Letters I Never Intended to Send and Never Will

Something else to kill time with

<center><h2>this is lixing. it is not a verb<h2></center> Some important questions occurred to me this morning as I walked to the train station. This has happened before; the journey to Vauxhall is quite conducive to thinking. I thought about these things and decided to write to you about them. I know Iíve not really got any good reason to write to you, but I figure it canít hurt. Besides I know I wonít send it. Iíll think it out and maybe even type it (slightly different to how I thought it and somehow disappointing) but Iíll never send it out. I was walking down the Dorset Road when thought one happened. I think itís because of this detective story Iím reading at moment, but anyway, I started to wonder how and when the Cold War ended. My general knowledge is hopeless. I honestly have no idea how it finished. It seemed important that I knew. Then, as I passed the news agency I was thinking how quickly thoughts come and how itís impossible really to try to structure them effectively, especially if, as in my case one was trying to preserve them in the memory so one could retrieve them later and write them down. I suppose I knew the pointlessness of it even at that stage. Still, I must have said to myself, itís fun to have a bit of a think, and not just walk brainlessly until one gets to the station. My second thought occurred as I went past the dustbins near the end of Dorset Road. I recall the dustbins. I think I threw something in one of them but I donít remember what. I wouldnít have been eating gum at that hour, so I think I am mistaken. I couldnít manage breakfast this morning; I find the texture of bananas off putting that early in the day. I gag easily. The second thought was not really my own; it was more of a recollection. Yesterday, over lunch at work (roast potatoes, assorted vegetables, altercation with the chef - I wanted to buy two portions of potatoes as I wasnít eating anything else, but he refused to sell me two portions because future customers might want to buy them, which seems a little stupid. I wasnít in the mood to argue, so I just had one portion and ate a KitKat later. I opted for a normal KitKat, not a Chunky one. Somehow, in my head it seemed less fattening) I was sitting with Catherine, who at seventeen has had more sex than I am likely to ever have, and yet I canít hate her because she is sweet and funny and somehow like no seventeen year old I ever met before I moved to London, when she asked me this question - ďIf time were to stop would we all be dead?Ē I know I work in a supermarket and perhaps, given my background (not just a middle class person, but as a terrible judgemental snob as well) I should express some surprise that anyone in such a working class environment should even think of such things but itís not that simple really. I could read all the sociology textbooks I wanted but it would still miss the important things. Things like this, which happen all the time and are quite ordinary. I told her about time being more than an arbitrary concept, and that clocks are beside the point, that time is the progress and decay of all things, that if time stopped, we wouldnít be dead but we wouldnít be alive either and that we wouldnít even be. Then I told her I had no idea what I was talking about. Then we talked about pi and I got even more lost. Which could indeed form my third question - is pi recurring, or is it called something else? By this point I was approaching the South Lambeth Road, had there been anyone there they would have seen a figure in a green army jacket, brown trousers, dirty white trainers, Come On Eileen turned up quite loud on the discman, face composed in unhappy scowl, striding into their long morning shadow. As I turned onto South Lambeth Road I thought about how sick the coffee was making me feel. Last night it had given me stomach cramps and now it was making me feel faint. I had, with my final mugful, used three teaspoonfuls of coffee, one spoon of sugar and very little milk. On leaving the sitting room I had spilled some. Today, when I came down I saw the stains on a letter left on the carpet, very dark brown they were. Iíd had to give up trying to write my essay at 2am, because I was shaking too hard to hold the pen, and the coffee had induced some awful cousin of speed paranoia into me. The Bach's Rescue Remedy wasn't really working, understandably, and I considered replacing the pipette with a straw and drinking the whole bottle. However, the taste of it makes me pull the same face as Johnny Depp does in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when he takes the adrenochrome, so I rejected the idea swiftly. I decided to look up the lyrics for Come On Eileen as I walked under some scaffolding. I had a suspicion that it was a song about something rude. I discovered I was wrong earlier today. As Vauxhall station came into view I wondered whether I would make the 8.06 train. I made this calculation - time upon leaving house (7.49am) plus length of time it takes to listen to Come On Eileen twice plus at least two more minutes walking equals time of arrival on Platform Three. I reached the answer when I looked at the clock on my phone - 8.03am, not a chance of success, seeing that I was still waiting at a pedestrian crossing. The calculation had gone astray when I realised I didnít know how long Come On Eileen lasted. The implied time span of this walk and of these thoughts is unrealistic. I have added detail that didnít occur to me at the time, and if I were to do it again I would end up either overshooting Vauxhall because I hadnít finished my thoughts, or having to leave some of my thoughts un thought. In the end I got the 8.21. I have now remembered what my very first thought had been as I went past the flats on Dorset Road Ė that as long as there are songs like Come On Eileen it doesnít really matter if I miss a deadline, or fail college. Nothing matters much when there are songs that make you smile and stare out of train windows grinning inanely just for the sake of it. (March 31st 2003)