Will calls me.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the WH Smith reading magazines because I can’t afford them.”
“I’m just outside”
We have a coffee. The Scooby annual Christmas dinner is in Clapham Junction and I’m on a strange nostalgia kick even though it’s only a five weeks since I moved oop narth.
“I have to finish my play before the end of January so an agent can read it. They’re interested at the Hampstead Theatre too.”
I make pleased sounding noises although there’s that little bit of me that hates anyone else doing well, especially when it’s something I want to be best in.
Joe glides past the window and does his best grrrr
eyes at me.
“You’ll never guess what I did after I saw you on Monday night.”
“You went to Heaven and got drunker with all the other gayers?”
Love Joe. He has even less self control than I do.
I drop into the old flat to pick up mail and discover my National Insurance number has arrived. Three years in London and I finally have a NI number. My ability to procrastinate knows no bounds.
I arrive at the Banana Leaf Canteen
and think for the umpteenth time how proud I am of my group of friends. They have charisma to spare and (oi!) so pretty. They look winter crisp in smart black shirts or red tops. Colour co-ordinated too - how thoughtful.
Dinner turns into a heated debate about New Years celebrations. Sam, Joe, Gavin & Wayne are working on the big night. Olly and I are broke. The girls don’t want to do a house party because it’s “depressing”. So after an hour of discussion we provisionally decide on Puscha. Then there’s Beyond and DTPM on New Years Day. I’m going to start drinking a lot of water now to prepare if you know what I mean.
On the walk back to the station I notice that the windows of my old flat are all wide open as if they’re trying to get rid of a very bad smell.