James:
Extreme sports something? Its been a good year since Canyoning. Good time of year to read about someone else being cold and wet. But what though? Rafting? So cliché. Parachuting? Nah, there´s no way I´m writing one of those life flashing before your eyes, regrets and resolutions epiphany pieces. And what the fuck else do people talk about whilst falling from planes. No. Maybe Paragliding. Bit more to work with there. More time before you hit the ground. More scope for craic. Maybe there´s some sort of seedy underbelly to it all. All those paragliders returning to earth bursting with adrenalin with no outlet for the imbalance, they just start banging each other left right and centre. Volatile, incestuous jealousies are spawned between rival banging factions! And imagine the poor offspring of such tempestuous union! The Sky´s Unhappy Underground: Paraglidings´ unwanted progeny. But its probably not like that is it. My dick always shrivels up after an adrenalin rush. Its probably all hushed talk of mythical thermals, legendary paragliders past and comparing beards round a gas stove of Bachelors soup. Besides, did that Free Running article a few months back. What else?? Come on internet, I´ve seen this all before. Bonzai gardening? Local too. But so boring. Lockpicking: A guide to losing your keys - now there was a mistake. Nobody read that. And I still can´t pick a lock. No, slow technical stuff flops. Nothing else like that. No. Done it. Done it. Too similar to Bivoaucing. No. Bee keeping, no fucking way, hate those little bastards. No. Ahhhhh, home micro brewary! Now there´s something indulgent. Be great though. Churning out an endless bonanza of hoppy delights. Impress house guests - oh thats a crisp little number - have you used apricots in this? You raise your glass to your lips, beads of condensation falling voluptuously down the glass, you take a deep pull. Dave from Hoarsefield notices your adams apple stoop to welcome the regal liquid. Easing back into your chair, you emit a satisfied yet modest ¨ahhh¨. Casually, you describe a subtlety of brewing techniques deployed in search of bitter sweet tones, nettle textures, fudgey top notes, a gooseberry and vanilla finish, cinnamon aftertaste, pembrokeshire porters and the elusive barley nose. Dave from Hoarsefield is taken aback. Afronted, almost. He sips defensively at the alchemy in his glass. He won´t be able to look you in the eye again until he´s got his own operation pumping out the pints. -Who wouldn´t want to read a witty initiation into home micro brewary of a sunday morning? There´d be some hilarious teething problems along the way. Maybe even the odd explosion! I could ask Ed, see what he thinks. Not the best choice after what he said though. No. You can keep your dignity for now Dave from Hoarsefield.
What does he mean ¨indulgent¨anyways? And how can he say that straight off the back of Knitting Club?! It was fun, but hardly an indulgent choice! The only thing that could possibly have been construed as indulgent was Living, Loving, Lapdancing. But that was ages ago. And one of the best things I´ve written. And Janey suspected me of being a wanker until she read the drafts. Hardly indulgent.
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¨Look, you´re not going to like this, but I´m speaking as a friend, and not as your boss.¨
¨I´d probably take it better coming from my boss¨
¨It goes beyond work Jimmy..¨
¨Is this because I said your nephew´s head was aerodynamic? Because a) I didn´t know it was your nephew and b) he didn´t hear.¨
¨You´re becoming too indulgent with your writing.¨
¨What? I..You gave me a new contract last month didn´t you?¨
¨I said this was as a friend¨
¨Oh, so did you give me the contract as a boss or friend then?!¨
¨Fuck the contract Jimbo. You know exactly what I think of your writing.¨
¨I don´t get it Ed, what you saying?¨
¨Ok. You´ve become quite comfortable over that last 6 months or so haven´t you? Found your style.¨
¨I spose. But what´s wrong with that?¨
¨Nothing, people enjoy reading you. But I´m concerned you´re starting to tie yourself up in knots. I rather miss you at the beginning, when you were out of your depth a bit.¨
¨So I´ve improved and you wish I hadn´t? What´s indulgent about progress?¨
¨Maybe indulgent´s not quite the word. But its a matter of what writing is for you and how...one sec, its Christie...Mon Chere? That´s good news. Ok, one sec, I´m just saying goodbye to Jimbo....Sorry Jim, I wanted to speak to you about this before I left. Look, don´t worry about it. Send me your ideas for next month and we´ll speak in a few weeks when I get back.¨
Jane:
My head´s bobbing like a donkey that keeps forgetting its carrot and I´m desperately trying to stay awake. Partly because I don´t want to miss my stop. But mainly cos I don´t want to miss my first glance of the Pacific. So far, geography doesn´t want to give it to me. To my left, a wall of mist. To my right a wall of vegetation. The bus tilts and lurches along but cannot find its way out of the maze. Sylvie, a French girl I´ve met, has long since given in to the engine´s lullaby. She plunges like a metronome from head rest to window, making me feel a bit sick. If James were here I´d leave the poetic descriptions to him. He´d want to stay awake and gawp at the Pacific aswell. And I´d probably end up leaving that to him too. He´d be all warm and comfortable and I´d fall asleep. Afterwards I´d enjoy listening to the story he´d made up to impress me, or maybe himself.
The green and white box collapses for a moment as we dip down into a small village. Then returns as we dive back into the hillside. I try to focus on the green side. Leaves and branches winding out fo the smokey hillside, the same every time I open my eyes. I can´t tell if I´m blinking or passing in and out.
Finally, sitting in a V where the hills fall away, I spy the Pacific. Its grey -blue and barron, and worth the struggle.
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