A Perfect Game

Am behind the reception at the Cardiff University School of Architecture. It's late on a wet and windy Friday afternoon during the summer recess. It's just me, some automatic doors, a very loud and ancient computer, and Tolstoy. They're paying me to sit here reading, and occasionally answer the phone to ask them to phone back Monday when people are here. There are some arty looking types wandering around now and then too; I'm hoping to learn something about architecture through osmosis, but all I've learned so far is that the tea in the urn on the second floor is pretty bad.

Spring has been strikes and gutters, both metaphorically and literally. At the beginning of June I temped at the offices of the Communist League of Cardiff. It’s not the Communist League of Cardiff of course, but their name does have the word "Workers" in it, which is good enough for me. At first I was pleased with the gig -- a progressive charity teaching the needy and vulnerable. By the end they were a dingy little office doling out money for Dough Sculpting courses taught by illiterate teachers for pregnant high school drop-outs who hang around outside between classes with their tracksuited boyfriends smoking joints and milling around the heroin addicts and tramps who loiter in that part of town.

The one good thing about temping, apart from the free stationery, is that ultimately you are your own boss. Take a few weeks ago. On the first day of a two-week assignment I was given a twenty minute introduction to the three filing systems, the four databases, and the dusty basement full of files stacked in rows. My boss looked me in the eye and said, "We need your help. Will you help us?" and I said, "Yes, yes I will help you," because I knew that there was no f------ way I was going to be there still in two weeks.

Sometimes I love being a temp, and three weeks later was why. "About these stacks of files here. Well, I'm not going to be able to finish them because next week I have to be in London drinking martinis. Now, could you sign this timesheet here, aaand here."

The year 2005-6 was a good vintage in Toyama. The parties were many and the good times were high. This past year I hear things have been more sedate, people have been paying more attention to cultural activities and studying -- in short taking advantage of the culture and making good on their time in Japan. Life back in Cardiff has been pretty similar for me; the parties are few, and when not working for Communists I find myself reading more and more educational non-fiction. So when Brad wrote to say he would be passing through London soon I got out the drinks menu to plan the three days he would be in town. Actually, both Emily Laurie and I planned the drinks menu, she even giggled slightly while doing it. It would be like the hey-day of Toyama, but in London.

On Tuesday morning Laurie and I walked into the tearoom of the Grosvenor Hotel, Park Lane to meet Brad. We’ll skip the tears and shucks and move right on to the first cocktails of the day. Brads parents, who were in London with him unbeknownst to us, introduced themselves, and fine people they were. We talked, we reminisced about the great times, we told great stories, ate scones, and drank tea. Then Brad’s father, the ‘Governor of Colorado,’ got in a round of champagne cocktails.

Our first stop of the day was chilled white wine under the trees of Hyde Park. It’s funny when you see someone after a long while. Initially it’s odd to see that person right next to you, in the flesh. But after a few minutes the oddness is gone and it’s just like it used to be. Oh look, it’s Brad, so yeah, bowling? And bowl we did.

Next stop was the Dirty Martini in Covent Garden. We drank martinis, we smoked great cigars. People ask why it is that good times must always revolve around alcohol, and the short answer is: because they do. Tell me the last time you had a really great time with your friends that did not involve alcohol -- and we had great alcohol. The next afternoon we spent bowling and getting sloppy. In the evening we hit many clubs and pubs and had excellent conversations with friends and strangers. The last place we stopped was the Guranabana bar where we danced samba for many hours and drank mojitos and strange Brazilian beer and smoked some more great cigars.

To put this post together I emailed Brad to ask his recollections and he replied, I quote: “I recall some very funny gay dudes dancing, especially one really sweaty gay dude, and gay dudes are always funny. Then throw in something about Emily puking. That's funny too.”

At the beginning of this post I said the spring had been strikes and gutters. I've been in a malaise of late, the type of funk that requires listening to Mahler. Waiting for things that you cannot control is always frustrating. Having no control is a real downer; this is why people believe in god, fate, and determinism. Recently though I've been thrown the line that has rolled me out of this gutter. I've been doing things better as a result, and I'm listening to jazz.

I’m not sure if you know this about me but I’m terrible at sports. Of course you know this, everybody knows this. I am terrible especially at sports that involve connecting with a moving object, like a ball of some kind. I have these enormous limbs, but put them anywhere near a moving ball and my limbs turn to some weird depolarized matter that is repelled by balls. Recently I no longer suck as much. At least, it no longer bothers me.

So, I’ve gone back to stationary sports. I've hit a rich form in snooker - getting down on the shots feels natural and tight. I've had a lot of free time recently and I've spent some of it bowling, and I've hit some rich form there too. Last Thursday I bowled ten games with a friend and scored 143, 157, 161, 167, 170 and a 179. I feel the 200 is not too far away.

So plans are coming to a head, and in a month or two I should be leaving for the US and Robin. I can feel the strikes.