Am I an optimist or a pessimist? The glass is half full. The glass is half empty. Frankly, who cares? I am feeling curmudgeonly and the fact is that the next door neighbour’s bin is completely full and will the dustmen empty it? No, they won’t. No, nay, never. No nay never, no way.

You see, round our way, they won’t lift a dustbin up in the time honoured tradition of their predecessors. That might involve being strong and manly and physical, so they can’t do that. I appreciate they might hurt their backs, but did I force them to become binmen? I think not. And we haven’t got wheelie bins either that back up to the refuse truck and get lifted by the hydraulic mechanism because, well we just haven’t, okay.

What we have, my friends, is binbags. Black plastic refuse bags, if you will. Those are the only things our garbage disposal specialists will take away. If it’s not in a binbag, it ain’t going in the truck to be burnt or make landfill or whatever they do with it. If it’s not in a binbag, it’s going to sit outside your home festering. Forever. Mmmmm. Nice.

So, why hasn’t my neighbour put his/her rubbish out in binbags like any normal resident would? Well, she moved three weeks ago and her smart alice daughter simply filled the bin up to the top and left it out. Result: it is still there. However, those of you who read my intolerant outpourings yesterday will have picked up on the fact that I now have a new neighbour.

Hoorah!

Yes, he’ll sort out this festering bin problem. Or at least simply ask the council to remove it. Of course he will. Won’t he? Err, no. What he has done is simply move the bin on to my garden! Holy freaking cheek! Like it’s MY problem to deal with!?

What in God’s Holy Name is wrong with people. Yeah, yeah, so he’s going through a divorce and we should all be sad for him. Well, boo hoo hoo. I’m not sad. In fact, it looks like I’ve discovered the reason why his marriage fell apart and it’s only taken me five minutes. He is clearly a lazy good for nothing who shunts his problems on to other people and expects them to sort them out for him.

Needless to say, I’ve moved the bin back on to his drive.

…

You know, I’ve barely started about the neighbours. As well as witchypoo and binman, there’s the trailer trash down the block who thought it would be a good idea to have a nice car fire to get some income from an insurance claim one night… outside their house. No, never mind the risk that the petrol tank might have exploded. And the rest of the street turned out to watch the twenty foot high flames. Guess who called the fire brigade when he detected the whiff of burning car in the air? Muggins, that’s who. Me.

Then there’s the exceedingly large coloured lady who keeps stopping yours truly to tell me about Jesus and ask me along to the Salvation Army. Yip. And the pensioner who may well have been a sex bomb in her younger years and who still apparently thinks she is with her little winks and hip waggles. Oh, dear. Oh dear oh dear. And the guy who looks like an old pervert in his little red car. He could have stepped out of a Carry On film.

You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Today as I was coming into my house, I saw my elderly neighbour standing silently in her doorway, arms folded watching me like a hawk eyeing up a baby rabbit so I said, “Hi!” and proceeded to open my door and escape before she could trap me in a yak yak yak situation about a load of cobblers.

“Hi,” she replied in a sarcastic voice, “you know you’ve got a new man living under you, don’t you?” Like I could care less, shut up you old bag, I thought. “Oh really,” I said. “Yes, he’s got two children, so you’ll like that won’t you? Kids running around all over the place?” she went on. You really have a sad freaking life don’t you, I thought.

“Oh,” I replied, “where on earth are the kids going to sleep in a one bedroom flat?” I had been sucked in and she warmed to her theme, having obviously gathered intelligence for many days just for such a string of revelations. “He’s divorced, yes,” she clucked. “He has the kids during the week.” God, you really are dreadful, I thought. Poor guy. Poor kids.

“Yes,” she gabbled on, ignoring me and talking for her own benefit now, “it will be like these two next door to me, always arguing. Don’t you hear them? They have the police round every week. And the ambulance. Don’t you see them? And him over the way, he’s trying to get his son to live with him. And he’s a drug addict you know?” Yakkity yakkity and how she did go on and on.

Eventually, I managed to escape this dreadful harridan. She was at the point of questioning me about where I work and what I’m doing and I just said, “Oh, I’m doing fine. Bye for now. See You.” And I went inside and closed my door.

