Last night, was Ben Carson’s 25th birthday. To celebrate, I went to a dinner party hosted by him and his fiance.
They live in Roehampton, quite near where I used to live in Hayward Gardens. It’s a new build place, a very nice one. I used to see it on my way into Ealing. They are, on paper, a very grown up couple: he’s an RAF Officer, she’s a lawyer, they’re in love, they’re engaged, they live in a nice flat in South West London. Bang on.
Ben is still very much a “big gay Army rapist” at hear, but has calmed a little. He’s, dare I say it, almost suave? Certainly a decent host. A long way from his days on Culverland (although I suppose the culinary was left to the missus).
It was a great evening, where I was introduced to the wonder that is Rapidough – a game that reminded me fondly of playing board games with George, who I will be hopefully seeing next week for some Dartmoor cycling action.
The real thought-stickler of the evening was when I was talking to Sophie. Well, I say talking to – it was more like complaining at. And I realised “God, I do that a lot” and hate myself for it. Of late, I’ve hated myself for a lot of things. My time at Central was supposed to be the time that I sorted myself out, but if anything I’ve regressed. I feel like I’ve got no spark, no imagination, nothing I want to write about and no sense of my own mind. What I do know though, is that I’m not going to sort it out by whining at dinner parties and pissing away my time doing fruitless things.
Concentration is the only way I’m going to break this lazy habit of a life time, and what is concentration’s prime antagonist? Facebook. I am completely addicted to it, and it sucks up both my concentration and also some of my best ideas that, with some thought, I could turn into real writing. So let’s see if that’s true. One week without The Seductive, Social Monster.
That’s right, Facebook, I’ve got your number. We’ll see who wins…