First of all, thanks for taking the time and interest to read this blog, the random thoughts of me, the Bear. I must first let you all know that while my nickname is Bear, I am not a member of the gay community. Sorry guys. The reason I'm called Bear is because I dance like one. Any questions? Good.
It's 5:45am and I haven't been able to sleep. You know how it is, you're having a lovely sleep, then your body conspires against you in various ways. It tells you it suddenly needs a wee like a child on a school trip at the back of the coach. It tells you it's thirsty like a man stranded in the desert with no supplies. Or it just gives you the most odd things to think about till they actually wake you up. Being that my body has given me a triple whammy this morning, I thought I'd share with you a sleep-related story.
About 6 years ago I was working at Virgin Megastore on Oxford Street (R.I.P) and it was the day before Christmas Eve. Don't worry, I'm not going to go all Dickensian on you. And that night I hadn't been able to sleep. At all. I don't know why, but no combination of reading, watching TV, having a drink, laying counting sheep or smothering myself with a pillow would help. So I stayed up all night, pottering around my flat. I used to have to be at work for 7am every day, and was there on time as I had little excuse to be late. But as the day went on I began to falter. I was in charge of the returns, and as I did the whole store myself it could get quite tiring, and with it being just before Christmas it was of course absolutely manic. I found myself doing that weird head drooping thing, where it goes down a bit, then you pull it up, then droop again, pull it up. It's most commonly seen on public transport, shortly before a fellow passengers shoulder becomes the preferred pillow.
After work we all went for Christmas drinks, which in the retail trade means getting fairly battered. Having had no sleep and being really tired, drink had a fairly adverse affect on me. We started at 4pm, and by 9 I was in a corner, pissed out of my face, laughing at pretty much anything anyone said to me. I'd also found a club flyer that had pictures of Gary Coleman with a big Afro all over them (remember him? The little black kid who went 'What you talking 'bout Willis?!') and had delighted in carefully ripping around the edge of each one, and putting them in my pocket.
The bus journey almost got me into a fight because I was still unable to control my giggling, and apparently people in East London aren't always full of Christmas Cheer on Christmas Eve. It may also have had something to do with me trying to set a girl of about 25 up with a guy who was about 60, despite the fact that I didn't know either of them. You'd have thought he'd have played along. The window I was sat next to ended up being covered in little pictures of Gary Coleman, which I thought made it look rather festive but my two flatmates, who had been my bodyguards for the evening, didn't agree. It finished up with me ordering a pizza from our flat before falling asleep on the wood floor of the kitchen, where I would wake up on Christmas morning pizza-less and with £15 missing from my wallet. Damn flatmates.
Still, this has not been a wasted unnecessary early morning rise. I've written what is probably a very boring story, I've listened to French people who live above me come home and have a dance party at 5am, and I've created an awesome Hard Rock Classics play list on iTunes.