plasticbag.org

Is this the best weblog post on the internet at the moment?

“I am a white male, Caucasian, about five feet, nine inches. I weigh 150lbs. I have no visible marks on my body. I have no memory of any events prior to waking up in the hospital in November of 1999.” He sounds like a Classicist.

I’m very tired and fairly hassled, and some good friends of mine are having a party that I really want to go to, but simultaneously (because I’m going to Norfolk tomorrow and because I’ve been all around town, trying to cheer up friends, and because I’ve been dealing with the threat of burglary and the neighbours fixing their door and the police and the like) I would really rather stay at home, watch some television and try and get some work done for Danny – the guy I’m freelancing for at the moment.

The Underground is currently discussing the relationship between creative work and personal identity – or to put it another way, is fanfiction a liberation of creative work or a violation of creator’s imaginative life? It’s a discussion that I’m really enjoying – and it’s based upon Nick‘s article The Body Fictive. Very much recommended.

Burglary update: So the neighbours finally arrive back at their flat around one in the morning, and one of them gets scarily angry as I’m trying to explain what’s happened and the other one looks at me like I did it, and then bursts into tears. Once they’ve had a few moments to look around they come around for a cup of tea and I feel really responsible in some bizarre way because I had to tell them. They call the police for the follow-up meeting, but the police can’t do anything until the next day because of a suspect package on the A40. Kate, Mella and I gradually realise that they have a much more adult life than we seem to. I feel slightly embarrassed.

Once they’ve gone, I try to relax, but I’m completely wired and I don’t know why. My heart feels tight and buzzing and I can’t sit still or relax. I watch TV until everyone else has gone to bed and then fall asleep on some cushions on the floor for the second time in the last week.

Be honest – how often do you feel like this?

I wish I had a digital camera, so I could have chronicled this afternoon in an entirely voyeuristic way. About half an hour ago, the police arrived to talk to me about the attempted burglary on my flat. When they realised that my neighbours had been broken into as well they went in and had a look around, and it was agreed fairly swiftly that the place had been pretty well raided. They’re still not back from their night out, so as yet they don’t know what’s happened. I’ve had to leave our front door open and put a note on their door to tell them to come around to ours before they go in – so they don’t disturb too much evidence. Apparently the police will take casts of the marks made by the crowbars so that if they catch them in the future they’ll have evidence against the people who tried to break into their place.

The policemen came into my flat for a few minutes to get my statement straight and immediately commented on the life-size cutout of Buffy that Kate and Nick got me for my birthday. “That’s the kind of woman I’d like to have,” said one. “She’d never have a bloody headache.” Short of saying, “Hello, my name’s Tom and I don’t sleep with women, I didn’t really know how to reply to the man’s attempts at frustrated-man bonding. So I replied, “She’s really convenient actually – if you’re having guests around she can fit under the sofa.” Then he saw Mella’s life-size Angel cut-out and made a confused face. It’s the little things that entertain me.

The weirdest thing about the whole event is how quickly you doubt what you saw. My first impressions of one of the perpetrators were that he was 5’6″, slightly podgy, dark-hair, wearing a loose white t-shirt and being about 16 or 17 years old. But when they started asking me if I saw the crowbar that he was carrying, or whether he wore shorts or trousers, I became really confused. I seem to remember him carrying a crowbar, but I can’t be sure. And I think he was wearing shorts, but again – I might be wrong. I remember one was carrying a large empty white translucent plastic bag though. One with square edges – unmarked – like a high class clothes store bag.

The most annoying thing about the whole thing is how I can’t go out this evening – how someone has to be here all night for the neighbours. It’s very frustrating. I wonder who let them into the building.

Local homosexual foils raid: In startling news this afternoon, local homosexual Tom Coates foiled a robbery on his own and his neighbours flat in Maida Vale. Tom Coates, 29, said today, “I was just watching TV in the sitting room when I heard people banging on our front door. I thought nothing of it, as the building’s doorbell hadn’t been rung and we’ve had a lot of builders and people dropping off circulars. But when the banging continued for a couple of minutes, I decided to go to the door – only to discover two teenagers with bags and crowbars trying to prise open the door of the flat. After watching them run down the stairs, I proceeded to grab my mobile and jump out onto the balcony so I could call the police and see where they went. Shortly afterwards I discovered that the next-door flat’s door-locks had been completely prised open. I’ll be talking to the police shortly.” More at eleven…

“Ohh, can’t anybody see? We’ve got a war to fight. Never found our way, regardless of what they say. How can it feel this wrong? From this moment, how can it feel this wrong? Storm – in the morning light I feel. No more can I say, frozen to myself. I got nobody on my side, and surely that ain’t right. Surely that ain’t right. Oh can’t anybody see? We’ve got a war to fight – never found our way, regardless of what they say. How can it feel this wrong? From this moment – how can it feel this wrong?” [Portishead: Roads]