Sad Git at Large...

Take the train over to Whitstable in the morning to go to a closing-down sale at a clothes shop. Get a couple of T-shirts. The rest of the stuff is for the 'older' man.

It's a strange town. I used to rather like it, but I'm not so sure now. It's attracted a lot of new money in recent years ' especially media professionals. It's easy to see what draws them in: the 'coastal fishing town' quaintness, the nice beach, the interesting shops, the attractive houses¦ and the hour's commuting distance from London. As a consequence, property prices have gone into space and the place is very rapidly becoming gentrified. It always had a comfortable sort of working-class bohemian feel to it, which it still retains to some extent.

But the middle-class colonisation is firmly under way ' such that the place feels like it's in some awkward limbo between two cultures. I shouldn't stereotype, and I don't mean to¦ but I can't help noticing certain things about the shops and the people. Quite a few art galleries have popped up in places that used to be occupied by barbers and bookies. There are other shops that seem to be selling nothing much at all, but which on closer inspection have things like whimsical painted models of lighthouses and beach huts, or jewellery apparently made from bent paperclips and off-cuts of balsa wood ' all for huge prices. An old greengrocer's shop now has a biodynamic section, with the veg all fashionably mud-caked. A good old-fashioned baker's shop sells good old-fashioned ciabatta, brioche and sourdough focaccia made with unbromated organic flour, alongside the workaday large white uncuts and the apple puffs. Lots of grey ponytails wagging. Lots of suits with sandals. Lots of trendy specs. Laura Ashley incarnate en masse. A lecturer-type in his 50s, sporting distressed jeans, a beige corduroy jacket and a fedora. A woman in bright green culottes, pushing the SUV equivalent of a buggy containing Sophia and Jasper. The general underlying sense of beard-rubbing decisions being made over concert programmes, of chit-chat about garden designs and nursery school league tables. Two bistros for every caff. Not much Matalan.

There are some advantages. No James Blunt or Sugababes ringtones ' in fact, no ringtones at all. No Posh Spice clones bellowing at Britney. And hardly a chav in sight. They'd find it too disorienting. But I feel disoriented, too. Because none of it feels remotely authentic. Maybe because it doesn't feel friendly. You don't hear many chirpy voices on the street. No one seems to be smiling. It's like going into a favourite dive and finding it peopled by the cast of a Stephen Poliakoff play. It's the sort of thing that's ruined my former favourite town in England: Totnes. That place is now the hub for a whole artsy, alternative, sustainable living culture ' which is, ironically, all stuff that is close to my heart. It's like I want it¦ just not there. Because of what it's displaced. Because of what's been lost in the process.

Another reason I've come over is to try to offload some books at what I thought was a second-hand bookshop, but which turns out to be selling only discounted remaindered titles ' with a special slant towards self-helpers and readers of the Booker long-list. The guy sitting behind the paydesk looks like Jesus with glossy ringlets. He's reading The Guardian. Beside him, reading it over his shoulder, is a fearsomely-intelligent-looking young woman dressed and made up like a Manga animator's Western caucasian wet dream. They're both trying to ignore a guy standing at the desk, and I can see why. About 30, Grade 2 hair and beard, big floppy T-shirt, big floppy trousers, sandals, hemp shoulder bag, very large dangly earring. All of which is okay ' except he rather too conveniently fits the arty-slacker stereotype. He has a permanent half-dopey smirk on his face, and a way of talking that sounds like he breakfasts on spliff. He's obviously known to the couple, and it's obvious (to everyone except him) that they wish he wasn't. He's just shown them some of his purchases from the health-food shop, trying to impress them with his changed ways. He puts the things back in his bag: cranberry juice, a bag of pinenuts, a packet of guarana Buzz Gum.

"Welllll, he drawls. "I suppose I really must be going now.

He doesn't move.

"Yeah, says Jesus, not looking up from the paper.

Arty still doesn't move.

"Yep. I've really got such a lot to do. I must go, you know.

He still, resolutely, doesn't move. I wonder if he's waiting for money or something. I wonder if I've interrupted an unsavoury transaction of some kind.

"Okay, says Jesus, turning a page.

Manga Girl chirps up with something about a party later.

"Oh, wow, yeah, says Arty. "That'll be something.

"Yeah, says Jesus, turning another page. "Marcia'll be there. And her daughter, who's back from trekking in Bolivia.

"Right. I may have to come, then."

"Yeah, says Jesus. "You'll have to meet her.

Arty shrugs his shoulders. "Yeah. Yeah, that'll be something.

"You never know.

Arty chuckles. "No¦ she's probably¦ probably a bit long in the old tooth, you know.

