Wreckage
Someone I used to know killed himself today. It's anonymous to me, in a way, so I'll let him appear so here. It's not wholly unexpected but still comes as a shock, even more so that I was contacted so quickly and easily. I found myself crying in Deborah's office and feeling angry, incredibly angry with myself for being upset, and angry with him for letting go, even though I have no idea how or where he's been these last few months, and angrier still with myself for caring so abstractly. It's the shock, I suppose.
I have a job interview today and forgot that I'm wearing my clumsy brown cords and dirty shoes. It's The Old Thatched Tavern on the corner, 'one of the oldest pubs in Stratford upon Avon'. I went jobhunting last night and found myself walking all the way to Shottery, and ugly sub-village just outside Stratford. It's amusing how the innards of the town are kept so aptly tasteful, when the outskirts are so terribly ugly. Guesthouses sprawl along the streets, almost attractive to tourists for their English ugliness, if for little else. The Cymbeline was my favourite, I think, its garden lined with statuettes of supposed Shakespeare characters, and the bard himself peering dolefully from the porch.
Tomorrow, catharsis. My mother was supposed to be coming up with friends and taking us out for tea, but I think has abandoned the plan. I'll go to the Stratford music shop and buy new pieces to play. I'm in desperate need of some kind of fresh start, no matter how tiny.
I have a job interview today and forgot that I'm wearing my clumsy brown cords and dirty shoes. It's The Old Thatched Tavern on the corner, 'one of the oldest pubs in Stratford upon Avon'. I went jobhunting last night and found myself walking all the way to Shottery, and ugly sub-village just outside Stratford. It's amusing how the innards of the town are kept so aptly tasteful, when the outskirts are so terribly ugly. Guesthouses sprawl along the streets, almost attractive to tourists for their English ugliness, if for little else. The Cymbeline was my favourite, I think, its garden lined with statuettes of supposed Shakespeare characters, and the bard himself peering dolefully from the porch.
Tomorrow, catharsis. My mother was supposed to be coming up with friends and taking us out for tea, but I think has abandoned the plan. I'll go to the Stratford music shop and buy new pieces to play. I'm in desperate need of some kind of fresh start, no matter how tiny.