ago by refusing to argue with him about the merits of 24 on my blog. Yes, I upset him by not arguing with him; I won’t make that mistake again. I thought we had resolved the situation, but now he is taunting me further on his own blog by blatantly celebrating things with which he knows I have a problem. Like The Living Years by Mike and the Mechanics. A song whose message is that if you need to tell someone something, do it during their 'living years', because although their dead years are more numerous, they are not quite so easy to contact then.
Don’t start me off, Rhys.
posted by martin at 1:30 PM
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