Not Worth Reading – Part One

If you know me well, you’ll know that I have been known to describe myself as a writer.


There is of course one major issue with this claim – it’s very rare that I ever seem to write anything.

Thus I find myself here – in an ambiently lit bar-slash-cafe in the middle of Kettering town centre (which, because you won’t have heard of it, is a small town somewhere north of Northampton) pretentiously huddled over the smallest caramel macchiato I’ve ever seen and, less pretentiously perhaps, a portion of cheesy chips.

To be honest, the only reason I’m really writing this in the first place is because I have a lot of time to kill waiting for Mr. Cruise to get home from wherever it is the road has carried him today. I’ve been saying (to almost anyone that will listen) that I have been wanting to write more blog posts – so instead of doing that, I’m just scribbling down my stream of consciousness into a notebook that says “I Am Very Busy” on the front of it. This of course is a complete lie – because as I write this, it is five thirty, and Mr. Cruise isn’t getting back to his house until seven o clock. Fittingly, the place I’m in is called Kino Lounge. Pronounced like “keeno”. Because that is what I am.

People seem to laugh at me quite a lot when I do this in person. I think it’s partially because I don’t really think before I speak so my mouth tends to operate before I’ve really given it permission. It’s also usually accompanied by a great deal of arm movements and gesticulation, but I can’t translate that onto paper. I hope that whoever reads this finds it just as amusing as they would if I were to add the slightly wild and potentially dangerous arm movements.

Something that I have learnt today in my Adventures in Pretentiousness is that a macchiato isn’t what I thought it was. Whenever I have had one, it’s been in a Starbucks. It’s been significantly larger than this and it’s contained milk. What I have here is a very small, very strong coffee that tastes as though it has a great deal more caramel syrup in it that was perhaps intended. This is by no means a complaint – if anything, I feel like I can relate to this coffee. Bitter but sickeningly sweet, quite small and not quite what you were expecting.

That analogy started out as a joke but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. That’s how I know I’ve spent a bit too much time in my own little world today. I’m starting to give my dinner a personality.


There we go. Just in case you didn’t believe me.

(and because I’m writing this out by hand, I’ve actually put a reminder in here so that I actually post the picture)

This isn’t actually killing as much time as I thought it might. Between frequent refreshes of Instagram, Snapchat and Facebook every 34.2 seconds that yield absolutely nothing new each time, I’ve probably only been writing for about fifteen minutes. I’m sitting in an armchair that looked comfy before I spent any time in it, and behind me is three large sofas, with one single bloke taking up the whole table. To make matters worse, every few minutes he does a loud, long, snort to clear his nose. The occasional sniffle I can forgive because lord knows it’s -10 outside (and the northerly positioning of Kettering means that the weather is much like the town) but this isn’t a sniffle. This is the noise that people make to yak up a glob of phlegm and unspeakably disgusting bodily fluids from the back of their nose and spit into a tissue if they are civilised or onto the ground if they are a barbarian. I can only assume that this gentleman behind me is swallowing whatever it is he keeps bringing up, which is really putting me off the gradually congealing melted cheddar that I paid 55p extra for on my chips.

…that’s as much as I wrote when I was sitting in Kino Lounge. I didn’t finish my strange Macchiato for fear of never sleeping again, but I did order a raspberry Mojito and then questioned how I had ended up drinking alone in a bar in Kettering. The Snorting Man was replaced by a dog, which I was obviously thrilled by, and then I briefly made friends with a pug that appeared out of nowhere. Eventually I resorted to reading the same things over and over again on Facebook out of sheer boredom until Mr. Cruise called me to tell me that he was ten minutes away.  By this point it was pitch dark and drizzling moistly, so I practically sprinted back to Mr. Cruise’s house more quickly than my capacity for movement would normally have allowed – desperate times call for desperate measures.

I hadn’t realised I’d managed to write so much utter garbage in the hour and a half I was sat in that bar-slash-cafe. To be fair, I was hoping that it would provide me with some inspiration because it’s a really lovely place – I think it was a corn exchange at one point, and it has loads of shabby-chic, mismatched lampshades on the ceiling and antelope heads on the wall. I don’t know if you could call any of what I’ve just written particularly inspired but I had fun and it kept me entertained for about twenty minutes.

If you’ve read this far and it’s not because I’ve told you to, I am equal parts grateful and surprised. And yes – in answer to that burning question that I know you’re dying to know the answer to – there will probably be a Not Worth Reading Part 2. Maybe even a 3 and 4.

Maybe I’ll do a whole series.

Thanks for reading.



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