Good
God, the bags under my eyes are heavy.
We’ve
got two very excitable people in our garden, sorting out the guttering and
shouting about how ‘it’s like a fence at the Grand National up there.’ One has
just passed through the living room/bedroom/everything room, and told me about
how his favourite concert was when he went to see Pink Floyd in 1987. I’m sat
cross legged on the bed, in my old lounge pants, wearing a stinky t-shirt, and
so absolutely shattered that I’m talking in that low, groggy way that you do. I’ve
also just woken up... Basically I appear absolutely wrecked, to the
appropriately trained eye, and it’s only 9am.
If I
appear in a state of insobriety now, however, it’s nothing to how I was on
Wednesday night – the whole band and a few other tag alongs had a big one to
end a big day in old London town, popping between places where people wanted to
talk to us about one thing or another. I think I ended up on one of my late
night solo monologues – something which everyone I know has to go through with
me at some point. When the sun is tucked up and the flow of the evening has
trickled into an inlet, I always wonder how rooms empty out so quickly –
usually right when I start talking. When the sun comes up, I realise what I’ve
done. I walked home along the seafront in the wind and rain as punishment,
mumbling ‘nonsense’ to myself. I flay myself publicly here, too. For shame.
But the
meetings were good. Very good, very enjoyable, and we got to see a lot of
London. That’s all I can really say for now. I was going to write a bit about
how I wasn’t wearing jeans, but instead a slightly lighter, brownish fabric
that shows up liquid and splashes of water like nobody’s business. Going for a
wee became a matter of very intense precision so as not to make myself look
like a cow in the shade or perhaps a monotone Jackson Pollock (take your pick from those two). These things pop into your head when you’re meeting
people. I’m not going to mention any of that.
The men
from outside have just gone. I always try and offer people tea, but after
recent slips and...not needing any more mugs, we don’t have enough mugs. If I
was to just make a drink for them in the one mug we own, I’d end up having to pick a
favourite and, as every parent knows, that’s not fun. Essential,
but not fun. I could of course have made them one cup to share between them,
and then just put two straws in it. Well, they’re gone now. You live, you
learn.
So yes –
things look good. Really good, actually. Apart from the crushing sense of shame
and despair, I can look forward to the future a little. That’s rather novel.
All the boys feel the same, as one or two raised glasses will testify.
Right.
They’re
gone.
Time to
put the coffee on.
Have
fun,
Tim
P.S. Come to this one, of course. Just don't invite me to any after parties.
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