Talk later?

Hey you...
It barely seems like two minutes ago that we were at school, arguing over the name of our newly founded cult. College was taken up with boys for me, girls for you (briefly) and a sprinkling of theological based discussion in the common room. Reality set in too quickly for my liking and before we knew it we had jobs, 'life' partners, debts. We didn't see each other from one month to the next and I soon depended upon your emails to update me on the sordid developments of your seemingly glamourous and fulfilling life in Dublin.

So how can it possibly be, dear friend, that today is the fifth anniversary of your death?

I decided early on that I could not and would not feel guilty for your passing. I can't be blamed for you not telling me how you felt, because it could easily have been the case that you did not know yourself. We often hide our true feelings from the world, even the world to which we are closest, and through doing so we hide from ourselves. Yet I feel guilty today. The world has moved on, and it is today that I have realised it. I miss you not being on Facebook; the fact that you wouldn't know what that is crushes my entire being.

My life has hurled itself in a variety of misguided directions since you decided to leave. I am frantic for you to know that I left my husband. Can you believe that I am divorced? The engagement threw you enough. I left the old smoke for the vibrant, life-propelling city that is Manchester - you would love it here as much as I do. I could take you to Cloud 23 and you will point excitedly at the Coronation Street set. We could go to The Pev and we could Lambada around the pool table like we did at The Mill. Remember? Of course you do.

Whilst being remarkably uninteresting or poignant to an outsider, your final words to me are amongst the most special words I carry around in my sentimental dictionary of remarks gone by. But not today. Today they make me angry, today I wish they would evaporate and leave me be.

Dear friend, I would love for nothing more to talk later. I know I will be forever waiting for your call.

x

"Girlfriend"

It certainly wasn't his command for geography that cajoled me into becoming first his FB, and now it seems his "Girlfriend." On hearing my dulcet Maccem tones he proclaimed himself to being a fellow North-Easterner, before discrediting himself as a reliable source by telling me he was from Rotherham. Nevertheless he made me laugh for the first time in too long, and by the end of the evening we had banished ourselves from the rest of the world (and the smoking ban) and had taken to the staff stairs in Mojo's.

For a fortnight I was adamant that all I was interested in was sex, sex, sex. No affection, no hand-holding, no gazing into each others eyes. We were to be Sex and the City style FB's and our relationship would consist of booty call's and beer. However real life is nothing like that of Carrie Bradshaw et al, and before long I found myself eager to discover more about him.

After not seeing each other for a week, and with both of our flatmates firmly in residence with no obvious intention of leaving us alone for the evening, we bit the bullet and went out for a date. Rough Stuff had done his homework and suggested we meet at Cloud 23 to watch the sunset. After spicy popcorn and one cosmopolitan too many, there was talk of dating and of me being his "Girlfriend". If I only felt comfortable enough to write it, say it or hell, even think the term "Girlfriend" without those hesitant quotation marks. It's enough to make me run back to Mojo's and hide on the stairs.

Rough Stuff: Enter Stage Left

I avoided Castlefield Locks for six weeks after The Boy temporarily shattered my ego. The mere suggestion of anything canal related provoked a prickly sensation throughout my entire being, and I would avert my eyes after leaving Love Saves The Day so as to avoid Castle Street. It seemed that who, or more appropriately what, had provided me with the most joy was now pointing it's finger at me and calling me a loser.

So it was with the utmost disapproval that I went along to my colleague and friend's leaving do at Dukes 92. The sun was shining, the wine was flowing and everyone was on top form. Sitting outside with friends and posing for classic Blue Steel type photos, it didn't take me long to forget that I was supposed to be being miserable, godammit, and that's when it happened. I let my guard down.

Rough Stuff: enter stage left.

Gone in 60 Days

I can't quite believe that it has been almost two whole months since I last attempted to splatter-gun small sections of my life onto Girl on a Barge. Time is a sneaky bastard isn't it? Because I have been thinking about the blog, I manipulated myself into believing that I am actually writing a blog, when in fact I have been doing nothing of the sort. I have, however, managed to place a large tick in the box next to each of the following "constructive" things to do:

1 - As the rest of the city recoiled at the thought of having to stand outside the pub to have a sneaky fag, I chose to take up smoking for the first time in my life. For the first six weeks I persuaded myself it was purely "social", but the tell-tale signs that suggest my face is going to look like a burst sausage by the time I am 35 are now firmly in place. I smoke in the morning, I have switched to the tonsil-numbing hardcore Marlboro's of which I have smoked almost 160 in the past week and last Wednesday I left the breathtaking view of Cloud 23 to go downstairs and take a few breaths of nicotina and monoxido de carbono (I bought them in duty free which immediately makes them ten times more appealing). I hang my head in shame.

2 - Facebook kidnapped me and pillaged my mind. After months of tut-tutting at every mention of My Space and/or Facebook I have succumbed. I am now poking people hourly, leaving mindless graffitti on "Friends" walls, and spending more of my working day on thinking of witty status updates than I care to imagine.

3 - I have had my heart broken by The Boy. Or was it my ego he broke? I can't quite tell. During our last evening together he suggested we take a walk along the canal from Rain Bar to Dukes. It could quite easily have become the most romantic / sexy / passion-inducing evening we spent together. Instead he chose to poke sticks at the many spiders congregating under the bridges. I know hindsight is a wonderful thing (if not a little smug) but the clues were screaming at me in the title. "The Boy"? Hell, this Girl is looking for a Man.