Rocketfuelled
Reuben Whitehouse

Nitty Gritty 20.06.08

I

I currently own no more than 2 pairs of trousers. Both ‘Jeans’, though one pair is kind of thin Corduroy. They get worn on rotation because, in a small flat with four adults living in it and just one airing horse, the laundry turnaround time can be days: Wait for the washing machine to be out of use and cram your dirty clothes in (put too many in); Forget about it for a couple of days til it almost starts to smell of wet grass; Throw it onto the flimsy clothes airer in any fashion possible (don’t waste too much time on such insanely boring things); Wait longer for it to dry than you should because you laid it out to dry so badly.

By the time I get my clean trousers back the other pair’s got 4 days and nights of dirt and grime on it. My new jeans feel all silky clean, slightly better fitting from the slight shrinkage that comes from washing (though I know that will be stretched out again from the four continual days of wear). I almost feel smartly dressed. I stride around the supermarket with confidence. I pretend the tshirt I’m wearing isn’t the last survivor from a £10 three-pack from Topman, 2 years ago.

II

This flat, it seems, is a nicer place to be in during the winter. The sun’s moved around and in the afternoon it beams in through the balcony windows and door. No more Balcony Office – too cold for that. But now and then I’ll take time out from the afternoon’s work and smoke a cigarette in the sunshine and listen to some good music. I’ll sit on the Old Green Beast (our sofa) and light-up and watch the silky bluey-green-black smoke stream off the rollie and up towards the ceiling, with CSNY cranking. No matter what the adverts say, cigarette smoke can be beautiful. It streams upwards and around about, whirling and floating. I’ll take a drag, exhale and watch the less-bluey-green, more flat-grey smoke intermingle with the pure smoke from the cigarette tip. The exhaled smoke is less concentrated; more millions of tiny pockets of dank cloud. It goes wherever you blow it and dissipates a little. Some gets carried up with the other stream of smoke before disappearing.

III

I’ve just replaced my old Chucks of 18 months. They’ve still got legs in them to some extent. I mean, if you don’t mind having big holes in the sides of your shoes and a smell emanating from them that’s potent enough to put your cigarette out, that is. I’ve worn them almost everyday for 18 months: they’ve been from London to Paris to Biarritz to Marseilles to Lyon to Devon to Hong Kong (briefly) to Melbourne to Sydney to Byron Bay and back to Melbourne again. Sometimes without socks between them and my fuming toes. Poor bastards.

But now I have some smart and very bright white Chucks with red insides. They’re a promo for that Product (Red) thing but I bought them because they were on sale for $50. The top ‘o’ hole for the laces is red too. I’m kinda hoping I’ll go out in the rain one day soon and then my bright white sport socks will get semi-dyed and turn pink. I’ve never owned pink socks before. Perhaps I’ll buy a pair of skinny jeans, wear them with my white Chucks and pink socks and be the most rock and roll I’ve ever managed. Infact I’m definately going to do that.