There is no money. There is value.

During work the radio was generous. Kill Hannah's Strobe Lights and Thirty Second's to Mars' This Is War was played. On a sunny evening, where certain problems feel more distant than usual, this was good. My thoughts flew faster than my feelings. My imagination soared, maybe not with scenes of the fantastical, but with notes of what can happen to characters.

In the morning I had watched Spirited Away. All this fantasy, all the collections of colourful goings on that can happen in a world where anything is possible got me excited. Dreams are good, but they may not be enough. Carefully thought out tales and goings on are what make me most proud, that I can invent, discover and play with characters that I needed to have.

It means that I can write. My writing, the personal story I've wanted to complete for years; I can do it. The problem I thought I'd face would be that I wouldn't be able to write after frantically typing so many stories and essays for University.

Already this week there has been encouragement from two sources. From a friend's mother. And a customer. After serving her coffee and a small meal, I got chatting with her about FREE things. The things that I need to seek out, considering what little money I have. I told her of me facing a world that was laid out for me to lust after. There were mentions of who I've fallen in love with. And finally how I may have become a stronger person.

She hugged me.

The notion of FREE material is very much strong with me. This hug cost this customer nothing. Instead it demonstrated her recognition that a human being was in front of her. Different to what I sometimes see myself as - a collection of stories.

It was much more reassuring and valuable than any tip I had received.

Insecurities vs. Chocolate

Chris could sleep. Chris could dream. Chris could hide himself from the world at times, so he doesn't have to face the 'Perfection' of others, thereby rendering himself downward. Surely at this time, when I've been through so much, I'd know that others' 'Perfection' is a myth.

The problem is, insecurities may not be as apparent in me now, but they certainly bubble on occasion. Perhaps the Curly Wurly I got at church this morning will be comforting.

Do I 'Party On' the way I normally do?

Twice was I mistaken for Garth from Wayne's World. Only you have to remember that how I 'Party On' includes Apple & Blueberry tea and Kill Hannah playing in the background, reminding me that maybe those teenage years I missed out on are actually still with me.

After several hours of pressuring work (sunny days are always the worst) and an episode of Doctor Who, one took himself to the nearby Rosetta Bar. A place I've been in, but a situation I've not faced since I was eighteen.

The upstairs room holds a small venue for bands to perform. A work colleague, Chris, had his band play. At the side of the stage there was a small fan, something to allow windswept hair to be had when huge solo guitar rifts would be performed.

Amusing in one sense as Sorcha, a friend of both the band and myself, disappeared two songs into their act. How gutted do you think the band were when they announced that their final song was for her?

I had a Budweiser. I sat alone, feet up on the small wood bar stuck to the legs of the table. The band playing at that moment were doing a rendition of Judas Priests' Breaking the Law. Feet up on the furniture is probably as far as I'm heading with any rule breaking.

One guy approached me asking did I want to join his group. How could I resist such a friendly offer? It turned out he and his friends were studying Media exactly where I did. Though they appeared to be drinking a lot more than my class did. It wasn't until I entered University that I found the masses of young folk doing the student thing properly. My class never got any real training in that department. Not unless you count one tutor skipping a class and having us play pool in canteen.

Now this morning I've decided not to straighten my hair. If there was any film character I'd like to be mistaken for, it would be Luke Skywalker. Though my hair is too fluffy for that Zac Efron type style.

Instead, I'll wear an extra colourful bracelet. Surely that amount of expression is permitted at church?

Bus Girl

Last night I got closer to understanding my brother. I watched The Big Lebowski. Now one has visions that during his dreams, Jonny finds himself flying high above Belfast's city skyline.

Fingers crossed for some cooling weather. Sun is great, but there is only so much reading I can do in the back garden before my eyes need a new glasses prescription. At the moment Leicester have the Riverside Festival. Belfast hasn't got much. And my search for Liefmanns' beer has been unsuccessful.

Continuous job hunting and now interviews are appearing. I wish to make an impression. Primark will be consulted for smart clothing. Knowing perfectly well that Saturday's Primark scene is busy, I still nonetheless waited for the weekend to take the trip. Between children screaming and chavs arguing, I tried to busy myself by looking at clothes that are either crap, useless, expensive, not required and generally ugly. Only once did I have to say sorry to the chavs for sliding past them.

The big decision was between black shoes or navy shoes. I stopped one employee.

'Excuse me,' I said, 'but are you any good with colour?'

'Colour?' asked the girl.

'Yeah.'

'Kinda.'

'Do you mind if I test something out on you?'

'No, go ahead.'

'Well, would you believe these navy shoes would go well with these grey trousers?'

'Just be aware that black and navy clash. So the grey trousers would be fine.'

'Thank you, that's settled. You don't have a name,' I said looking at the blank space on her name tag.

'It's Ashliegh,' she said.

'Thank you Ashliegh, that's great.'

So on Ashliegh's advice, I've made the shoe decision. On my own initiative, I've got a bigger size of shirt. The smallest had a grip around my neck. Who else believes it's a good idea to be able to breath? Especially during an interview.

Treated like dirt on the bus by the driver. Why should he be pleasant? He's only in charge of a huge vehicle which carries a number of human beings from one place to another, and he has a job during a shrinking job market. This would cause much celebration. Except not in his case.

Sitting on a seat was a girl. She had eyes and a smile much like Zooey Deschanel's. Bus Girl I will call her. Her decision to even show me her smile with me felt beautiful. However I sat behind her and forgot all about her. When I stood up to catch my stop, the bottle of water I had between my legs fell down and rolled under the seat of the Bus Girl. She caught it, smiled and handed it to me. I return the smile, said, 'Thank you' as childishly as I could and felt a little flutter within me that hasn't happened for a long time. Now I had missed my stop, not making it in time for the ignorant prick of a driver's speed. So what's the silver lining? I get a teeny bit more exercise. And a chance to smile one last time at Bus Girl when passing the windows of the vehicle.

She smiled back.

(Someone may be right that I'm not totally gay. I'm learning, for myself and not as a concept, that it may be the person themselves I like, regardless of their gender. In that case, I don't want to identify as gay any more. I want to identify as Chris Gray - and not even he knows what goes on with the feelings he has. Or will have.)