I’m writing this on the train. Oh how times have changed. I’m heading up to London and I’m late as usual. I’m meeting Dave. Another Dave. He’s a suitable replacement, albeit without the scathing cynicism.

We’re off to the bloomsbury bowl. Problem is I forgot it was Pearls 18th tonight. I really wouldn’t mind meeting her. I don’t know how Dave, who is 25, will take to Pearl, who is 18, and her friends. It’s taking place at the Balham Bowls Club which is hipster territory. I guess I wouldn’t expect anything less. The other option is bar hopping down parenially cool Shoreditch.

The Balham Bowls Club – BBC.

Dave and I have been practising the designated drivers bar crawl for the last month. We don’t drink. We bar hop and order 2 glasses of tap water with ice and lime. Squeeze the lime. This gets a reaction of either “you guys are wild” to I want a bloody tip, Fuck off. The rest of the time is just sort of socialising.

A new Dave.

The trains puling in to Waterloo. Will continue later.

I’m on the night bus going home. The N87, my savior. A worthy successor to the N77.

Tim’s the second guy.

I got on the bus, next stop Tim bradbury gets on. I haven’t seen him for years. Last I heard he was a full time stoner. Turns out he’s now a paid musician, lead guitarist for Kurran and the wolfnotes. I’m gonna have to go to his next gig.

Well back to tonight. I got off the train and made my way to Holborn. Dave was there with his gym kit. We gotta get rid of it. The idea of popping into the Bloomsbury Bowl and dropping off his bag at the cloakroom is approved and we head down. On the way we ask for directions and some random St. Martins’ students  invite us to “Runway” on New Oxford St. That sounds good. Free entry and drinks. I want. We drop the bag off. We leave to Balham.

Poppy.

We get to the Balham Bowls and Pearl’s looking great. It’s full of thespians. I love them. There’s an amateur photographer snapping away with his Canon 5d Mk 2. The sexist camera. I became pretty engorged, taking a few snaps. Another bloke is showing me a few snaps of his art while we’re playing pool. Pearl knows a Lady Sovereign, so she’s there. It’s a pretty cool fun loving crowd.

We left for the last tube and went to Runway. By the time we got there, they wouldn’t accept our guest list. Bugger. Blomsbury Bowl for the bag I’m here. On the bus.

This has got to be the nicest place to get a coffee in London. The chain’s called monmouth and this particular one is situated next to the market. I won’t give you specific directions purely so you can piddle about finding other crevices to explore and also because I can’t be arsed.

I sat and listened to Pearl busk for 20 min under the brick archway. It was quite surreal, the amber lighting, her singing on her lonesome and passerbys gawping. We didn’t get much money but I’m pretty sure I scared them off. I really wished I had a camera, was a nice moment.

And below is another picture of the market.

My gay friend Duc read something Pearl wrote about me. He wasn’t amused. I feel comfortable talking to him about my oddly perverse sexuality. Stacked up against his homosexuality I feel normal.

Dear Steven,

(I sent you this last week but your bloody inbox was full)

What is the meaning of this???

"I have a wonderful friend called Steven Vu, and i promised that i would
write about him on my 'sweet' journal.

TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT STEVEN VU:
1) he always makes me feel thought about.
2) he is good looking.
3) he is a brilliant dancer.
4) he always sticks up for me with horrible people who cant see past my age.
5) he makes me laugh
6) i took his trousers off in the middle of the street and locked him out
7) he is cultured unlike SOMEONE who doesnt like fruit or coffee or london.
he likes girly films.
9) he is from vietnam.
10)he is my hand warmer and one of my boys "

STOP IT RIGHT NOW. THIS IS GETTING SICK. Reading this, she seems oblivious to the fact that you have nasty, pervy, lascivious thoughts about her. Or maybe she is totally aware which just makes her sick in the head. Horrible people that can't see past her age? Sorry, horrible = sensible. And don't even get me started on number 6.

With love,
Duc

I want to cry at the loss of my wonderful blog. Couldn’t keep up with the payments. I suck at poetry but thought i’d write this after she forced me. She said if I wrote it she’d give me a link to her blog. I begged and begged. She didn’t give it to me, not that I cared. I already had it.

Dear Masha,

why must you insist
on the proclamation
of my love

Have you not heard
the crows cry
at their masters neglect

nor the magpie
happy with neither,
oh petulant child

When will you learn
a love a day
will take the heart away.

love,
Steven