Falling out of love is a deeply unsatisfying experience.
For me it's finally happened after nearly 14 years, and I'm kind of upset about it if I'm being honest.
I'd put my faith in this relationship, which started so promisingly with hours of extremely satisfying pleasure, and without realising it had soon become a faithful partner, being there for every significant moment, sharing the highs and the lows, the ecstacy and the agony, and loving every minute of it.
But it began to change, about half a decade ago actually.
Someone else got involved in this relationship, and while initially it was a little bit exciting, as I enjoyed the new input, wondered where this menage a trois might take me, and allowed myself to go along for the ride, little did I realise that things were a-changing.
Without warning there was suddenly another, and another, and another still, and slowly but surely I've come to the realisation that the voice, the spirit, the world that I had fallen in love with had changed beyond repair.
I've just spent the last four days making sure that my feelings, or rather my new state of non-feeling towards this relationship, were really as they seem to be, and I'm sorry to say that they are.
He was once my favourite author, the architect of Alex Cross, one of my favourite literary characters, but James Patterson has lost his identity, lost his bite, lost my interest.
Patterson is these days nothing more than an ideas machine, who gives the synopsis of his latest plot to a 'co-author' and lets them emulate his voice, which they have done with increasing ineptitude over the last few years.
I miss his voice. The early books remain favourites, but having reached the end of my tether with this charade I'm finally facing the fact that I haven't really enjoyed a Patterson book for years. Instead I have dutifully picked up the latest hardback, which have appeared as often as every six weeks of late, like a betrayed partner who clings to the hope that 'things will get better soon'.
So there we have it. It's over.
Yes, I'll no doubt return occasionally for old times sake when Alex Cross is dusted off, but no longer will I be, as Stephen King can still clam of me, a 'constant reader'. I'm done.
It's been fun, but it's time to move on and find a new love.
And Mark Bellingham might just make the cut.....
Friday 29 August 2008
Thursday 21 August 2008
Birds of a Feather
I sitting here writing this with two pairs of dark, beady eyes watching my every move, and I have to admit that over the last month or so I've become used to it, and even quite like it.
The eyes belong to a gorgeous pair of parakeets that are part of the family - he's Spark, she's Ruby - and the past month has taught me something that I didn't appreciate before, namely that birds really do have personalities.
I'm very much an animal lover, and have owned dogs, cats, and even a dwarf Russian hamster, but in all of these cases their personalities have been up front, so to speak, in their mannerisms, in their voices, and in the fact that, I suppose, they're mammals.
The birds, though, are every bit as individual as their four legged counterparts (which now include a couple of guinea pigs called Jemima and Aston), and fascinate me in the ways that they find to communicate with us.
For example, I'm usually first up and when I come downstairs I'm often greeted with a whistle from the birds, usually followed by one of them (more often than not Spark) then flying to the front of the cage, and hanging on to it with his claws to attract my attention to the fact that they've used all their water and are demanding more!
Also, when we eat I've noticed that regardless of whether Ruby and Spark have been snacking all day, they both make a point of joining in with us, which I'm told by the resident experts is because they consider us part of their flock (or vice versa) and the flock that feeds together, err stays together.
So, what I'm trying to do, I guess, is apologise to the avian world for my lack of faith in their individual personalities. Oh, and just in case they're slightly unforgiving I'm keeping them well away from a certain Hitchcock DVD....
The eyes belong to a gorgeous pair of parakeets that are part of the family - he's Spark, she's Ruby - and the past month has taught me something that I didn't appreciate before, namely that birds really do have personalities.
I'm very much an animal lover, and have owned dogs, cats, and even a dwarf Russian hamster, but in all of these cases their personalities have been up front, so to speak, in their mannerisms, in their voices, and in the fact that, I suppose, they're mammals.
The birds, though, are every bit as individual as their four legged counterparts (which now include a couple of guinea pigs called Jemima and Aston), and fascinate me in the ways that they find to communicate with us.
For example, I'm usually first up and when I come downstairs I'm often greeted with a whistle from the birds, usually followed by one of them (more often than not Spark) then flying to the front of the cage, and hanging on to it with his claws to attract my attention to the fact that they've used all their water and are demanding more!
Also, when we eat I've noticed that regardless of whether Ruby and Spark have been snacking all day, they both make a point of joining in with us, which I'm told by the resident experts is because they consider us part of their flock (or vice versa) and the flock that feeds together, err stays together.
So, what I'm trying to do, I guess, is apologise to the avian world for my lack of faith in their individual personalities. Oh, and just in case they're slightly unforgiving I'm keeping them well away from a certain Hitchcock DVD....
Friday 15 August 2008
Tinkle and a Twix
One of my colleagues left the company I work for today, so in time honoured tradition a group of us descended on a local hostelry for a few drinks to celebrate, or commiserate, or whatever it is you do when someone leaves.
Well, when I say hostelry, and let's face it, who does say hostelry these days, I mean swanky, wanky cocktail bar in the vicinity of Fenchurch Street that serves all manner of exotically titled beverages that no sane person should ever be seen ordering, let alone drinking.
In the spirit of the evening, however, I'm prepared to indulge such frippery, mainly because they also serve pints of Guinness, which is much more suited to my real ale palatte.
