Saint Paddy was a Dionysian Knife Wielder

Every day carries a new story of somebody stabbed to death in London. Usually, they are teenagers -- questionably part of gangs -- but I wonder how long before your Average Joe feels the blade going into his gut after one miscast glance.

Stratford at night, especially on the weekend, is ruled by young people milling about in groups. As we head for a pub, I wonder how many of them are carrying knives underneath their clothes. I know it's just my paranoia; I blame it on this city's obsession with crime and demonization rubbing off on me. The pub, part of the Wetherspoons chain, is filled with all kinds of people: men wearing St. Paddy hats, families playing cards, couples, students pointing mobile cameras at themselves for photos they will later upload to MySpace. I join a small group of friends I haven't seen in half-a-year.

We drank; we talked; we moved tables; we wasted time at the bar counter because the staff hate their jobs; we caught the last tube home; we bought chips and poured vinegar on it; we slept for four hours (because when we drink, we can't sleep for long); we had a lot on our minds.

Somebody wore Kylie Minogue's perfume: it smelt of crushed butterflies.

An old man sat at our table, at the edge, drinking by himself. Did he come to the pub because he hated drinking alone at home? Or perhaps he escaped a nagging wife when he headed for the nearest drinking hole? At another table, a couple had just ordered their food and drinks when she said out loud, "this is as hard for me as it is for you." She then stood up, picked up her coat and left. He stared at the wall, shocked or angry, then followed her. One of us thought it would be a shame to waste her glass of white wine so we grabbed it for our table.

We don't leave the apartment today; we watch the sun rise over London; we watch another episode of Dallas; we encourage the boyfriend to bake cookies; we read the newspapers; we play videogames; we check Livejournal; we listen to the beautiful new album by Arcade Fire; we take a nap in the afternoon; we write in our paper journal; we shower; we eat chicken wraps; we drink a lot of tea; we try to write slash fiction involving Patrick Swayze and fail miserably; we watch David Cronenberg's Shivers then get scared something will shoot up from the toilet and chew our bung-hole. We wait for Sunday to end with a mixture of apprehension; as always, the weekend sped away.