After my trip up into the city yesterday, I can’t help feeling that the so-called occupation movement lacks focus and direction. I went to find the truth for myself. It is a lot of people demonstrating against something, but nobody there seems quite sure what. Or perhaps very few: I met a few very clever people up there, having debates about world governments and other such ideals, but it all seemed so pie in the sky, so wishy-washy, that I can’t help thinking that, to paraphrase shakespeare, it is just a load of sound and fury, essentially signifying nothing. They talk about the end of capitalism, and a new world order, but even though I am as aware as anyone of the vulgarities and the depravities of the capitalist system, I doubt these people outside st Pauls (a place which they have amusingly renamed Tahrir Square) have any more idea what to replace it with, or how to bring about it’s demise, than their forebears in the sixties. I’d gone up there with hope, but left feeling rather more cynical. I’ll probably go back up there again soon, to check on progress, but I can’t help thinking that such an action is always going to be futile.

Our living room looks wonderful. We finally finished it last night by putting the newly repainted shelves up. It is now a mixture of gold, silver and burgundy, a combination which I had slight reservations about at first, but now it’s up on the walls I think it looks truly beautiful. Lyn certainly as good taste, I’ll give her that. To celebrate this momentous event, we sort of had a small party: okay, we drank a large bottle of wine left over from the original painting party last week. This was, however, rank, godawful stuff, so Domonic proposed we mix it with coke. He said the Spaniards do it, although it sounded a pretty odd combination to me. As with the walls, however, it really did work; as a matter of fact it surprised me. It’s no daiquiri or martini in the cocktail stakes, but Carimucho, as Domonic called it, is definitely worth a try. The best part is, you don’t seem to get a hangover with it – now that’s what I call a combination.

I was watching ‘Sunday Morning Live’ earlier today. There was a woman on there trying to argue that sex education was harmful to young teens and shouldn’t be taught in schools, something which would naturally strike a lot of people as somewhat closed-minded and bigoted. However, when one of her fellow panellists put this to her, she accused him of being intolerant. This is something I’ve noticed a lot recently in my dealings with right-wingers online: they seek to deny other people their rights to freedom of expression, but when someone tells them to shut up and stop being intolerant, they exclaim that they are being denied their freedom of speech. It is totally hypocritical, an really gets me wound up. What’s more, for me it just goes to show how juvenile right-wing and especially far-right-wing politics is: it spews all this hatred and intolerance onto others, yet demands others tolerate their hatred. I know there is a paradox at the heart of liberalism which says one should tolerate all but intolerance, and that art of being a liberal is to be conscious of and to meditate on that paradox, but as I once wrote here and probably in other entries too, what is in the left a paradox is in the right a blatant, arrogant hypocrisy. It demands tolerance but denies it to others, which I think must be a sign it hasn’t been thought through philosophically.

I think my outing last night did the trick I needed it to do. Taking defiant, my older, slightly more robust chair, I headed up into Soho at about seven. We had really gone to town, if you’ll forgive the pun: I was in a red dress I recently bought in a charity shop, and Marta had made me up so I was more passable than I had ever been before. As I once wrote here, I seem to have a feminine side which practically demands to be let out every now and again; and it was certainly let out last night. Needless to say, I had great fun, and attracted a lot of attention if you get my meaning. I had almost all my rinks bought for me too, so it was a cheap night. However,

I must say it was quite stressful too at times: negotiating central London in a chair on a Friday night is not always fun, which is why I don’t do it that often. Next time, I think, I’ll take someone with me. I’d love to go with Lyn, although, having told chopper about my outing earlier, he says he would be up for going with me on my next ‘Becky’ night out. That would certainly be…interesting

We have just been picking out clothes for me to change into this evening. I have kind of been stressed out this week, as you can probably tell from my last few blog entries, so I think I need a bit of escapism. It has also been ages since I went anywhere en femme – I suppose having a friend as masculine as chopper gets in the way. But part of me still loves to dress up and go out; for her part, I think Lyn likes me to express that side of my persona from time to time. However, it occurred to me a few days ago that Charlie might be the one to credit for all this: back at university, she used to sometimes positively encourage me to dress up of a Wednesday evening. Even when I wasn’t so keen, I remember her gently cajoling me into something girly, although I rarely took much persuading. I know I credit her with a lot of things, but it was charlotte, and then Jen, who helped me dress to go to discos, discos at which pictures were taken which would later gain the attention of a certain Miss Levett. Thus, in a way, Charlie may be partly to thank for the life I now live. Mind you, something tells me Lyn and I were always going to find each other.