So, all my neighbours are a nightmare. Actually, I think not. They are all very quiet and polite. Except for Witchypoo. So, was I too rude or was she? What is wrong with this windbag? Too much time on her hands, clearly. I’m sure the silly old bat keeps a diary of my comings and goings and how many times I flush the loo and when.

I know, I know. It’s free security with her watching the street all day. But would she ever phone the police or just make more notes for her daily gossip? Oops. I mean, I know, I know. She is old and on her own and wants human contact and I should be nice. I just wish she’d stop being so damned nosey and obnoxious about everyone. And it would be very nice if she’d come and weed my garden. Again.

It’s funny how much you can get done in a morning, isn’t it? I mean, nothing much really gets done in afternoons. It’s like all your blood sugar melts away then and siesta is the perfect solution. Sometimes your whole life can change in an evening of course. Particularly if it’s an evening that starts with a bolt of lightning across a crowded bar and that evening becomes a weekend becomes a real life flesh and blood living breathing touching feeling other. But it still seems to be mornings where the basics get sorted.

So this morning I sit down with Excel and pull together the various movie budgets and other liabilities I have. I work out what I owe and what I need. Then I look through the mortgage literature I picked up last week and phone the one with the best rate. About an hour later I have taken the steps to remortgaging my property and using the equity to consolidate my existing debts. The result is that I will be able to afford to pay for 35mm prints of both my short films. And not only that, I will be nearly £300 a month better off. Ha! And not only that, hahahahaha!

Full of what can only be described as smugness, I take the car to the garage and top off the air once more in that slowly leaking tyre. No, still not had it fixed. Yes, it does bother me the longer I leave it. This week, I say to myself. After pay day, I say to myself. Stop talking to yourself, I want to add but I don’t.

Meanwhile, my favorite boots are nearly worn through and Camel aren’t making them any more so getting them fixed is a priority too. You can’t beat soft comfortable leather boots if you’re going to have a happy life. Happy feet equal happy life. Honest. Just look at how many people go to reflexologists. So I take the boots into town and find it will cost a mere £30 and they’re sorted. I go to the cheap shop and buy soap and toilet rolls (it’s a guy thing, we panic when we’re down to the last four) and then to the expensive store and use £10-worth of refund vouchers from the petrol station to buy delicious lunch.

By this point I’ve spent less than five pounds and achieved quite a lot. How smug am I now? I join the queue in the bank with the good intention of opening a type of savings account where I can bypass being taxed but the queue is a still life posing for a non-existent artist so I take the leaflets and go. This is naturally where the tight rein on spending slacks off. I need to buy my sister a birthday card. She’s hinted “fifty” and I’ve said “twenty” but neither of us said what we were talking about although of course we both knew. I settle for thirty plus the cost of the card.

Incidentally, two pounds for a piece of cardboard and the queue is halfway down the shop? You could toast bread on the heat from the overworked cash register! It makes you wonder why the sales assistants have a grey pallour rather than wonderful tans. Maybe if they changed the readouts from green LCD’s to sun lamps? Is this a licence to print money or what? And all the cards in there are soooo bland. They may as well be blank. Note to self: make more own cards after this.

Of course, the birthday schtick means I’ve undone quite a bit of the morning’s good Living Below Your Means stuff so I rent three DVD’s from the library and one from Blockbuster for good measure. On the way back I bump into the beautiful Shauna. Sigh. Tall, curvaceous yet slim, long blonde hair blue eyes angelic smile (and nice tits, yes, since you were wondering). I am irresistably drawn into her gravity well and we gaze adoringly at each other for minute after long minute. Passers-by melt into the background as we stand there with those delinquent half-smiles half-questions on our faces…

Reality break over. Okay, so we chat for a bit and laugh a bit and it’s good to see her and of course this doesn’t end in any kind of date situation (because I’ve asked before and she has a boyfriend who “wouldn’t really approve”) and I’m reminded that I haven’t been to salsa for ages and nor have I been to jive and, wow! There are some great looking women around. It’s good to be alive and I love them all!

Then it’s back home to watch the first of the movies and gorge myself silly on free food. And another few drops of irresistable force have fallen on to the immovable object, that hard rock of reality, drip drip drips wearing a hole relentlessly into the future where the tide will burst through and I’ll be ready to catch the surf.

