Welcome.
My name is Frank. I am a 23 year old living in London. Like the millions of others who swarm around me, I have thoughts, feelings and aspirations, all of which have been mapped out here, conveniently, for you to browse and peruse at your own leisure.
As this is a novel, I am a figment of someone’s imagination; a bloody good bloke actually. This means that as I walk and live and see and feel and trip and eat and sleep, things could happen to me, just like that. Without any warning. This is the beauty of fiction, and the beauty of me, Frank.
If you like what you read, you can keep going. If not, you can stop. Very, very simple really. I’d love you to stay, because I feel this could be quite some ride, and would hate for you to miss out.
Thanks,
Frank.
—
I lie on my bed, wondering what the hell it is I should be doing. The sky that sits atop my wonderful view of the city is grey; uninviting, uninspiring. I roll over and look at my phone. Nothing. I bloody hate Sundays. I might pop downstairs for a cigarette soon, and, ashamedly, get a little excited by the thought. Only on a Sunday.
So, while I’ve got the time, and in a bid to lift my Sunday blues, why don’t I tell you a little about myself, seeing as you’ve got to this page, and you’ve read as far as you have.
My name is Frank, and I live in North West London. Kensal Rise to be precise, and nice it is too. Apparently Sienna Miller lives round here. I haven’t seen her yet, but I am quietly confident that when I do bump into her in the Londis or down the road in The Chamberlayne, we’ll get on like a house on fire. We’ll probably end up getting married on a beach somewhere exotic, with a Margarita flavoured reception to boot.
I live in a big, gold building that reflects the day’s sunlight into the eyes of passers-by. Luckily, sunlight is at a premium in this part of the world, so there have been no solid complaints yet. Inside, it’s a nice flat, pretty sharp, and I share it comfortably with my best friend in the world, Harry. He’s a big oaf of a man, who sits and eats and drinks and farts and picks his nose and burps, rarely all at the same time, but who is, in actual fact, a pretty decent bloke. You would probably hope so considering he was my best mate.
I saunter out of my room to get a drink from the kitchen, which doubles as a small lounge area with two sofas and a television. Low and behold, there he was, sat nonchalantly staring out of the window. It was comforting that somebody else was using their Sunday as productively as I was. He twitched as I entered the room, as if I’d made him jump.
‘I am so bored!’ I laugh.
Harry nodded his head, smiling. ‘Let’s go to the pub. I need to get out of here; it’s doing my head in. As excellent as this city view is, it’s certainly not something you need to dedicate a whole day to’.
I laugh, agreeing, happy that a plan had hatched, as rudimentary as it might be. ‘It is a cracking view though. Let’s go to the pub, have a few beers, shoot the shit, and just see what happens’.
And with that, we wandered slowly down Chamberlayne Road. As we had some beers, shot the shit, and saw what happened, our Sunday blues washed away.
The Warm Up 