“To get out of hell, you’ve got to use power. Tell ten people.” Or so someone told me earlier today as I was strolling to the beach. I’m in Bournemouth by the way, not Surrey. Surrey, to the best of my knowledge, doesn’t have a beach. In fact, I’ve lived there for a month and Surrey doesn’t have anything. It might have a shop, somewhere. And trains – loads of trains. But nothing else. Surrey might not even have Surrey in it, I’m not sure yet. Surrey’s only purpose, it seems, is shuttling people out of Surrey.
But I’m not talking about Surrey, I’m talking about strolling. Have you tried strolling? You must. Walking is for the birds, jogging even worse, but strolling, strolling is the new booze, the new black. No longer do I start my days with a brandy coffee and a can; now it’s a banana and a stroll. In the afternoons, when the fear sets in, I take a stroll. In the evenings, when the fear really takes hold, so does my relentless strolling. Oh, you should see me stroll. I’m better at strolling than I am at sobbing and keen-eyed readers will have noticed that my sobbing is not to be sniffed at.
“To get out of hell, you’ve got to use power. Tell ten people.” That’s what the kid with the angelic face, can of super strength lager and joint told me earlier today. It took a while for his message to sink in. For a start I was mid-stroll and I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m strolling. Second, he had massive, brilliant, crazy eyes that I just stared at for a while. I wouldn’t mind those eyes, I thought, and I wouldn’t mind that can of super strength lager you’re drinking and those drugs you’re smoking. In headier days I might have grabbed the lot – can, joint, eyes, face – but these are days of sobriety and strolling and my grabbing days are firmly behind me.
“To get out of hell, you’ve got to use power. Tell ten people.” Well Angelface, consider them told. Sometimes more than ten people read this award-winning love child. Sometimes twelve people read it. What’s the point? Well, there isn’t one really. Last week I landed my most lucrative commission to date and I suppose there was a part of me hoping that I could’ve said I’d ‘strolled’ into it, but that would be stretching things. I suppose if you want a neat link, here’s one: all this strolling is keeping my head clear and I need a clear head if I’m going to keep down my regular writing job and also take on surprise commissions from time to time including this most recent one which is essentially writing the forward to a book on architecture and pays – wait for it, because this is what all the nonsense beforehand about cans, angelic faces being grabbed and strolling has been leading toward – £3 per word.
Three pounds for a word. Sounds a lot, doesn’t it? And it is a lot. Once you consider, however, that I know nothing about architecture then the deal might not seem so rosy. If I were being paid £3 per word for writing about strolling I’d be running – well, perhaps strolling – through the streets. Or if I were being paid £3 per word to write about architecture but could somehow shoehorn my newfound love of strolling in there then I’d be equally happy. And perhaps I can. Perhaps my introduction could be along the lines of:
“To get out of hell, you’ve got to use power. Tell ten people.” Or so someone told me earlier today as I was strolling to the beach. As I was strolling to the beach I was thinking about the fine work over the last two decades of Famous Architect and the relationship between architecture and strolling. Have you tried strolling? You must. Walking is for the birds, jogging even worse, but strolling, strolling is the new booze, the new black. No longer do I start my days with a brandy coffee and a can; now it’s a banana and a stroll and deep contemplation of Famous Architect and his work. In the afternoons, when the fear sets in, I take a stroll and think about Famous Architect’s clean, yet daring lines. In the evenings, when the fear really takes hold, so does my relentless strolling. Oh, you should see me stroll. I’m better at strolling than I am at sobbing (though I’m not better at sobbing than Famous Architect is at architecture) and keen-eyed readers will have noticed that my sobbing is not to be sniffed at.
I think I’ve nailed it.
Pitching the World 