Air tore through the window and the papers on the passenger’s seat blew up and around the cabin, and Scott swatted at them ferociously, wishing he’d not been so careless when he searched the contents of the glove-box. All he’d found were receipts for gas, and the Smith & Wesson M60, devoid of all but two rounds; damned thing looked as if it had been dropped in an oil-pan during the truck’s last service, not that the truck was much better. It was only a few years old, but inexplicably full of rust; unheard of for something out here. The vinyl seats were cracked and torn from the sun, as was the dash. The remains of a newspaper sat, pages curling by the windshield. That idiot Nixon, blabbering about “that process of healing which is so desperately needed in America.”

US 8 joined the junction at one-eleven, and he headed south. The North exit of the junction was closed off, and blue lights flashed all around. With any luck, there’d be a few less people down at the wire. For some reason, Calexico was where they’d decided to meet. Maybe it was the lose women; that or the cheap drinks. At this stage, Scott was past caring. He caught sight oh himself in the rear-view as he looked back at the tape and cars on one-eleven Northbound. There was more blood than he’d thought at first, all caked above his left eye. It was a little swollen, but nothing too major. He’d take care of it later, when he met up with Harry. Hopefully he’d be here by now, waiting, Brownies’ on Main. A pot of coffee waiting, and a cigarette. But before that, there was one last thing to take care of. He needed gas.

Harry had been driving for sixteen hours. He’d not slept in a day and a half, and last ate sometime about that time, too. All that kept him going from San Angelo were cigarettes, a few lines, and the prospect of something better at the end. CA-98 Left was shut, and he almost went right through the road block before he realised what was going on. It was dark, and the DeVille wasn’t looking to have been the wisest choice to rip off. It seemed like a great idea at the time, and the drive wasn’t so bad with the top down during the evening part of the run. The cold air and bugs were keeping him awake, but only just. It was all that made up for the lumbering ride and heavy steering.

Soon, he’d be in Calexico, and Scott would turn up too. They’d torch one of the cars outside city limits, and then make for the border. They’d never have to deal with the shit again, it would all be behind them. Harry went up the ramp at the intersection of US 8 and one-eleven, and missed his turning southbound. He gunned the DeVille, and started around again, going up to the northbound loop. It was there that he finally succumbed to the gentle burble of the V8, and slumped forward. Four and a half thousand pounds of Detroit Steel rumble up the ramp, and tear through the retaining wall like tin-foil.

The blue flashing lights turned up not long after.

Scott killed the engine, and sat, thoughtless in the cab of the Ford. The parking lot was empty, and so was his gas tank. Henry should have been here an hour ago, and he was getting anxious. He’d just have to go it alone. He tidied up the papers on the passenger’s seat, and in the process, found a carton of hollow point Magnums under the seat. He popped out the two chambered .38 Specials and reloaded.

He tucked the revolver into the back of his jeans, and stepped out of the cab. In his back pocket, a small bundle of letters from his ex. It was always a boy’s club she’d said. For a moment, Scott wished he’d let her in a little further, and not driven her away. But that was over, now. She was history. Scott’s life was about to change for ever, and he couldn’t let himself think of her anymore. He tries to remember a time when he didn’t trust her, and fails. He should have brought here along.

Too late, now.

He walks up to the doors, and peers through the glass.

Never been here before, right? Never been here before.

It’s under my bed, it’s never been read.
It’s in with my school stuff and my mom never cleans in there.
From my first little fib, when I still wore a bib
To my latest attempt at pretending I’m someone
Who’s not seventeen, doesn’t know what you mean
When talk turns to single malts, or stilton, or

While not seventeen, there is a shoe-box under my bed. It used to contain a pair of dark blue Vans; now it’s filled with notes and letters, an armband from the National Trust, a box of crayons, postcards, receipts, some old photographs, too. The sort of thing one keeps in a shoe-box under the bed.

There is so much in that shoe-box that I would love to keep. But there’s also a lot of pain attached to it. Things best forgotten, things I’d rather not remember. It’s like being force-fed tales of a Geo-centric universe, wooden spoon down the throat, as if my liver were being fattened up for some cannibalistic Foie Gras treat.

All that ever was good about the shoe-box I still have elsewhere.

Today, the shoe-box burns.

My desk has grow a large coffee mug, filled with about 30 different shades of Sharpie and assorted markers. The top right drawer, once my smoking drawer, now is filled with scraps of paper and notes and pencils and Mont Blanc Ink. Two PowerBooks sit in front of me, neither one doing very much of anything. Behind me on the shelves are books I’ve amassed over a few years, and always meant to read. But never quite gotten around to doing it.

