A Chaste Man In Kentish Town Road

There is a hotel in South London with rooms that have been moulded out of white. Pure, Daz-The-Soap-You-Can-Believe-In white. And, this morning, in one of these rooms, I had a job interview. During this potentially employment-inducing event, I may, or may not, have confessed to sociopathic tendencies. Encounters with strangers tend to produce this compulsion to confess slightly unnerving personality traits. I like to think it makes an impact, which probably explains why I'm never going to be a careers advisor. 'Go forth and disturb your interviewer' is not, I believe, what your average Job Centre employee would recommend.

Root of this melodramatic confession? My recently discovered ability to terrify people I care for with drunken tears and multiple texts declaring my undying love. The text was not made for poetry nor do Vedett-tainted tears a desirable lover make. Two lessons, learnt the hard way. I hereby make a vow of emotional chastity. Or, at the very least, emotional restraint. I will remember that life is not a soap opera and that, as a result, bar room confrontations rarely end in lifetime partnerships. My emotional investment is not to go beyond my deep concern for the Little Goblin Man who lives next door.


All this will, no doubt, fail miserably.

Picture: Thomas Middleton. As far as scholars are aware, never drank Vedett.