I don't know anyone that keeps a journal, and until recently I didn't know why anyone would want to. So, why have I decided to start this one? Well, one word springs immediately to mind; paranoia. It's a word that has cropped up over the past few weeks and it's one that no-one should have that jump into their head more than once, certainly not in the space of a week.
Something doesn't feel right in the house. I've felt it for some time now but every time I sit down and try to make sense of my thoughts I forget most the things I've experienced, or think I've experienced. This journal is intended as an extension of my memories, my thoughts, me.
Where to start? Well, I'm not really sure, because I'm trying not to sound too much like every other weirdo who writes a journal. I suppose I should start at the beginning, but that's not that easy as my mind is playing tricks on me and certain things are being, for want of a better word, blocked. I know there are things in this head of mine, but when I try to access them, it is a struggle. I don't just mean that it's hard to remember exact details of events, I mean it's as though something is fighting against my thoughts and blocking my access to them.
Two men were delivering boxes to the flat upstairs. I overheard the neighbours on Saturday in the close saying they were having a bathroom installed. I stood at the front door and peered through the spyglass as they brought box after box up the stairs. At first I thought it was the same guy going up and down, but at one stage he turned the corner to go down the next flight of stairs, empty handed, then came back round with another box. Twins, I suppose. It's not beyond the realms of belief is it. Uncommon, maybe, but not impossible, obviously. Silly me. There's my mind doing overtime again.
My hall floor is covered with cheap laminate. It looks good in the dark, as does most cheap stuff, but once the sun finds its way in though the windows, it's a totally different story. You can see the cracks and joins and scratches and the multitude of errors where the money should have been spent. Pay cheap; pay twice. Unfortunately false economy is something I live by. I have to control my breathing when at the spyhole, a bit like a marksman peering though his sight, preparing to take his shot. Anyway, it doesn't really matter about how my flat looks, so briefly it's a tenement building over 100 years old with 2 bedrooms and a kitchen that used to be a walk in cupboard.
I feel this journal should be some sort of amazing piece of literature, but it's not; my brain doesn't work like that. I type how I think and unfortunately a lot of things are going to come across as being slightly disjointed. I can hear more movement in the close. Will keep you posted.
12.00mid-day:
Looking through the spyhole earlier. I couldn't see much of what was going on. I could hear voices; couldn't quite make out what they were saying, sounded foreign. One of the guys stood and stared at my door. I swear he knew I was there. Felt a piercing pain in my eye. It must have been nerves.
14.00:
They're still bringing boxes up. How big is this bathroom. There's definitely two guys. They're both dressed identically. Dark blue overalls, white t-shirt, black boots (probably steel toecaps), and they both have beards. Must be some novelty twin thing. You'd think at least one of them would shave the beard. They look a bit like Mike McShane from Who's Line Is It Anyway.
18.00:
There hadn't been any activity for a while then it got dark. The two guys carried up three large, long boxes. I joked to myself that they could have been coffins.
The thought still enters my head every now and again.
19.17:
Those two guys left just before 7. I waited until the downstairs door closed, then ran into the lounge. I felt like an old man peering behind the curtains and between the blinds trying to get a better view. The two guys got into the back of a black Mercedes Benz Vito. The windows were tinted, so I couldn't see who drove it away. I heard someone cough upstairs and I thought on that old adage: It's not the coughing that carries you off, it's the coffin they carry you off in.
22.10:
The guy from upstairs is so thin. I always thought that he had aids or something. Thanks to my ignorance on that particular subject. I remember seeing a t-shirt in a small shop in Glasgow many years ago, it read:
AIDS
Don't Fuck With Me!
At the time, I thought it was funny and very clever. Twenty years or so on, I'm not so sure it was any of them.
23.50:
Not much noise from upstairs. They must have turned in for the night. It's our turn to clean the stairs tomorrow. Typical, the amount of traffic it's had today. Bastards!
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