Inevitably I have to visit the Gentlemen's, and this is where I'm suddenly reminded of one of life's peculiar practices that, frankly, I've never been able to fathom.
Lurking in the conveniences is a smartly dressed man with a selection of sweets, chocolates and various toiletries. Now, aside from the fact that it must be a soul destroying existence spending much of your working life in the gents, it begs the question why, when all I want to do is recycle the last couple of pints, wash and dry my hands, and proceed to refill my bladder once more, would I be in the least bit interested in a small plastic bottle of aftershave, a perfumed soap, or a Twix!
I realise that everybody needs to make a living, but (and call me old fashioned) this is tantamount to emotional blackmail. Here I am, having performed one of the most intimate functions of the human body, which may or may not have been observed by my friend at the sink, but for the priviledge of performing the basic sanitary function of washing my hands, thus preventing everybody else I will touch this evening from, effectively, touching my manhood, I am effectively being placed on some huge guilt trip if I don't give this guy some money (and I'm guessing he's not going to be happy with ten pence) to hand me a towel which I'm perfectly capable of doing myself, and then offering to sell me some beauty products and an item or two of confectionary to take back to the bar!
I'm sad to report that I took the cowards way out and fled the bathroom without washing, so if I happened to shake your hand this evening, I'm sorry!
Well, when I say hostelry, and let's face it, who does say hostelry these days, I mean swanky, wanky cocktail bar in the vicinity of Fenchurch Street that serves all manner of exotically titled beverages that no sane person should ever be seen ordering, let alone drinking.
In the spirit of the evening, however, I'm prepared to indulge such frippery, mainly because they also serve pints of Guinness, which is much more suited to my real ale palatte.
Inevitably I have to visit the Gentlemen's, and this is where I'm suddenly reminded of one of life's peculiar practices that, frankly, I've never been able to fathom.
Lurking in the conveniences is a smartly dressed man with a selection of sweets, chocolates and various toiletries. Now, aside from the fact that it must be a soul destroying existence spending much of your working life in the gents, it begs the question why, when all I want to do is recycle the last couple of pints, wash and dry my hands, and proceed to refill my bladder once more, would I be in the least bit interested in a small plastic bottle of aftershave, a perfumed soap, or a Twix!
I realise that everybody needs to make a living, but (and call me old fashioned) this is tantamount to emotional blackmail. Here I am, having performed one of the most intimate functions of the human body, which may or may not have been observed by my friend at the sink, but for the priviledge of performing the basic sanitary function of washing my hands, thus preventing everybody else I will touch this evening from, effectively, touching my manhood, I am effectively being placed on some huge guilt trip if I don't give this guy some money (and I'm guessing he's not going to be happy with ten pence) to hand me a towel which I'm perfectly capable of doing myself, and then offering to sell me some beauty products and an item or two of confectionary to take back to the bar!
I'm sad to report that I took the cowards way out and fled the bathroom without washing, so if I happened to shake your hand this evening, I'm sorry!
Thursday 7 August 2008
The Vinyl Frontier
It was like an Aladdin's Cave of vinyl, with albums and singles piled up from floor to ceiling in no discernable order, save for the occasional box that was labelled "rock", or "60s" or "disco" or some such description.
On a teenager's pocket money, though, it was a treasure trove of music, all available for a fraction of the price of the brand spanking new article, providing that you didn't mind the sleeve being scuffed, or the vinyl scratched, with the occasional jump.
The place itself was dark, just the right side of musty, and if you held out any hope of finding a particular album or single on your own then you stood about as much chance as finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Rob, though, for it was he who owned the establishment, seemingly had the chaos inside his little kingdom mapped like the back of his hand. Asked for a single, say Boston's More Than A Feeling as I once did, he would look skywards for a brief moment, as if seeking divine inspiration, and then suddenly lurch towards a particular pile of vinyl and pluck it as if from nowhere.
In the age of internet record stores and relentless chain stores that have all but driven the independents six feet under, I'm happy to report that Rob's Record Mart is still alive and kicking in Hurts Yard in Nottingham, and should you find yourself in the middle of my old hometown then you really should pay him a visit, as you'll never experience another record shop quite like it.
On a teenager's pocket money, though, it was a treasure trove of music, all available for a fraction of the price of the brand spanking new article, providing that you didn't mind the sleeve being scuffed, or the vinyl scratched, with the occasional jump.
The place itself was dark, just the right side of musty, and if you held out any hope of finding a particular album or single on your own then you stood about as much chance as finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Rob, though, for it was he who owned the establishment, seemingly had the chaos inside his little kingdom mapped like the back of his hand. Asked for a single, say Boston's More Than A Feeling as I once did, he would look skywards for a brief moment, as if seeking divine inspiration, and then suddenly lurch towards a particular pile of vinyl and pluck it as if from nowhere.
In the age of internet record stores and relentless chain stores that have all but driven the independents six feet under, I'm happy to report that Rob's Record Mart is still alive and kicking in Hurts Yard in Nottingham, and should you find yourself in the middle of my old hometown then you really should pay him a visit, as you'll never experience another record shop quite like it.
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