An Englishman's Home

I had a lovely evening tonight. I met Alexei Sayle – he was doing a reading and a book-signing at the Broadway and because it was a Nottingham Writers' Studio event (I'm on the board, and part of the profits go to us), I was fortunate enough to have a drink with him and his publicist from Hodder & Stoughton. He's a very witty and laid-back sort of guy (Alexei Sayle that is, not the publicist, who was nevertheless an awfully pleasant person). He was extremely self-effacing and very surprised and grateful for being where he is now. After the session we had to wait for a while for him to join us because he was on the phone to his mum – how normal is that?

Tonight's events were in complete contrast to last night – I had some maniac (who claims to be a friend) hammering on my apartment door demanding to be let in "or else". I never discovered what the "or else" would constitute because fortunately, he gave up the fight and left before I had need to call the police - although not before disturbing my neighbours with his obscene threats, shouted through my letterbox. I was surprised to discover my own reaction to this situation – my apartment is my home, and yet sometimes I (and certainly others) forget this. Most of the so-called friends I have appear to view my apartment as some sort of drop-in centre for the egotistically challenged – somewhere where they can park their massive egos and imbibe of the free alcohol that's usually on offer. Well, this has to stop.

I have a right to feel secure and safe in my own home, and I have a right not to be violated and abused therein (unless I choose to be, of course). Somehow, somewhere along the way, I seem to have forgotten Voltaire's golden rule: "Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent" and I have allowed myself to give that implicit consent without realizing that I have done so. Well, fuck you mister. It's my own field of kittens from now on.

You heard it here first....