The Diary of a Man of No Particular Interest

The following is an excerpt from the Diary of Colin Bowman, a man of no particular interest.

Dear Diary

My name is Colin Bowman and this is the first entry into my diary, so I’ve written 'dear diary', am I stuck with that now? what else could you write anyway, “dear me” that just sounds like ‘dear me’ in the exasperated sense.  Why am I writing a diary? In many ways I feel that life can become a blur, moments blending into one another time one glass of cloudy water, whereas I want time to be more like chunky vegetable soup, with bits in it that you can clearly see and are all different. (The diary is the soup, the entries are the chunky bits if that wasn’t clear) I’m not an interesting person, I don’t think, so why would you read my diary? Well my answer to that is, you’d read anyone’s diary if you found it, wouldn’t you, you massive pervert. On to the chunks. My chunks…actually, I might just park that analogy right there. My moments, have become a little clearer of late, as the variation in my days and weeks becomes greater. I’m fixing up the house. I discovered that if I don’t do something immediately when I think about it, there is an almost no chance I’ll ever do it. So I drove to woodies at 9am, as soon as the idea struck me, came home and hung four picture frames in the living room. They currently do not contain any photographs of mine, but rather stock images of a family that comes with the frame (they look like nice people). I should take them down until I print the photos, but they are covering my previous drill attempts and I don’t want the wall to look like there was a shootout.

While in woodies I ran into an old acquaintance, we weren’t sure how to greet, so we just stood across from each other awkwardly roughly two metres apart. I wave, which I know instantly is not the right thing. I don’t think you’re supposed to wave to someone closer than 10 metres away unless you want them to go away. Must make a note of that later. He knows it’s wrong anyway the smug git, because he laughs and lifts his elbow up, which I reciprocate, until I notice a stain right on his the elbow, looks like jam maybe? I try to avoid it, pivoting to the forearm, but it’s too late, the connection has been made, the contamination complete. He’s no idea and I don’t tell him. How many more that day will contract jam-elbow from this super spread-spreader. I see him again in the car park and wave – (it’s over 10 metres don't worry). He doesn’t realise though that I was waving for him to go away. In my head.

After the frames are up, I sort my clothes. They are now in the following piles: 

1. For charity 

2. Possibly for Charity 

3. Odd Socks 

4. Old clothes that I might fit into again 

5. New clothes I intend to return* 

6. Single Kimono**

*Will make a note of this to do later.

**Waiting for the right occasion.

Dear Diary

I’ll start this entry today with an undisputed fact. Its absolutely fine in the hairdressers to request a specific employee. “Mandy normally does my hair”, “I’m waiting for Mandy”. Nobody takes offence because they understand that Mandy has done my hair before, that she knows what I want and how I like it done, and has an adequate although surface level knowledge about my life in order to have a meaning full connection during our time together. Why is that okay but it’s not okay to do that in a supermarket. “Lorraine normally does my shopping” “I’m waiting for Lorraine's checkout to be free, can you just ask her?” Apparently that raises eyebrows.

I end up with Martin. Fucking Martin.  Slow, No conversation, dead behind the eyes, going through the motions, heavy with my soft French cheeses and mixes all my shopping into one big pile at the end. I tut as I separate the bananas from the super splits, which are dumped on top of the toilet wipes. “ Do you have a Clubcard?” 

"No Martin, I do NOT have a Clubcard, something Lorraine would have understood” He looks at me blankly, at least he’s woken up I guess, maybe it was because I used his name, maybe nobody calls him Martin anymore except his mother. I smile to Lorraine as I'm leaving and she smiles back. "See you next time Marty” I say, because I don’t want to be rude to Marty, it’s not nice and he could be friends with Lorraine. 

I’m too tired to take the shopping out of the car, that’s tomorrow’s job. I seem to be tired all the time, perhaps I need to tweak my bedtime routine. At the moment its cup of tea, Channel 4 news, followed by 2 hours of Call of duty warzone, cup of tea, finished by an extensive scroll of twitter and finally some brief meditation on the most embarrassing things I’ve done in my life to date.

Online gaming although derided by some as ‘anti social’ can be a great way to connect to others. There are over 100 others playing Call of duty in my game lobby from all corners of the planet. You can’t talk to each other during the game except for at one point when they kill you or you kill them. It’s an opportunity to connect to someone else in the world also sharing this time playing a game to unwind. “Fuck you, you fuck dick” this guy says as dies. Quite unpleasant, although I did shoot him in the face*

Super splits probably melted now. Damn.

*With a shotgun at close range. I hid in a house and he came in the door. I’m not proud of it.

Dear Diary

I read an article recommending 100 Irish shops to buy from, to help support the local economy. I’ve urged my social media followers and friends to consider the list before buying. Disappointed however to see none of them stocked mini-usb video projectors, so picked one up from Amazon.

Dear Diary

Work was bad today. We had one of those motivational team talks, where they make everyone sit on the floor and hurt their backs. One of the questions was “why do you come to work” and everyone was talking about “to make a difference” and “for the satisfaction” and I was like “for the money”, which was apparently not the right answer judging by the laughs in the room.  I mean, that’s so stupid, why anyone would go to work if not for the money. I wasn’t saying it to be insulting. Next time I’ll just give the stock answer, because it was barely worth the effort of what came next. Hauled into the managers office for a chat about my “goals”.

My goals

1. To make more money

2. To retire at 50

3. To live in a modest house on the side of a hill with a nice view and great internet connection with a quaint  village within walking distance, nice weather, great restaurants, café culture, theatres, cinemas, and incredible nature walks with no bugs.

It doesn’t seem to much to ask

The goals I told Dennis

1. To be better at selling insurance

2. To retire at 65

3. To stop bringing soft French cheese into the communal canteen.

Dear Diary

The mini usb video projector broke upon use. I have made a note to return it, although it was only 25 euro, so what's the point. Instead I will put at the back of the cupboard in the utility room, and make a note to get it repaired or attempt the job myself. I might have to do some sort of electronics course first, which would be fine.