aric with an a

would you let these two loose on a popular podcast?

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fortunately, it’s n….oh, who are we kidding? it’s huge.

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it’s ‘rough sundays’.

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it’s another ‘u.k. special’.

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and it’s super.

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please listen.

I am completely aware of the ridiculousness of a 32-almost-33 year-old boy-man writing about strawberries.

I am.

I am completely aware that you know what strawberries look like so I won’t put a photo up.

I am also aware of the irony that this time last year I was working on a respectable opium habit.

that being said, I had a great time in a strawberry patch today. see, I woke up and I walked poppy down fields of bright yellow - the same walk I did two years ago around this same time - to the little country pub. poppy likes this pub ’cause there’s a pond in the back where she can play treasure-hunter. we walked back, her wet and my greying mustache tasting of lager-top. she went down for a nap and I went to go find this strawberry patch Mel had mentioned the night before. I think she said ‘go left’ but I couldn’t be certain. I went left and in about 20 minutes was certain. there was a big strawberry patch.

I picked up two plastic containers [there should have been three, but I spent money on that pint previously, if you remember] and walked to where the farmer pointed me to walk. ‘plenty out there’ he said which made me feel better as if there weren’t I had no idea where the rouge one’s would hide. it took about 10 seconds tip-toeing between the rows of sometimes-bright and sometimes-not red spots before deciding to sit on the path and cross-legged.

the smell. the smell alone was worth it. everyone should smell a strawberry field.

have you ever spent time in a strawberry field? I hadn’t. ever. I mean, I love them and when I had two maids in China, one of their jobs was to prepare my smoothies with them, but as far as what they looked like and where they grew, I had nothin’. but trust me when I tell you it didn’t take long for this to become a favorite thing of mine to do that I’ll probably forget about.

I didn’t pick the one’s up top, ’cause the sun made them less-than-glorious and realized that if you pull up the leaves, sometimes you could find a treasure yourself. not all the way on the bottom, but sometimes maybe. some were big and some were small - I picked mostly perfect ones so Mel would be happy and a few not-so-perfect ones because high-school kids can be mean.

I laughed as I thought about how much the Brits love their strawberries - once, when living in Spain, I went skiiing with this absolute pikey named Matt. he had barely any teeth from the drugs and the fights that the drugs might have caused and lots of tattoos all dealing with one football team. he was nasty but he was also my friend. he wanted to go skiiing so we did and all he talked for the last 20-minutes of the trip were the strawberries-and-cream that the chalet on top had. I trusted him.

so I picked two baskets worth and paid. laughing at the 70-something nagging her husband to buy more tomatoes, but only if they were English. I didn’t know if there was a taste difference or if they’re just extremely nationalistic down here. I walked away with my strawberries.

the cars made their way far right and so did I, as this was a country road. they waved and I waved back.

thanks for that.

I got back home and poppy was still in her place where I left her.

I am completely aware of the ridiculousness of a 32-almost-33 year-old boy-man writing about strawberries.

would you let this man loose on the microphone of a popular podcast?

me neither.

thankfully, it’s not that popular.

ollie likes music.

ollie likes England.

ollie thought combining the both would make for a ratings boost.

so he’s in charge this week.

it’s ‘rough sundays 13′ - hope you like.

[and please don't leave us.]

I have a friend called Mimi.

she actually has helped in setting up this blog.

I just saw her in Austin for SXSW.

she was also due to be in Europe in a few weeks and I owed her a beer or two.

her persistence is what makes her a successful lady.

her persistence is what makes her a very funky lady.

her persistence may have just saved her life.

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there are lots of people in this pub

I see them come-and-go from my little back seat

the ladies and their Pimms to my left

with complaints about the neighborhood

[and also the humidity]

straight ahead are the suits

trying hard not to look like suits

what with their sunglasses on their heads

unbuttoned shirts

and their suits

to the right is the door

to the kitchen and the landlord who lives up there

it wasn’t that long ago that I worked on those cups

it wasn’t that long ago that I didn’t care

and then, behind the casks and ales and crisps

in front of the measured pours that I hate

between the extra cold and the import

leans the ringleader of this tuesday circus

and smiles ’cause he knows this is true

he’ll help you celebrate

he’ll help you cheer

he’ll also help you forget.

and I’m sure there have been more.

and come to think of it, 

I’ve had a few memories in this place

[in the recent few]

meaning multiply that by a many 

and I’m in a confessional

a shrink’s office

relationship counseling

and someone’s solace

for me it’s an office,

and some of the above

and how nice is it I can get all of these things done

while at the same time

drinking to remember

and a few to not.

this is why I came. it’s not even been a week and it’s been a month’s worth of stories. some good, some bad, and the fact that I don’t have internet access at the house is probably a good thing, or I might. just. go. in-fucking-sane. there’s been cricket and thursdays like the one you see above. there’s been walks and thoughts and escapes and sausages.

I might stay here for a bit. I might not.

I might go to Europe to see friends. I might not.

I could go back.

I just don’t know.

and that’s the most exciting and frightening thing you can ever feel. 

besides not being in control.

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I walk down to this pub with my notebook wondering what’s in store.

I don’t want anymore airports

with the lady that takes my coins

or tracking sandwiches and notebooks

that went both and different directions

‘cause those coins can buy more beer

while Estonian pop plays

and those sandwiches could be finished

while walking past notes.

and that notebook could hold my pictures that I took

when you weren’t looking

see, we could fit it all in one bag

which could take some getting used to

but it’s okay,

‘cause I don’t have much

although it feels like I do.

…not too many, but they’re up here.

…those were the reasons. and that was new york.

zzzzzzzzzzzzip, went the bag.

there’ve been a few, was my reminder.

you won’t be the first.

and certainly not the final.

will this shirt go, no longer a question

cause if it doesn’t, then I only have four.

one more bus day, one more bus night

if it seems weird to read, it’s even stranger to write.

it’s a home, another one, sure, but still unique

with it’s long metal tube, and the five who kept it insulated

and then it’s a couch in the east village

a spare bed across to philly

then another where they have seperate faucets,

[a feat I'll still never understand]

all in the name of the absurd.

so goodbye g, with your easiest ear.

and to you, mister -zle, never lose that pillow.

for r and for t, they’ve kept me this long, so thanks for seeing through

I’m off as the sign so shows

to the only room I can call mine

the one where you wait.

the one before you go.