Anyway, time to start getting ready.

I’m just posting a quick note to say everything went well this morning. I got really quite worried earlier – what if the doctor prescribed anti-epileptic drugs, or said I couldn’t go out on my own? It could have been really quite disastrous. In the event, however, we agreed that, given my little absence are so infrequent and mild, it isn’t worth doing much. At least I know now what they are, and that they are harmless I was quite relieved with the outcome, and now fel ten times better than when I woke up. I just had a good hug with Lyn, and my main chair should be returned to me shortly, so now I think some of this is in order.

A couple of hours ago I was rather pissed off. I was still fretting about my thesis; I had just watched PMQs, in which CaMoron’s arrogance made me want to kill him; and, online,, people like Claire Khaw were churning out their usual hateful moronics. Such things were getting to me, so much so that I was seriously contemplating catching the 52 up to Westminster and demanding that the government stand down ad the Tory party be disbanded. On top of that, I have a doctors appointment tomorrow about my absences.

However, instead of going to try to cause a revolution, I decided to just go for a walk. It was rather grey and gloomy, but I just needed fresh air. Brooding as I went, mentally spitting venom at everyone I passed, I started to mull stuff over. CaMoron had to go – his deficit reduction scheme clearly isn’t working, everyone can see that, but the way he was continuing with it even when everyone can see it is the wrong course to take. His arrogance makes him unfit to be prime minister. As for Khaw, how could she say such thing and call herself intelligent. One day, I am going to have to sit down and explain to her why all she says is intellectually moot.

By then, I was heading through the park, thinking about taking a trip to Woolwich. I’m currently skint, but a bit of flaneurie is always good for the soul. When that thought occurred to me, I began to reprimand myself for not being at my computer working on my thesis, as I often do when I go walkabout (the flaneur being a major figure in film and cultural theory). But this was countered by three simultaneous thoughts: that this morning I’d emailed it to James for him to look at; that I probably needed a break from it for at least three or four weeks; and that, yesterday afternoon, I got the most touching email from mum and dad basically saying I shouldn’t fret so much and that ” Your mum and me do not wonder what you are ‘fucking about at’ – we know you are finding your place and your direction…” With such thoughts rising to my consciousness, I realised the sun was coming out.

However, there was still the thought of tomorrow’s appointment to fret over. The situation is very stupid: I know what the problem is, and what the scan will how- I’m just going in to see if the doctor can tell me things I didn’t know, like whether anyone else has ‘absences’ like mine. But the danger is, what if he prescribes drugs which effect my personality? That is a scary thought, because I don’t want to change from being me. Well, I then thought, I’ll just tell him thanks, but no thanks. I’m fine as I am. But what if he insists? Now You’re being silly. This whole situation is silly – look, we’re almost in Woolwich.

My internal dialogue was put on hold as I threaded my way through the crowd. I had a look in a few shops, but I mostly watched the people, listening to the stall holders cry out their prices as if they had one so for hundreds of years. It was fascinating, and as curiosity set in my gloom lifted – I could actually feel myself cheer up, brightened by he multicultural society about me. I began to think in sentences, and about how I would describe the scene were I to blog about it. I passed the spot where, last week, I fell out of my chair and pressed on towards the river, funk lifting as I went. As patches of blue began to appear in the sky, it occurred to me that I had been fretting over nothing: there was not much I could do about CaMoron; Khaw is just some nutty woman who seems to spend all her time on Facebook; I might be stuck with my thesis,, but I will got there in he end; and as for tomorrow well, I think I know how to handle it.

With that, I decided to head home. I would stop by at chopper’s en route to see what he is up to, and maybe this evening I’ll ask Laura for a glass of that wine left over from Saturday. Just one glass, mind – I do have an appointment tomorrow. It had been quite a good walk, and it really had cheered me up: ”hey” I thought ”maybe that’s something I could blog about.”

