By LuckyJim

I am getting used to not working. I'm spending the days surfing the Internet or watching films. I joined the local library and a great DVD rental shop called Close Up. I've often seen friends for lunch, and eat fantastially well at the two branches of Mangal in Dalston, one serving Turkish pizza and the other up-market kebabs cooked on an enormous charcoal fire. One evening to get away from the computer I made myself go to a double-bill of Tarkovsky films in the back room of a Brick Lane cafe. I sunk into the Chesterfield chairs in the near-empty room content that I was making virtuous use of my time, even though the films bored me.
 
 
Another day I went to Hackney City Farm, which isn't far from where I live. There was an enormous pig, which I tried petting although it wasn't particularly cute, a sad-looking donkey, several bleating sheep, and two cute and well-groomed ginger goats. The only other people there were mothers with their infant children. I noticed that small toddlers at perfect pecking level were much more confident than I was at walking through geese, chickens and turkeys.
 
 
On Saturday night I went to a house party held by my Italian friends, people I've known ten years. I'd decided in advance that I would stick to alcohol, so arrived with three bottles of claret of which I drank half myself. By midnight the minimal techno was getting ever louder, but I was tired and slumped into a seat in no mood for dancing. People asked if I was alright. It doesn't work to drink when everybody else is taking drugs. I held on till 3am then regretfully left. I later heard the party had gone on till midday.
 
 
The next day I watched Michael Apted's ten hour 'Up' documentary series, which since 1964 has followed the lives every seven years of an initial fourteen British children through to adulthood. The children were drawn from mostly upper class and working class backgrounds, from prep schools and children's homes. The initial idea was that a child's place in the class system would already have shaped their character and the opportunities open to them by the age of 7. Those from wealthy backgrounds would go on to lead lives that were richer in every sense. I have often eroneously fallen into this deterministic thinking, and blamed all my failings on my decent middle class background. For me it's just been an excuse for inaction, laziness, and fear.
 
 
In the famous first episode, the three posh seven years olds are unspeakable brats. One of them declares he reads the Financial Times because he owns shares in it. They map out their expected path from public school to Oxbridge to the Law, and their lives seem determined. Yes, they will have to work hard to get there, but they've been brought up so that this comes naturally to them. The young jockey from the East End, Tony, is much more likeable. He's funny, childish, and free from pretension. He eventually becomes a cabbie, and by the time we see him in 42 Up seems quite well off. He has succeeded on his own terms, been true to himself and achieved the best life available to him, and isn't that what happiness means?
 
 
Seeing these people age in seven yearly intervals made me think about my own mortality, and what I could be doing to make my life better. Heaven forbid I be like Neil, the Liverpudlian who spends years on the road as a tramp, battling with mental illness, and in his 40s is still single and living on benefits. But I suppose I am more like him than any of the others. If I think of myself at 28, 21, 14 and 7 I see a clear decline, a loss of ambition, hope, enthusiasm, honesty. At some point I just gave up on trying to get the things most people want - the job, the house, the girlfriend, the self respect. Why was that? What can I do get back on track? I think this is why the series has been so celebrated - in turning the camera to other people's lives, it makes us examine our own.
 
 
My finances are in poor shape, but I haven't been looking for work. I've had £60 in bank charges, and received a default notice from my credit card company demanding the prompt repayment of the £160 I'm over my limit. I've won money at poker but then again I've lost money too, so it evens out. I've been going to the Gutshot quite often but to see people, not to play. Well, I did lose £25 there on Sunday playing $0.50/$1 no limit Omaha, a game I'd never seen running before and at which I assumed nobody would be any good, since no PLO player would touch it. But I found I was equally clueless, and soon lost my money.
 
 
Yesterday I was infuriated to discover PaddyPower wouldn't let me withdraw $200 in winnings, despite my previously having lost a greater sum, for so-called security reasons. Since my account was new, I'd have to wait three days while they decided whether I could have my money or not. As soon as I heard this I knew it was lost to me. If I have funds in my account I will not stop playing until I have all the money on the site, or none of it. Sleep or worldy obligations won't stop me playing, so a session can only end one way if I can't withdraw. Sure enough, I lost it at a $1/$2 table having re-raised preflop with double-suited aces and got it in with the flopped nut flush draw which didn't get there. Then I emailed PaddyPower asking them to close my account.
 
 
Turning to another vice I went to the sex shop down the road. I'd never been there before. I was the only one in there, and the guy behind the counter started a conversation with me. He was about 30 with long lank hair and a goatee. At first he asked if I was looking for anything particular, and kept my head down and said no thanks. But he kept on talking. He'd been a painter and decorator, but couldn't compete with his cheaper competitors from Eastern Europe, so had been working here for a year after seeing a newspaper advert. Hardly anyone ever came in, he said, and he did get lonely not having any work colleagues. Anyway he''d heard the store was to close soon and he'd be moved to their Soho branch. He'd be much happier there.
 
 
We got talking about Ronnie O'Sullivan's dad and if he knew which stores he owned. Then we discussed ways in which you could make money from porn, or if there was too much competition and there'd already be somebody doing anything you could think of. Then somehow I found myself describing to him what happens in the infamous Brazilian scat clip 2Girls1Cup, of which I only made it through the first ten seconds. All the while I was aware that because we were talking, there was now no way I could buy anything. The first rule of working in a sex shop is surely don't get chatty with the customers, don't even make eye contact with them, and especially don't try to befriend them. After twenty minutes he said he was going to shut up shop, and I walked out empty handed and, once again, profoundly unfulfilled.