And I have been camping (yes, in a tent) and have a sun tan and look and feel healthy…

And many beers were consumed…

And I have seen the Eden Project which is strange and huge and wonderful and space agey, with large biomes of geodesic domes creating the perfect conditions for plants from around the world. A totally self-sufficient project in energy and water and resources to run yet marked out by only being accessible by car. A sign of new hope and a new dawn for this Millennium. Definitely worth a look.

And yesterday I visited Glastonbury and climbed the Tor on the mythical Isle of Avalon and pondered the legends of Merlin and Arthur and saw many shops selling mass-produced souvenirs. Souvenirs hinting at ethereal beauty yet not quite achieving it for people lost in cultural obscurity, seeking spiritual meaning in a cloying fog of modern mass production and choking in a relentless marketing strategy not of their devising.

And more beers were consumed.

And I spent three hours looking around other people’s fascinating junk at a car boot sale on the site of the cow-free cattle market in Gloucester at the end of last week.

And maybe some wine was consumed somewhere then or was it cider? I remember a campsite somewhere between a motorway and a major road where the sound of the traffic never stopped. Yet the sun burned down and I moved myself to the sweltering heat of the Florida coast and out to the Bahamas with Travis McGee through the miracle of fiction. And my back burned red…

And the sun still shone during a wander around Mevagissey with fish and chips and scavenging sea-gulls and the town’s model railway museum on a whim and why? Because it was there…

And the sea mist rolled in at the weekend in Cornwall as hundreds of old Volkswagon Beatles and VW Campervans made their Run To The Sun only to find it had disappeared. The mist was haunting and beautiful. Cider was definitely consumed then and roast chicken and salad. Playing pitch and putt and crazy golf and losing the ball several times in the water and falling about laughing at that.

And during that mist a trip was made out to Perranporth to a huge beach and the sun broke through and the surfers did their thing. And more beer.

And then moving on again, another day, and a trip to the Lost Gardens of Heligan strangely sunlit too during a three hour walk around areas with enchanting names like The Jungle and The Ravine and New Zealand and the crystal grotto on what was once a huge sprawling estate of the Tremayne family. Funny to think they grew there own pineapples and exotic fruit right there in England at the turn of the century. Then the whole place vanished under sprawling weeds and vegetation until only ten years ago.

And today stopping at Avebury, the village surrounded by a stone circle created in around 4000 BC and which covers an area of 28 acres. Eating ice cream (with a chocolate flake and strawberry sauce) and touching the stones. Cool to the touch in the noonday sun. Towering much higher than the visiting people. No message from the past except its crumbling resilience. Stoicness in the face of the present.

And other memories and experiences and so pausing…

Then returning home to phone the graphics people about the Last Train and finding it has been typeset and a test has been shot and I can go in and check it tomorrow and I will. Film one nearly finished and the bills and bank statements arrived during my absence to prove the financial reality of that.

So now I am back.

And I smile.

Today every muscle feels full of rust. My arms ache. My legs feel too tight. My back is a knot of uncared for tension. I’ve dragged myself out of bed after a few hours sleep because my friend Jelena has kindly offered me a massage. All of the knots and aches and rust sing out and seem to raise their voice in a chorus of yearning aching begging for this release. Somehow I force myself up and go to the car.

The car. The rear offside tyre has a slow puncture. It’s nearly flat. I have to go to the service station and pump it up. They charge twenty pence for compressed air. This is a petty small minded piece of profiteering but I’m sure Mr Scrooge rubs his hands together in glee as he counts those 20p coins up in the back office. That’s if he can see them by the light of that livingbyhismeans five watt flourescent tube.

I arrive at Jelena’s house. There’s a yellow car in the drive, which means her flat mate is home, which means she’s probably still in bed, which means she’ll wake up at some point and burst into the kitchen. The kitchen is the massage room. This doesn’t bode well. I knock on the door. Her other flatmate opens the door. Everyone is home.

All the rust inside me seems to grow heavier as I go inside the house. The music playing is loud pop and my friend is in the kitchen having an excited conversation with her neighbour about house prices. I feel myself getting a headache. This is so far from a relaxed atmosphere that I feel like screaming. Inwardly, I do. Shards of my subconscious angst spray around the living room like porcupine needles. But no one notices. They are all too busy busy busy.