I used to churn out reams of stuff. Most of it was, by my own admission, utter tosh. But some of it was decent. I could sit for hours, sometimes days at a time, just writing, or drawing, anything and everything. Even if I were not churning out gold any more, I’d still like to be able to create trash. As it stands, I’m having trouble doing even that of late. Just this one entry has taken an hour already.

It’s not right. Time was where I could have hammered this out and done a few revisions in under ten minutes.

I think perhaps I need to take a pen and paper with me to a Royal Park sometime soon, sit, watch the world go by, and find some of that missing ‚Äúoomph‚Äù – even if all I get in return is some hackneyed old tosh about heliocentricity (a favourite of mine while sozzled) then it’s a start. It’s got to be better than this sordid existence of supporting morons for clients.

Well, it arrived. A few days ago, in fact- I’ve just been waiting for Melissa to post about the 9500. My initial battle with HM Customs ended with me losing, poorly. To the tune of about $145 in Duty and VAT. But it was quite worth it. I have to say, this is the my most beautiful object I’ve ever seen. There’s something just so utterly simple and yet evocative about it; it’s like a giant black cucumber. But without the sexual innuendo. Almost. The sheer size gives an impression of it weighing about half a pound, but the resin it’s cast from is amazingly light. The filler system is so utterly simple to use but has gears and wheels embedded in the body so that when the back of the filler goes up, the plunger goes down. That means screwing it back down, ready to use is the action that fills the vast ink chamber inside. And the resin it’s cast from; it’s not black. It’s blood red. Hold it up to a strong light, and the edge of filler mechanism, the ink chamber and the cap explode with deep Shiraz tones; you could just drink it in. There’s even a an individual serial number laser-etched into the top of the cap clip.

Downsides, the Fine nib is still too wide for the feed, or the feed is too fast. With the standard Mont Blanc ink, the delivery is just a little too fast. Solution, get a narrower, EF (Extra Fine) nib, get a OM (Oblique Medium) nib, (both free under the initial Mont Blanc Nib Exchange Program) or, find thicker, non MB ink, which would kill my warranty.

But above all, it’s forced me to slow down my life; ditching the 9500 means I now write everything when on the move, not type. And that makes me think about what I take down. That’s not something I’ve done of late when typing, it just goes from sound to letters on the screen. When writing, everything has to be processed before my hand can even begin to manipulate the pen on paper. And on a commute in the morning, that’s awesome. Less time on IRC on the train, less GPRS data getting burned, and taking in more of the stuff around me. There’s so much stuff out in the world to be seen, and this helps me take notice.

And finally, some real pictures.

If I could find a way to turn my backlog of analogue notes (read, lots of Europa No. 4 notepads) into a perfect digital format, I would. Sure, I could rip all the pages out, and scan them, one by one, but then I loose the binding, and that’s not something I’m comfortable with in the slightest. It sounds pretentious, but they mean something to me. These notebooks are the only link I have left to my late adolescence, and I’m scared of letting go.

It’s not that it was a spectacular time of life, but the links are there, and I’d miss them. Pen and paper seem to have a feel to them; digital media does not. Sitting out in the garden, I can easily look over old books and notepads and there’s no other requirement other than to have the notes; flick through at will. The concept of the digital shoe-box is not one that ever appealed.

And so, I have a choice. I’m letting go of some of my tech toys, devices surplus to requirements. I could go one of two ways; I could re-invest in tech toys, such as the palmOne LifeDrive or, something that’s far, far more suited to my new life living in a suit, a pen I have long coveted and wished for my own. Certainly, the pen collectors would pour scorn on me for owning such a bourgeois item, but this is something I’ve wanted for so very long. I don’t think I could pass up the change to own one. Maybe then I can start to take proper notes again. One will be obsolete in 18 months, the other should, if treated properly, outlive me. I just need to make sure I don’t drop the damned thing.

Besides; I have too many things going bleep at me already. Some simplicity would be most welcome…

And then, you get on The Slow Train, buy a ticket to the end of the line, and sit in contemplation as forty year old rolling stock rumbles along track held together with little more than a welding gun and a prayer. The City begins to fall away, and you notice your fellow passenger begin to change. Suits begin to become more scarce as the train rumbles further away from the blinding mass of light, and the drinks cart goes away, left rear wheel squealing in protest. Trees begin to appear from the sides of the tracks. Where thirty minutes ago you were watching Battersea Power Station, you begin to see new things, bushes, greenery, hedgerow. The further south you travel of the the City, the darker it gets; not because it’s getting later, but because of the lack of street lights and offices flooding your vision with bright white electric sunlight. The sky bruises, but as your eyes adjust, you see a faint trail of colour cross it, milky, almost ethereal. The sound of cars and people jabbering on mobile phones dies out. Soon, all thats left is the sound of the wheels on the track, the odd clunk, and your own breathing.

