Sunday 13th November 2005

It was a gloriously bright autumn day today and yet I saw little of it, stuck at home dealing with non-compliant computers unaware of how simple they tasks I ask of them are, before eventually getting out at about dusk.

It made me wonder why I’d been stuck indoors all day at all but, as I’ve reported a few times recently, I’m feeling quite driven at the moment and so want to get a decent amount done every day, be it a Sunday or not.

The next chapter in the book is called ‘A Briefer History Of Time’ and this would benefit from being at least loosely based on fact and so I printed out a mass of information on the subject from the interweb and took myself off on a long walk to try and find somewhere to digest it and make notes.

When I need inspiration to get writing I sometimes go and look at the Georgian houses along Falkner Street, Canning St, Williamson Street, Percy Street, and all. That would be an idea spot of live and, of course, a decent book that captures people’s imaginations would give me a sporting chance of doing so.

I thought Peter Kavanaghs would be a good spot to do some reading but when I walked in there was a group around the bar who’d obviously recently just walked in and were at the early stages of trying to organise a mammoth round of drinks. I waited quietly, trying to get a measure of the situation, but noticed the one barman saying ‘Right, let’s start from the beginning again’ one too many times and knew I’d be standing there waiting indefinitely and so left, cursing the nerve and stupidity of people who choose to go out in big crowds.

I settled in the annoying Quarter Café. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve sworn I’ll never come into this gaff ever again but always seem to find myself giving it one last chance. The staff are simply the worst in Liverpool and you are made to feel like dirt – if you’re lucky enough to be noticed.

It’s always busy though. Always full of an entirely middle-class contingent with their stereotypically pre-teen sandy haired offspring saying “Daddy, Daddy, can I have more aubergine please, Daddy?�

When I finally got a waitress to come to my table, something she did as if she’d just been asked to muck out a stable, I ordered a glass of wine.

“You can’t have wine unless you’re eating.�

“I am going to be eating. I need a menu, too.�

“You want a menu?�

“Please�.

She loathed me and my menu demands but eventually put one down on the table.

I got her attention again several minutes later and ordered a Spaghetti Bolognese.

“Bolognese is off.�

“Oh. Okay. The Carbonara then please.�

“Carbonara’s off. And The chicken. And the tuna.�

“You might have mentioned this when…�

She looked at me as if I had just shot her favourite pet.

“No problem. I think I’ll go for…� there was little else on the menu. “What’s still on?�

I eventually managed to order something and she plodded off. The Quarter Café has the worst service in the world. But that does have it’s strange advantages, because it’s quite a suitable place to get some work done, seeing as it has big long tables and, frankly, the staff would rather lick a cheese grater than come and hurry you up (i.e. talk to you) so you can sit there for as long as you like.

There are some interesting facts about the history of time and timekeeping I can use. The Egyptians used a water-clock system for a while. It was basically a contraption that allowed a steady flow of water into a container, which had markings on it’s inside for the hours. They used it at night when there was no sun. It made me think though, it would be very easy to speed up time if you so wished. If you’re on a night shift, looking after one of the pyramids… A bit boring I would imagine so to ‘pass the time’, literally, you could just casually pour a glass of water into the container and then say to your boss “Oh look at the time! Best be off home. Night!�

After my meal I met Renata in The Philharmonic Pub. Whilst we were chatting a homeless / wino man wandered in and stood by our table looking at Renata and gruffly speaking in a pretty much incomprehensible murmur. It wasn’t difficult to spot that his flies were undone and so too were his trousers, being supported by a belt.

It made me wonder, at what point in life does a previously fit and healthy young man decide that it’s time to do away with convention, and just stroll around making a nuisance of himself with his trousers undone?

Is there an actual morning? A MOMENT, even, when this is how he decides to behave?

Oooh… I bet there’s a few people who work for homeless charities or mental health organisations who think ‘Well, this is rich of you, McHale. You with your non-existent understanding of unfortunate souls who’ve suffered unknown disasters in their lives that lead them to this sorry situation.’.

Fair enough. But I would also counter that, if you do work with these unfortunates, it might be an idea to remind them to at least do their trousers up before hitting the town. It would significantly lower the chances of them being told to ‘sod off out’ of every establishment they try and frequent and would spare the blushes of the fairer sex.

I might start making notes of grossy inappropriate behaviour that people turn a politically correct blind eye too.

Name and shame the mentally unwell, that’s what I say.

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