The Last Resort

You say "music is my life". You lie. Music is MY life.

Music has a direct effect on my mood. Music can immediately cause a mood-swing from happy to incredibly annoyed. Music can pick me up when I am so far down I feel like giving in.

It's all about the right song at the right moment. Whether it be the slide and opening riff of Dr Feelgood that makes me want to pull out my air guitar as I wander down New Walk, or the sheer catchiness of The Cure's Close to Me that causes me to break out in to a series of hand-claps in the train station, once that music hits me I'm gone. I'm in a different world.

There are around 400 CD albums within sight of my where I am sat right now. There must be another 100+ distributed across my room. This doesn't always mean however, that I can always find something that I want to listen to. The restriction of an MP3 player than can hold only 200 songs is somewhat of a frustration to me. I have urges to listen to certain songs at certain moments, and if I can't gain access to it at that time I can feel the frustration build inside me. The unavailability of that song can cause misery for my work colleagues, my friends or my family. Of course there is no way of explaining this without sounding insane so it remains bottled up inside.

The Eagles' Desperado has long been my wallowing album. There is something about it that is somehow reassuring when I feel low. The Used's In Love and Death is seemingly able to eliminate most of my frustrations when played loud enough. Andrew WK's I Get Wet will get me fired up for a night out and Alabama 3's La Peste helps me relax after a long day.

I care not what you think of my taste in music, as these albums are entirely personal. There are a variety of other albums that I find myself listening to in situations that are ineffable or indistinct.

There was a time when I would enjoy going to nightclubs. There was a time when I could tolerate being in a bar that was playing the most god-awful hip-hop, rap, manufactured pop and soulless dance music. That time has gone. As soon as I lock in to the fact that the music is unlistenable, unenjoyable pap, I'm beyond the point of no return. Unless I have been destabilised enough by alcohol to be able to ignore it, my night is over.

Sometimes I don't leave the house, simply because I am enjoying what I am listening to. Sometimes I drive an extra five miles in the car just so I can finish listening to the album. Quite regularly I go for a walk on my lunch break simply so I can chill out and disappear into my own little world with my headphones on. Sometimes I just sit and enjoy silence.

My favourite refuge used to be the residential rehearsal room of my band. Often I could be found in there on my own, either writing in silence or playing whatever I felt like, as quiet or as loud as I liked. I really miss that room since we gave it up, because my bedroom simply doesn't provide the same working atmosphere.

Right now I am sitting in silence. I want a clear head to compose these words, and noises outside of my cranium are not conducive to that.

Don't try to tell me that you understand and that you're the same, because I know you're not. I love music more than I love life itself.

If I ever lost my hearing, suicide would become a viable option.

Without music, my life is meaningless.

A desk full of papers, a phone that doesn't stop ringing. Questions from colleagues, an erratic filing system that has somehow grown life of it's own. The copier working overtime, beeping every few minutes to tell me that there is a problem.

I open the door and solemnly leave this world behind me. I slowly descend the stairs before arriving at the solitude of the gents' cloakroom. As one of only five men in the building, and with three out on the road, I should be able to spend five minutes undisturbed. Five minutes of peace. Five minutes out of earshot of the tannoy. Five minutes without being questioned about clients. Fives minutes without being questioned by clients, by trainers, by my seniors.

An involuntary curiosity has moved my hand to my face and I've found myself staring at my thumb. There's a permanent scar just above the corner of my fingernail. It's a memento from my time at University. While my thumb was already in plaster I succeeded in opening a tin of beans, but I also succeeded in opening the top of my thumb by slicing it on the razor-sharp tin lid. I look toward the knuckle of my thumb I'm reminded that my thumb is not where it should be. Another reminder of my time at University, this one of the time my football team-mates decided to throw me into a bush. Only they missed and threw me over it, on to the concrete the other side.

I'm staring at my palms. I don't remember them being this tired-looking, this haggard, this wrinkly. I guess I'm ageing. I look in the mirror and suddenly things make sense. I think of pictures I have seen of my Father as a young man. I think of how he looked when I left the house this morning. I look in the mirror and what I see is, I guess, what happens in between. Somehow I had never imagined the link between the two. Subconsciously I'd always thought you were young, and then you were old. I guess the part in between is called life, although I use the term loosely when describing my existence.

I suppose I have a collection of memories. After all, that's all life is really, isn't it? I have the scars as reminders of the fun I had in the not-so-distant past, although right now they serve only as reminders of how little fun is bestowed upon my existence in the present. I don't want my life to pass my by, yet ask me a question about what I've done with my life in the last five years and I'll struggle to give you a worthwhile answer. Sure, I've been moderately successful career-wise, but it's hardly stood me in good stead right now. Yes, I've bought a car, but I'm still living at home - restricted by debt.

But most of all, what hurts more than anything, is that at 28 years old I've STILL never been in love. Uh-oh, not this train of thought again...

