Tired, and heartstrung

If heartstrung is even a word. Tired definitely is, though, and I fall firmly within its definition. My seventh consecutive early turn today, and I've still got four more to go, to round off a run of 22 days worked out of 23, by the time I finish on Thursday. If I haven't melted into a puddle of pure fatigue before then. I have managed to stay sufficiently compos mentis to go shopping on my way home and cook K and I rather a nice Sunday roast, if I say so myself, though, as well as dealing with some overdue but relatively simple domestic tasks - the cleaning is very much behindhand, though, so I hope the landlord doesn't decide on a impromptu visit!
And those heartstrings. In a moment, outside Charing Cross station on my meandering way back this afternoon. A boy at a bus stop, who took me a good distance away, in both time and space, to another boy. DBJ. Today's boy wasn't really a close lookalike, but there were enough resonances to churn the emotions more than a little (and he was very good looking in his own right, too). In an ideal word, that beautiful boy in a small Cornish town would've been mine, and me his, forever, but ideal worlds, of course, don't exist, and, even more pertinently, beautiful boys do the one thing that boys inevitably do - become men. Handsome men, many of them, but not what I desire. As I've said before, the hallmark, above all others, above even the hatred and contempt of 'society', of being a boylover is to embrace transience. The perfect, but evanescent moment.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Outing

I went out for drinks with some of my work colleagues yesterday afternoon, around 'worktown'. From my point of view, it certainly went better than the previous version I'd attended, last autumn. Not least of the reasons was that the one person at work that I genuinely consider to be a friend rather 'just' a colleague was there this time, as well as a couple of others whose company I find more than averagely congenial. Perhaps the most interesting, and in many ways unexpected, attendee, though, was our newest recruit, who's only begun his training in the past few weeks after moving from a different part of the industry. He's a youngish guy, mid-twenties, and - he's openly gay, living with a long-term (considering his age) partner. Given one or two who were there, including the 'archbigot', I wondered what sort of reception he might receive, but, on the whole, it was surprisingly, and encouragingly, positive. I asked him (albeit couched humorously) whether he was being brave or foolhardy in seeking out the company of those who were there, to which he answered, quite reasonably, that he thought it was a good way to get to know some of his new workmates. As the afternoon progressed, and people became more 'mellow', there was even a kind of 'Q & A' session when he was asked (in some cases with almost childlike naïvety) about  'being gay'. I didn't, of course, say a word, but, not for the first time, one question in particular made me think about my own situation, namely the 'how old were you when you knew' question. His answer, 12 or 13, is exactly the same answer I would have given had I been asked. It almost, for a few seconds, made me feel like I wanted to throw off the mask, and say 'yeah, me too', but that second, unforgivable clause in any honest 'coming out' statement I might make - 'but I've never been attracted to a man in my life' - strangled the impulse at birth. For the squillionth time, I was left to ruefully ponder how vastly simpler, and almost certainly happier, my life would be if I was 'just gay'. Never going to happen, though, so, as ever, I've simply got to deal with it.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Electioneering

The campaign for next month's general election is now in full swing, with politicos and pundits on TV and radio ad nauseam, and the press, especially the right-wing tabloid end of the market, shamelessly lying on a daily basis, according to the fiats of their paymasters. Now that I'm re-enfranchised, having a permanent address once more, there's no doubt who I'm going to vote for - the constituency I live in is a Tory-held marginal, and 'my' MP is a smug, worthless 'backbench-warmer' who I wouldn't have recognised if I'd tripped over him in the street, until he, or, almost certainly, one of his minions, sent me his election leaflet (in a House of Commons envelope, no doubt at my, as a taxpayer's, expense) a few days ago. It went straight into the recycling bag, needless to say. Interestingly, there's no UKIP candidate in our constituency, suggesting to me that there's been some kind of 'under the table' arrangement not to challenge the sitting fascist, and thus split the vote, in a place where the most recent opinion poll I've seen only projects the incumbent to win by 3%.
The other thing that's struck me over the past few days is that Cameron seems unnaturally 'young-looking' in his recent TV appearances. Style over substance goes without saying in this 'media age', but our glorious leader looks as though he's had plastic surgery, or, at the very least, some serious make-up 'assistance'. I think the electorate should be told!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Easter mix

The absurdity of our Sunday trading laws, and, in particular, the far more draconian restrictions in place on Easter Sunday, enacted as a sop to the small minority of noisily active Christianists when the current legislation was passed in the nineties, was very obvious as I meandered earlier today. While it's illegal for supermarkets to open, making it difficult to buy a loaf of bread (although not around here, admittedly, because smaller '7-11' type shops, which London is awash with, are exempt), all of the betting shops were open. Along Oxford Street, all the shoe shops were open, but the clothes shops were closed. A perfumery was open, while the jewellers next door was shut. Sunglass Hut was open, but opticians were closed. 'Shambles' doesn't seem to be a strong enough word. Logic and reason ought to suggest that consistency would be far better, either (for preference) everything open or everything closed. Given that the mess is down to religion, though, it's a vain hope indeed to expect either logic or reason to come within a country mile of the situation.
As things have turned out, I'm on my own this weekend - K was intending to go and see her mother at some point in the school holidays, but she didn't tell me until Friday that she'd arranged to go yesterday, and duly did! It's no great issue, except that I'd already shopped for the makings of a posh Sunday roast (which, fortunately, will all keep until tomorrow, when my girl will be back), and haven't got anything much else in to concoct a meal for myself with (not helped, of course, by the aforementioned shop closures today). My Sunday dinner might well end up being a takeaway! So, surprise, surprise, I've 'found myself' in my local again. And received the biggest treat of the day, too - a couple of smiles from a very cute boy, in for a meal with his parents. Not quite on a par with the original 'smiling boy' who so lifted my spirits the first time I came in here, but not far short.
Anyway, Happy Easter to those of you that celebrate the occasion, and happy Sunday to those who don't.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Left behind

In my local, last orders have just been rung, and, for the first time in a long time, I fancied a short. So I asked for a spirit that virtually every pub, even the grottiest backstreet dump, used to sell. But not my local, evidently. In fact, my server, cute Daniel, had pretty obviously never even heard of it. So I've ended up with another beer. I've never been any sort of follower of fashion, but it seems that even pub culture has left me behind! I'm irremediably old, apparently!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Back to front

I've just read a blog post containing a quote that really caught my attention, one that unfavourably compared '12 year old boy shaped (female fashion) models' to some version of 'real women'. I can't conceive of how it could possibly be a problem. 12 (-ish) year old boys are the most beautiful creatures on earth. What's not to like?

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

April already

Many people, at work and elsewhere, commented about how quickly last year seemed to pass, which was very much my perception, too, and it appears that this year is going the same way. It hardly seems any time at all since we were seeing in the New Year, but now, all of a sudden, it's April! And it's not, certainly from my point of view, as though anything much has happened - most of my 2015 so far seems to have been spent at work. In part, that's why my blog posts have been rather short and thin on the ground of late - there are only so many ways that you can say 'went to work, came home, went back to work again'! - but, over the past couple of weeks, my 'writing time' has been substantially occupied by a different 'project', which, hopefully, is within sight of completion. It isn't nearly on the scale of its almost two year older brother, and probably won't be to many people's taste, apart from mine, but, ultimately, I'm selfish enough, largely, to write for my own amusement anyway, so if, as is likely, it sinks without trace, that's the way it is, and no hard feelings.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B