Fifteen minutes of clockwatching later the animated houseprice conversation comes to an end but what is the point of staying. The neighbour leaves and Jelena suggests we do something else because she’s not in the mood to do massage at the moment. I wonder why her teacher asks them to make a charge to appear professional. It’s only £10 because I’m a friend. But if it was professional this wouldn’t go on. Professional is a state of mind, an attitude. Well, I think it is or should be or whatever.

There’s a knock on the door and they have another visitor who is invited in for a cup of tea. Cup of tea. This is the universe’s way of mocking those who overstretch themselves. Cup of tea? Oooh, lovely! Cup of rusty brown angst-inducing caffeine-laden bounce me off the walls hot liquid for you? Mmmm. Yes. Fourteen sugars for me, thanks. And could you throw in some aphetamine sulphate too? Because I don’t think a tea and sugar overdose is quite going to drive me to the eye popping edge of cr-cr-cr-craziness quickly enough this morning.

No. No tea for me. I’m tired. I am so very very tired. And I really don’t want to feel wide awake at all at this moment. So I come home. I’ll ring later. I only went this morning because my friend was going away for the weekend in the afternoon. Normally, I wouldn’t get up this early after working late the night before but a massage would be soooooo nice. Jelena will delay her plans and I can go round later. Jelena is good people. I drive my too solid flesh back in the too heavy car through a day weighed down by grey leaden skies.

Grating rusting sinews gnaw at my shoulders and I find myself stuck behind some old fogey’s clapped out car which must only be driven at the exact same speed as the speed limit. For some reason I want to drive right up to their rear bumper and ram them off the road. I want that stupid little brown car to be eaten by rust in a ditch. But I don’t wish that on the driver so I ease off the gas. Pedal up a touch, flex my shoulders backwards and feel the strain.

I’m going back to bed.

Around the back of the studios are the usual props, staging and other flotsam of a hundred thousand television series, serials and sitcoms. I’ve got a ten minute break and decide to take a form of exercise which involves running up eight flights of stairs from the basement to the top of the building and down again. From the third floor I can see a Scoutmaster showing some kids the central area with the statue designed by Eric Gill. The Scouts are no doubt listening to how a world record was set for tap dancing back in the seventies on this very spot.

I move onwards and upwards, up to the seventh floor where I pass a room, 7017, which isn’t labelled with anyone’s name. Instead, some wag has replaced the door sign with a symbol from Gerry Anderson’s UFO (the seventies sci-fi series–what is it about the seventies here tonight?). I am sorely tempted to slide a message underneath for the wannabe members of S.H.A.D.O. (Supreme Headquarters Alien Defence Organisation). I could claim the aliens have discovered their secret base. I resist. For now…

Along the corridor, I pass news resources offices and etched glass doors. All very expensive. I head down and pause to look in Studio One from the observation gallery. The black cyclorama is wrapped all the way around and it’s difficult to see the shiny aluminium staging in there. Looks like some kind of quiz show. I can see they’ve rigged a fair few vari-lights. I love those.

Down on the groundfloor, I head for the vending machines. Around the deserted tea bar are scattered numerous empty bottles of Becks. Someone is having a good evening. I load up with Dr Pepper for the caffeine rush to compensate for having given up tea and coffee. Well, I still need to stay awake don’t I? I head back up to the first floor, going past the dressing rooms. On the way I hear flautists practising in one room. A bit further on the sound of an acoustic guitar playing drifts out along the hallowed halls. I pause to listen.

The guitarist is really good. I wish I could play like that. I can hear them singing too. I check out the sign on the dressing room door: ‘ Rodney Crowell appearing in Later With Jools…’ I’ve never heard of him but I look him up on Yahoo when I get to a PC. He has his own site. Still not heard of him but I predict that his album, The Houston Kid, will be big here in the UK in three to six months when the show goes to air.

Ten minutes up. Break over.

It’s a grey miserable day in Manhattan. Raining all night. Drizzling down a bit more today. The clean sidewalks of my first morning are no more. Instead they are feature soggy bits of litter, some bin bags, cigarette butts and quite a few black umbrellas blown inside out.

Seems like the weather is reflecting my mood. I’ve had a really great time out here, marvelled at the sites, revelled in the sushi and seen some of the weirdest artwork I think I’ll ever see. It will take a whole separate post to describe let alone explain one piece in particular.

