About a week ago I finally switched from my self-made swarovski-crystal pay-as-you-go mobile phone to an as yet soulless purple samsung contract phone. Whilst diligently writing down all my old contacts, it suddenly struck me (yet again) quite painfully: I simply have no friends.
I guess the fact that I was able to write out all my contacts by hand (having no clue how to copy them phone to phone despite foolproof instructions) speaks for itself. Contemplating the purpose of a blog, the sad truth dawned on me again. A blog is defined as "a frequent, chronological publication of personal thoughts and Web links" but most of the blogs I have seen so far seem to have the common trait of connecting the author with his friends.
Being quite obsessive compulsive I have to find a reason for my blogging. Which brings me nicely on to the fact that I signed up to a French weekly online horoscope service in a moment of mental derangement or "geistiger Umnachtung". By Tuesday lunchtime at the latest I will be updated about the state of my body, mind and the aether surrounding me - and about other profanities such as my finances ("a surprising financial opportunity will come your way this week"), the possibility of an amorous adventure with no tomorrow and the workload I may expect (heavy). According to this astrological service, my life is pretty boring, actually quite depressing. Nevertheless, I can never resist the temptation to open the email. Particularly nasty and to be avoided are annual horoscopes which will mess up your karma for the entire year before it has even started: When the 32nd job application is turned away and the cute arty intellectual type you met Saturday three weeks ago still hasn't called after the expiry of the mental 22-day period you might just remember that horoscope which told you so back in December last year...
But back to the reasons for this blog: More than anything I felt like communicating the countless abstrusities of my at times very turbulent life in the UK. But to whom? Devoid of a colourful network of friends and acquaintances who might have the faintest interest, this blog seems rather futile.
From the analysis of the contents of my phone contacts the following (distressing) facts have become apparent:
A very large part of my contacts seems to consist of names I simply cannot place, dating back to the very beginning of my time in this country and of my mobile phone possession (i.e. 2001);
The humble amount of "close friends" in turn consists of an alaraming percentage of people located off this island; and
Most of them are male (an apparent problem in itself).
Who then am I supposed to call at the weekend when the blond German Mercedes manager (with whom a well-meaning family member in Germany hooked me up in order for me to "make new friends") turns out to be an idiot with a cocaine additction, your hormonal imbalance takes over your life yet again and you simply feel too hideous to even leave the house and on top of it all, despite being 26 years old, your parents have an active say in your love life?
Mr Plappert in allen Ehren, he didn't take that story too well, which may have something to do with the fact that Mr Mercedes did spend the night at my place, having presented me with the choice between accompanying him to Milton Keynes, getting trashed there and sleeping at his place or honouring me with his overnight presence in London and getting wasted here. As appealing as both of these options were, not wanting to be rude I opted for the lesser evil which allowed me to stay within my comfort zone...
To aggravate matters even further, Mr Plappert can't just jump through the telephone receiver, cross the English Channel through the myriad of telephone lines buried on the ground of the Atlantic (can someone please clarify whether the English Channel does indeed form part of the Atlantic Ocean or whether it forms part of the territory of the North Sea?!) and pop out at the end of my phone line to make me happy with his endearing company and keep me from bêtises such as dodgy sleepovers; so both Mr Plappert and I will have to make the best of the situation and things such as investment bankers, bodybuilding New Zealanders, obnoxious substances and colleagues and lonely spells...
I guess that I still haven't- for the most part- left behind that little scared three year old visiting the fairy tale park - too scared of the adventure, of all the frogs, dwarfs, princes and princesses to be met. Instead I have a close to empty address book in my phone.
But then there is this handful of close friends and even though I can't just get on a plane to see them and sometimes not even phone them when I feel like it, they are there in my life.
As for my little loyal mobile phone - I am quite ashamed for having exchanged it so ruthlessly ... After all it was quite popular among heavyset bleach blonde pink frottee fleece addicts of Maryhill.
Well, I guess times have changed and so have I - new phone - new luck- after all: it's still purple so not all is lost and Mr Plappert will arrive in London on Sunday...
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