Jesus turns another page. "Yeah¦ all of sort of twenty-two or something.

Arty chuckles again. "Yeah¦ definitely. Definitely a bit long in the old tooth, then. For me.

He shifts his weight from his right foot to his left and I think he finally is going to move at last. But no.

"Well¦ I've really got so much to do, though. I really must go now.

He doesn't move. Jesus turns another page. Manga Girl grins a broad 'I wish you'd fucking go, then' grin at Arty. Finally, he takes a couple of steps around the desk towards the door. Then he stops and turns, looking down at the paper over Jesus's other shoulder.

"Hmm¦ the BNP are such losers, aren't they.

"Wankers, says Manga Girl.

"Yeah.

Pause. I stand at the desk. Neither Jesus nor Manga Girl acknowledge my presence in any way. The three of them continue to look at the paper for a second or two. Then Jesus turns another page and Arty moves his head.

"Right¦ well, I must be off. I'll see you, then.

"Yeah, okay, says Jesus.

"See you, says Manga Girl.

"Yeah, see you. I gotta go.

He goes. I look for the exchange of glances between Jesus and Manga Girl ' the roll of the eyes, the shake of the head. But nothing. They still don't acknowledge me, although I'm standing less than a yard from them. Then a short guy walks up to the desk in front of me, carrying an armful of books. They both immediately turn to him. Jesus smiles and begins adding up the prices on a calculator. Manga Girl gets a carrier bag for them. I'm about to protest, when she finally looks at me ' like I've just bungee'd in naked through the ceiling.

I lift up my carrier bag. "I was wondering if you buy second-hand books, please.

She wrinkles her eyebrows. "No, she says ' then adds, incongruously, "We'll exchange books, but only if you've bought them here.

"Oh no, sorry, I say. "Do you know if there's a second-hand bookshop in town, please?

"No, there isn't, she says, straightfaced. Her tone would make you think I'd asked her if I could exchange my books for a blow job instead.

"Okay. Sorry, I say.

I go.

Immediately.

I expect they're still talking about it now.

I walk back along to the end of the High Street, where I know there's a pub I used to like. A bit of a smoky hole, with too many machines, but a nice pint on tap. When I get there, though, it's been gutted and turned into an eaterie. Still¦ it has a bar. Maybe they've kept the beer. I glance in the window. A few people are seated at scattered islands of tables, pecking at small plates of small food. There's a menu in the window. There's only one item under a tenner and that's the Ploughman's Lunch. I wonder when the last time was that any ploughman paid £6.95 for his bit of bread and cheese. Or ate it in a place like that.

I decide to hold my thirst a little longer.

As I weave my way through the congeries of backstreets towards the station again, I feel a gloom settle over me with such a weight that it slows me down ' even though I'm relieved to be getting away. The visit, though, has emphasised something to me. Has dredged something up from the silt.

There are many words that could be used to describe the way I'm feeling. Some might refer to it as angst. Some as anomie. Some as an existential crisis. All of which descriptions are perfectly legitimate, in their own ways. But I prefer to just think of it in more simplistic terms ' as being a generalised, overwhelming sense of simply not fitting in. Anywhere. Of being completely alone, rootless, at odds with society in all its structures and configurations. Of being spiritually, if not physically, homeless. I would say dispossessed, except that implies being cast out. But I don't feel like I've been ousted. Instead, I've stepped outside voluntarily ' simply because it was stifling me. I've no time for the things that seem to preoccupy the lives of those I know, live with, work with: things like fashion, television, football ' all of which, I can see, create social bonds and a sense of belonging. But I don't want to belong in that way. I don't want to accept something merely because it helps to make me more acceptable to others.

Doubtless there are psychologists and sociologists who could give names to this 'condition'. Lorca, the Spanish poet and dramatist, had his own name for it: duende ' the 'dark struggle' between our inner selves and our social selves; our impulses versus socially-acceptable ways of behaving. As a homosexual in an agressively macho culture, he knew the feeling only too well. I'm not homosexual, but I share the feeling nonetheless. It's why I've always had problems with social situations, with authority and convention, with being told how I should live my life, and what my expectations and ambitions should be. I see society in this sense as a form of coercion. As the walls of a prison. And I feel alone with it.

More so recently. Because I'd only ever found one other person who shared my thoughts and feelings. Who eschewed these constraints in the same way I did. Who wanted to live life in the way I do. Who shared a dream and a vision¦

But she's gone now. And, ironically, it's partly because of what I am that she's gone.

At least, I suppose, I know I'm not completely alone in the world. Just one of several scattered islands, each with one inhabitant. Not bothering to light signal fires any more.

Shoring up for the long stay.