I’ve also experienced a few incredibly dark and dismal times, just like today’s weather. Sometimes travelling on your own is good and sometimes it’s no fun at all not having someone around to share things with. Sometimes you can set up a whole load of expectations for something and when it doesn’t happen, everything just seems to crumble like a house of cards. I’m definitely guilty of that.

Those dismal moments have taught me a couple of things, though. One is that no matter what happens, we keep breathing; the world doesn’t come to an end. Life goes on and we have to go with it. It’s not like anything dark here has been a matter of life and death. The other thing I’ve learned is that sometimes no one is to blame for the grey days; fate and chance can throw the dice for you.

My trouble (I know) is I can get carried away and forget that. I sometimes want things to happen in a certain way and feel I have to try and keep trying to make them happen no matter what. Kind of like the irresistable force coming up against the immovable object. My enthusiasm gets the better of me and I push things and people, although that pushing is never meant to be unkind.

I forgot that not everyone has the time, energy or desire to be excited just because I am. But I do know it’s thanks to my friends that I’m out here, on a limb, travelling and seeing new things. So the past couple of days haven’t felt like fire and light, more like damp and murky, and I’m searching for a positive way to end this post but the cliches all seem too worn out.

Whatever. Despite all this rambling, New York is definitely now a favorite place and my friends are just as valuable now as they were before I came. Maybe even more so. That must mean I found something positive after all.

Or give me something else. Preferably with a little side salad and some Russian dressing. Or American undressing with contours to contrast against these oh-so straight roads.

Today is the first day of spring and it’s early morning with the bright steep sunlight slanting in to light up the freshly swept sidewalks. There’s a mouthwatering smell of cinammon coming from one of the bakeries I just past and the florist shop opposite is a riot of color.

And art is everywhere here. Down on the subway on 14th Street I just saw a great piece of sculpture of a crocodile coming out of manhole on the platform and eating some little gremlins who are sawing at a pillar under the stairs.

Still, I’ve noticed now that the sidewalks do get grubbier as the day goes on. I’ve seen beggars on the street and the subway, just like home. I’ve even noticed some dog poop up around West 27th, but it is still rare.

There’s that grass is always greener syndrome when you’re in a new place, I guess and it does wear off. Nonetheless, the good here is a cut above other places and yesterday’s trip out to the Statue of Liberty was very good. You can’t help but be impressed again and again with the Manhattan skyline and you get a fantastic view of it from the tour ferry. I snapped off quite a few frames of film just for the hell of it.

Afterwards, down on Bleeker Street, I noticed a lot of shops selling the wide wide panorama view of that same skyline in wide wide frames, long and thin and covering all the major buildings seen from the Hudson River. I can see why so many films start with that helicopter view rushing over the water and then up over the skyscrapers.

Talking of films, I went to see the new Steven Seagal movie Exit Wounds yesterday. Apparently it took a lot of money in its opening weekend according to the TV reports. Steven Seagal really is very poor at acting, isn’t he? He can’t seem to help it and in this he makes Mickey Mouse look 3D. But then, Seagal IS superb at martial arts and there were quite a few places where he does that bone-crunching stuff he does best.

I’ve got to say Exit Wounds sucks badly. I seriously wonder if it will be released in the UK. Also I wonder if they do, whether the same bodies bouncing off cars and odd bits of violence will still be in or will be cut to protect sensitive British audiences. Somehow someone in Hollywood keeps greenlighting this nonsense which always gives me hope.

As well as mentioning the great box office this dross has done on Fox yesterday morning, the breakfast news also reported some local shootings, court reports and spent a lot of time on traffic problems. All of this was handled in the same fast-paced slick way that slid easily into a jocular weather report, a report on the latest swimwear and a lot of inter-presenter repartee.

It’s still funny what’s different here and what’s the same. I feel like I’m not noticing as much of those differences but other times they glare out at you. No wonder we think we’re communicating just because we speak the same language. Sometimes we are. Sometimes, though, we are an ocean apart.

As I look up at the painted and pannelled ceiling, marvel at the splendid chandeliers and see a beautiful blue sky through large arched windows I can only think that this is very pleasant. New York Public Library also equals free internet access. Marvellous.