Every now and then I start feeling quite low about my thesis. I started it four years ago; it was only supposed to take me a year to complete and it’s still not finished. The truth is, I don’t know what to do about it. Then I look at my brothers, both highly successful academics, Mark just having started working at world-famous Cern, and I feel like such a failure. Part of me thinks that people like my parents and my old university friends are looking at me and thinking ‘what the fuck’s he fucking about at?’ Part of me agrees with them, that I should stop gadding about, get my head down and get the damn thing finished. But another part of me says that I have other priorities, and that even if I’m not the academic I once wanted to be I still have reason to be proud of myself. Life with Lyn is going well; I’m now pretty independent. I get out and about; I volunteer at a local special school. I constantly experience new things: the event I went to last night may have been unconnected to either film or writing, but it may well lead to things which I can apply my specialist knowledge to, and anyway satisfied my interest in art generally. Most importantly of all, I’m the partner of a wonderful person, and that’s more important to me than any damn certificate.

I guess I’m not an academic like my brothers, or the student type I was three or four years ago. Yet part of me still misses it, a part which surfaces every now and then, such as when I chat to James or hear Mark Kermode talk. I miss reading, writing and talking about ideas, and having conversations with people who reference writers like Marx, Lacan and Zizeck as casually as the fellows down at the royal oak talk about football, weed or women. When I feel such pangs, I know it’s time to get back to my studio, take my books from where I left hem, open my thesis and start work. I may not have finished it, but I will one day.

I think it is fair to say that this has been one of the most bizarre, amazing and beautiful evenings of my life. This morning I gathered through the all-knowing, allseeing book of face that there was some kind of even at the Amersham Arms in new cross by a group called tan a Deptford. Truth be told, I didn’t know much about it, but in the description it said something about getting to wear all kinds of costumes so I thought it might be worth a look. More importantly, a couple of my old uni mates, Jodie and hollie, have connections with that group and I thought it might be a good chance to catch up with them.

At seven this evening, then, I made my way over there, normal clothes over a pink leotard, just in case the occasion called for it – from the photos on Facebook I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to don one in public again. I did not quite know what to expect however, and now I have come to describe it, I’m not sure I can. I find they do a kind of physical theatre: everyone who wishes to participate moves to the music, using props and taking costumes on and off to create tableau or small dances. It apparently comes from brazil; I found it captivating and was almost instantly drawn in, Jodie very kindly helping me off with my boy stuff.

I know I probably should not have imposed hat upon her, but she said she was happy to help.*

It went on for over an hour, the four main performers constantly changing and creating scene after scene, dance after dance. I was really getting into it by the end, but I kept thinking about how much Lyn would have liked it. I’m not a dancer or a musician, but Lyn has been and is both. I really think she might love it, especially if she could do the music – the DJ being the person who controls the rhythm of the whole piece. After the performance had stopped, all those who had participated sat down to talk, and I learned that tonight was the first of four such events, happening every two week. I certainly intend to go to the next time, hopefully with Lyn and our PA but probably without the leotard. We have been looking for some type of hobby we could do together – I think this might be one of the solutions to that problem. It was an amazing evening, and an experience I’d loe to repeat with lyn: rather bizarre, yet intriguing.

*Sadly, Hollie was not there

We are currently in the middle of redecorating our front room. We started it yesterday; the plan was to have it finished by the end of the day, but this morning only one wall is done. Lyn had he brilliant idea of having a ‘painting party’, where we invited everyone to come join in, listen to some music, have a dink or three and do some painting. James came along, and it was great to have a chance to catch up with him, even if we did not do much painting ourselves. It was Lyn too who chose the colours. At first it passed my mind that I should be slightly offended that she didn’t ask my opinion, but then I thought, ”I’d only have replied that I was up to her anyway, so she was probably right just to go ahead and choose”. As it is, she has made an excellent choice: the one wall which was finished yesterday is now a warm, homely shade of purple. With any luck thee other three will be finished either today or tomorrow, so I’ll let you know how we get on.