The hustle and slurry of the office suddenly seem like a nice distraction. I walk back up the stairs, hearing laughter and chatter on the middle floor. I reach my desk and tidy up a few papers. I clear a few items out of my in-tray and turn to face my colleague who is calling me

"It's only four weeks until Christmas!"

Great. I can't wait.

It seems like it's been a long day. I've only been awake since 10.30am but it's now approaching 5.45pm and I've been walking around Nottingham for around three hours. Sat on the train home, I'm deliberating over whether or not to go out with the lads tonight. I've not had a drink for a while but to be perfectly honest I don't think I'm in the mood for one. My mind is a little all over the place at the moment and I tend to steer clear of alcohol when I'm in this state of mind because I fear being out of control.

It's only a short journey from Nottingham to Sileby, where my car is parked- probably no longer than twenty-five minutes. I'll plug my headset into my phone and listen to some music on the way. Hmm... what shall I listen to? I think I'm in a Cure mood, let's put it on random and start with Friday I'm in Love...

Well, it's not Friday, and I'm certainly not in love. More's the pity really, I've got a lot of love to give and could really do with sharing some of this pent up affection. That's not a roundabout way of saying sexual frustration either, this really is affection that's just dying to come out. Is it really appropriate, however, to be looking for the potential target of my affection on a busy train journey late on a Saturday afternoon?

Appropriate or not, I can't help glancing at the girl in the seat opposite. She has her headphones on and she's writing something. She also keeps looking over, although I'm not sure why. I want to believe that she's looking at me but in all honesty there's more likelihood of me finding Billie Piper naked in my hotel room tomorrow than that being the case. I'm sure she's looking beyond me, although what she's looking at I'm really not sure. I can't work out how old she is. I can't look for long enough to process her features and put an age on her. She has reddish highlights in her hair, a slight yet complete figure and I expect that she stands at around five-three. She's still writing. Every time I glance over she waits until I look away and then looks up again. I want to ask her what she is writing. I want to start a conversation with her. I want to find out about her, hear how she talks and find out where she is going. I don't know why, but something has clicked in head and I'm incredibly attracted to her. She has a straight look on her face, no expression of feeling. I've no idea whether she is feeling happy or sad, whether she is tired, or how long she has been travelling.

I catch a glimpse of the book she is holding. My initial instinct was that she was writing something, but upon closer inspection she is making notes in a text book. It's a small red text book, it reminds me of a bible I used to have by my bedside. I wonder if she is studying for some sort of religious position. I wonder if she is just simply reminding herself of certain aspects of the bible and finally I wonder why I am convinced that she is reading a bible. The text is too big for this to be a complete bible in such a small book. Besides, she only seems to be underlining certain words - what possible reason could there be for doing that in a bible? She's not underlining phrases or highlighting big passages. It must be something else. Go on, one last look to see if you can figure out what it is...

Nope. Still no luck. Again, as I turn back she looks up at me, still no expression on her face. I nearly make eye contact this time. She's seen me staring at her book at least, so it doesn't look THAT weird. I could probably legitimately ask what she's reading now without seeming like some random weirdo on the train. I'm not an intimidating person and she almost seems open in the way she is making no secret of looking at me. She seems confident and unconcerned by my glances, part of me wonders if she would almost welcome the chance of conversation with a stranger.

Alas, I'm too tired to take the risk of forcing a strained conversation if she is not as welcoming as I predict. I also worry that the book really WAS a bible, and the conversation becomes focussed around religion. There is no way I will NOT offend her if she is committed to her religion because I find it very difficult to be diplomatic with my views on religion. I will of course not be forthright or aggressive with said views upon first meeting someone, but this will then lead to (at least on my part) the strained conversation that I wanted to avoid in the first place. Besides, I'll probably never see her again. I don't catch the train often and really have no desire to. I've may only have a few minutes until she gets off too, probably a maximum of ten before I get off as well so I can hardly ask for her number in that time. But you read about these things, don't you? You read about people falling in love after first meeting on a crowded train home. You read about strangers who get chatting and one thing leads to another. Maybe it's my turn for some of that. Go on, have another look...

Yep, she's definitely my type. Not (only) in a sexual way, but in a way that she's got something about her that tells me she's open, she's creative, she's somewhat outgoing and she's definitely confident. She's dressed quite deliberately, yet not to follow a trend or fashion. She's dressed how she sees herself best presented. And she's right, too. She has that casual look about her, but it's one that's not simply been thrown together. Of course the chances are I'm totally not her type. But she keeps looking over. Oh no, hang on- that's because I just glanced over again and she saw me.

Wait, she's moving. We're arriving at Loughborough and she's getting ready to disembark. I watch as she gets up, but I feel it inappropriate to watch her leave the train as the exit is behind me.

As the train pulls away I see her walking calmly up the stairs, headphones in, on her way to whatever her destination may be. I'll never see her again. I'll probably never catch this train again. I want to see her again. I want to bump into her accidentally one day and just get chatting. I want her to be taken in by my warm nature and my caring personality. I want to take her out and get to know her.

I want her to fall in love with me.