St Patrick’s Day. Went to the parade, saw some paraders, gazed at the gamut of green hats, ear-rings, face paint, necklaces, you name it. Then went to a bar. In fact several bars.

For any of you Brits travelling out here there are a handful of things you need to know about drinking in bars. Firstly, it is painfully expensive. If you thought a London pint was expensive at two pounds fifty, try three, four or even five pounds on four size.

Second, most places serve 16 ounce pints. This means you can drink lots of them without falling over. US citizens please note — a pint in the United Kingdom is 20 ounces. Four is about my limit but then I’m a lightweight and admit. When I’ve had four I’m usually talking complete cobblers (unlike normal? shh…) or being very loud or being very sincere or dancing.

Third thing to note is you need to tip the barman. This seems odd coming from England (where you don’t need to tip anyone) but the reality is that the guy is not being paid or is getting something like $2 an hour so your tip is his wages. Those ‘free beers’ he occasionally gives you are cheap even with the tip.

Finally, you can talk to people in bars here and it’s not weird. So enjoy! I did.

Okay, I gotta go, 30 minutes free access time is up.

We went out to look at stuff today. Old stuff. Like Teddy Roosevelt’s home. He wasn’t short of a few bob now was he? In fact loaded is the word. Riches beyond the dreams of avarice, although I draw the line at more money than sense because from what I’ve learned, the man teddy bears were named after definitely had sense.

Did you know, for example, that he was instrumental in resdributing the wealth from the so-called robber barons to the common folk? And did you know that he was responsible for America having National Parks today and thanks to him there is now twice as much forest as when he became president?

Our guide for the 30 minute tour delighted in telling us these historical gems. He also delighted in telling us about his military victories, his love of family, his freakin’ amazing art collection (better than the Guggenheim — my comment) and his love of conservation.

Do you know what conservation means, son? Spit that there chewing gum out! Yes, it means preserving stuff. And thanks to Mr Roosevelt’s propensity for hunting down every species under the sun, New York has the well-stocked museum of natural history that exists today.

Good on you, Ted! Where would we be without stuffed dead animals to tell us what the natural world looks like, eh?

Okay, cynicism aside, the Rooosevelt home up on Sagamore Hill was impressive. And so was this former President’s history and his contribution to so many aspects of the truly great nation that is the United States. However, our guide, one Jerry McClueless (name changed to protect the guilty) was sometimes not up to the same standard.

“I was a New York cop for 20 years and then a school teacher for 12 years,” he informed us. I pity the fool kids who were in his class. ‘An American through and through’ Jerry nevertheless couldn’t resist telling us about his Irish heritage (third generation — one further back than me) and how hard it all was.

Jerry, yep I’m gonna talk about ya because you really are an anachronism, full of half-truths about the past of both Teddy Roosevelt (who was great) and your good self (who was a bit of a bully and not so great).

Seriously, this is a cheap shot because Jerry was a very good guide; talkative and informative and entertaining. However, when you ask the question what was the greatest invention the English ever had, you might at least remember Alan Turing’s fore-runner to the computer, or Stevenson’s Rocket, or Newton’s theory of gravity.

England was the only (yes, that’s right folks — the ONLY) nation to ever industrialise from scratch but for Jerry, whose antecedents left Eire to be forgotten all those years ago, the joy of telling us about the inventor of the toilet being one Thomas Crapper superseded all of this. “England’s greatest export was the toilet!” Over and over again. Frankly, who cares?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, yawn.

No invention or discovery really exists without international cooperation and collaboration. My examples of imperial greatness above also have roots in other cultures, piracy and exploitation. Whittle’s jet engine would be pointless without the Wright brothers’ discovery of flight or Boeing’s commitment to aviation now. And Jerry was right about one thing — Oliver Cromwell was an internationally disgusting disaster, to say the least!

Okay, Jerry was right about a few things. Whatever. Today just made me remember that we are one group of human beings with many cultures all striving to move forwards on this tiny planet in the vastness of space. It really is specious to hold grudges from a past none of us had anything to do with. And that applies whether it was a generation or six generations (or more) back in time.

The past is another country, they do things differently there. Nevertheless, I’m off to celebrate St Patrick’s Day tomorrow. Why? Because tradition will always have a place in the modern world.

That and beer.