I would say I’m sorry
If I thought that it would change your mind
But I know that this time
I have said too much
Been too unkind
Life is very busy. It seems that by taking the shilling of The Man (who is still in business, natch) I get the lifestyle that goes with it. The long(er) hours, the commute, the hustling and bustling along with all the other millions of drones. And that is just the week. The weekends are also packed, so much so that, you know, I actually feel physically exhausted.
I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies
I try and laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes
Because boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry
But I am still going to London, and didn’t think twice about doing it on a Satdeh. Well, I did. Given my state of knackeredness. (But I am glad I did, it was a great walk.) London and I have not yet reconciled. I don’t hate it, and on a fine October’s day, it was nice to wander and pretend I could be a member of a gentleman’s club. (Apparently, women are allowed in, too. You can bring your wife. But you can only bring your mistriss if she is the wife of another member.) Mayfair really is a different world, and not one I will ever inhabit.
I would break down at your feet
And beg forgiveness
Plead with you
But I know that it’s too late
And now there’s nothing I can do
Have I lost my way somewhere? I haven’t quite managed to be myself yet, or at least not all of myself. I guess some people are more perceptive than others, and they can see it. I guess, as it always does, it comes down to asking the right questions. I could get sidetracked on that issue, but hey, let’s not, eh? Not right now.
So I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies
I try to laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes
Because boys don’t cry
We could just talk bewbz and legs, though, and let it degenerate into that. For the things you see. I would hazard a statistical fact and say that the tall and posh are better in Cambridge-Town (damn their Platonist hearts), but there are more of them in London. And certainly some acceptable not-tall and not-overly posh. But where is the fun in that? The next time I marry, I tells ya, I marry for money.
I would tell you
That I loved you
If I thought that you would stay
But I know that it’s no use
That you’ve already
Gone away
But observations on that level will more than likely get me in trouble. Moving on then. So guess what? Soon I even join the Blackberry set, saving me the hassle of starting to think about a new mobile, one that holds more than ten texts before I have to delete them. Of course, full data (3G, is that what The Kids call it?) access, the works. So I can receive critical messages from the various monitoring systems in LondonWorkTakeTwo.
Misjudged your limit
Pushed you too far
Took you for granted
I thought that you needed me more
Maybe I don’t quite hate London so much anymore. But then again, I don’t see much of it. I have hacked my commute, and stupid happenings on the trains/tubes aside, it isn’t that bad, really. I get up a bit earlier, sure, I cycle in the dark, sure, but I get to the office at the same time. And, like the previous few jobs, I am the first in. Which I like. I do my best stuff in the morning. Coming home is a bit more of an issue. I get home at least an hour, usually two, later than I used to. (Oh, or more. Overlapping with Merkaland, y’see, big releases, yaddayadda.)
Now I would do most anything
To get you back by my side
But I just keep on laughing
Hiding the tears in my eyes
Because boys don’t cry
Maybe I don’t mind as much as it doesn’t seem like I am actually in London. I emerge at St James’ Park, and step across the road into the office. I amn’t really awake when I get the first train, and my brain doesn’t kick in until I have had my decent tea. (I spend more on my tea than I do on my lunch. I do recommend their tea. Can’t comment on the juices. Thon things give me an instant headache, like Jelly Babies do.)
Boys don’t cry
A truce between me and the capital. For now. At least until after I lust over Ms Lewis at the end of the week. But more on that after the event, and the lusting over Ms Goldfrapp the week after.
Boys don’t cry
