Tag Archives: honesty

Failure and regret in Bournemouth

Of the great many failures I have endured in my life, from the time I was unable to instantly earn billions from a kids book I sent to one small publisher, to the era of my life known as ‘university’, nothing has struck as hard as what has befallen me recently.

I wouldn’t class it as trying, but to entirely write off any pretence of attempt on my part would be to do you all a disservice. It would be to lie, and I do not wish to lie to you: my people. As stated the other day in a pernificious* blog entry, I am more prone to side-stepping the truth than out and out deflecting and replacing it with falsehoods.

There was an element of effort on my part. Sit-down effort. Secondary effort. Passive in the extreme effort. But, I have to admit, effort. To say ‘I tried’ is not too far from the truth, though in my defence it is not actually The Truth.

I let my beard grow for a while without trimming it.

In effect, I tried to grow a proper beard.

I can already hear the laughter from some areas; those who know my aptitude for facial fuzz isn’t exactly Ivy League-standard will surely be in uncontrollable fits of salty, warm tears right now, the glistening orbs lost in a sea of stubble and fur the likes of which I am unlikely to know at any time in the near future – even on the women.

But I had to know. It had been a while. I once shocked myself by being able to grow more than a tribute to a moustache on my upper lip, so I reasoned to try and spread the good times. To share the wealth. To grow the beard.

It has been, not to put too fine a point on it, an abject failure.

But, unlike many other failures that will never wash from my psyche, that will never fail to be brought up by those with an axe to grind, I can rid myself of this failure. While there are some things you cannot wash away, my failure at what one would call ‘a ruddy good beard’ can indeed be washed away, sent swirling down the limescale-encrusted plughole, literally and figuratively, of my life.

tl;dr Going to have a shave in a bit.

*I made this word up to amuse myself**

**I wouldn’t lie to you about that, either

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It’s still a policy

There appears to be a glitch in the logic pistons of many human beings, at least according to a couple of things that have recently happened to me. Turns out people don’t expect others to be honest, or nice, or helpful in any way. Which leads me to believe that people expect others to be horrible, thieving, scumbag monsters of death from hell.

So I’m tempted to live up to their expectations.

A few weeks ago I was going for a haircut OH WHAT A LIFE I LEAD when I stopped at an automated teller machine (“ay tee em”), ostensibly to withdraw paper cash with which to fund aforementioned service. There was a man getting out moolah before me, so I stood and waited. Maybe it was the light rain in the air, maybe it was his downright idiocy, or maybe it was the fact I was stood one inch behind him, breathing down his neck and whispering things about “robbing him up well good”, but something must have made him lose concentration.

Whatever it was, it meant he walked away briskly, only for his cash to pop out of the machine after he had made his escape. I leapt in and, without thinking, grabbed the money. I whirled around on my heels and, using all the might my diaphragm could muster, bellowed (“said”) “excuse me mate”. It was pretty epic, truth be told.

Anyway, he turned around, his eyes widened at the sight of me holding a wodge of cash that was technically (“actually”) his, he made a comment about “forget my head if it wasn’t attached” or something, then he put his hand on my shoulder and sincerely thanked me for being so honest. My brain’s reaction?

Irritation. Irritation that a man would be surprised or find it so out of the ordinary for someone to be honest that it deserved such a ‘you did good, you know?’ reaction. Well done brain, you’re mental.

Then on Tuesday I was arriving in King’s Cross by train. I stood to gather my things and, while doing so, noticed a Blackberry (phone, not fruit) had been dropped from the seat in front of me. The guy who had been sat there wasn’t there anymore, and I couldn’t see him waiting to get off the train. I grabbed it and instantly made my plans to sell it on to the highest bidder and by that I mean ‘give it to the guard’, when I noticed the guy who had been in front of me had somehow ended up in the thoroughfare behind me.

I whirled around on my heels and, using all the might my diaphragm could muster, bellowed (“said”) “excuse me mate, is this yours?” It was pretty epic, truth be told.

He looked confused, patted his pockets, looked worried and then said “yes”, before taking the phone from me and thanking me profusely.

And my brain’s reaction to this? More irritation. I don’t know, maybe I’m insane.

But fuck it, at least I’m honest.

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