The carriage is empty. You’re on your own.

But that’s not new, is it? You’ve been on your own before. Stuck in traffic, just you and the air conditioning. Yeah, on your own, you and the other few thousand poor saps on the South Circular, looking for Junction 7. Now you’re really alone. Maybe the guard in the guard’s van, and the driver six coaches ahead of you, but thats it. You’re barely a half hour away from civilization, and you feel like the entire world has packed up and left. Were it not for the fact you were quite patently in Carriage 76895 on the 21,17 to Lord Only Knows Where, on a set of half rotten rails, you wouldn’t have a hard time believing it, either.

And then, enlightenment. You’ve suddenly remembered the last time you were this far away from the city- you were eight, no more. Dad took you to see your aunt, his sister.

The house smelt of lavender, and you remember playing in the garden with your cousins and the water hose on the back wall. Late summer evening, and no cares in the world. Days were long and beautiful, the sun shone and the crickets chirruped in the trees long into the dusk. Day was a fun time, where you’d wake as soon as the sun came up, ready to go play and explore, to find burred treasure in the sand dunes, or secret caves by the sea front in the summer holidays in Dorset.

And you begin to wonder, why are you still living in the city? What happened to that little kid inside of you? Did you really grow up that fast, and loose so much? Questions stream in and out of your head, and you can’t find any answers, for better or for worse. But really, do you want answers? Aren’t they what got you where you are now? Too many questions, too many answers, and too much to think about.

The mobile in your pocket bleeps at you. You’ve lost signal. Not even “Emergency Calls Only” shows up, just a simple “No Network.” The train protests as it tries to stop at the station a few hundred yards down the track, and you’ve reached the end of the line.

“Attention all passengers, this is the last stop. All change please, all change. Enjoy your evening.”

It’s gotten dark out. No street lights, little to no housing, just a light on in the station. You talk to the station master, and find out the time for the last train back to London. 23,17. You’ve got what, about three quarters of an hour to kill. And nothing to do, no where to go. You pull the collar of the jacket up around you, and the cigarette packet finds itself in your hand, and you light up, the cool air around you contrasting with the hot smoke filling your lungs. Why not go back to Dorset, you think? But what about your apparment, your job, your friends, what about them? You’d have to leave them all behind, and how could you cope with that? What would they think when you don’t turn up tomorrow morning for work? More to the point, what will they think when you track light yellow sand into the datacentre later that afternoon when you get back from your little jaunt?

The questions got you into the City in the first place. Time to stop asking questions.

Falling out of the tube at Platform Three, one grasps about the inside back pocket; toffee wrapper here, ball of lint there, forgotten 20p piece, and… one London Travel Card, because the Oyster still isn’t valid on National Rail for us poor London Commuters. An informal dinner with clients should be fun; certainly, it should never be a chore. Tapas with brandy just isn’t what I craved this evening. All I wanted was to stay a minute longer, to hold her close, and listen to her sleep.

For some reason, the ride from East Putney, ex BR station, to Wimbledon, land of wanna-be Sloaney and new Chattering Classes has never felt quite so long. Nor has it ever been quite so empty. Not of people; that line is always busy, but devoid of character. You could have cute the atmosphere with a blunt piece of string.

I’ve enough money left for a Black Cab home and a coffee before I stumble off into the night. A trip to Costa, and almost four dollars later, I’ve got the smallest thing I could call “coffee” and not be an espresso. Latte, in a collection of three paper cups, stacked one in the other. There’s a railing by the front of Centre Court, above the steps, down to the Taxi rank; from those little railings, you can just perch and look at the cars whizz past, the taxis, the busses, and people on foot trampling past. Above and behind, Footlights has the outside spots on, burning hard into the cold evening, right up into the sky. The florist at the station entrance sweeps up the detritus of the day’s work, and washes the pavement down with a final bucket of clean water, running down into the edge of the stairs, swishing around the soles of my shoes.

Damn, it’s cold out tonight.

Pulling the edge of my overcoat up, the wind bites hard, and I remember my last scarf, and loss of; I’m still feeling too guilty to replace it. I hope she likes it, all the same. In any case, it never suited me as much as it does her. I looked scruffy in it; she looks a darling in it. That she were here to share “cheap coffee” – matter of time, I suppose.

Standing here with REM blaring into my ears at 11pm on a Monday night, warm paper cups between my hands, and three layers of wool between me and the outside, it almost feels sane. Just standing about, watching the people rush about, the smell of pubs and bars at closing wafting across the street, and the blare of car horns and scooters racing along with pillion passenger teenagers.

It almost feels like home.