I was on such a high last night that I didn’t feel like going straight home. Olly, Lorna and Sam have a drop-in policy on weekdays so I walked to their house from Stockwell Tube Station, the streets eerily quiet due to the England vs. Switzerland “pop the gas oven on would you love, just incase we don’t win” football match (the Guardian
had a great piece describing how to change the St George flag into the Swiss one using origami in case we lost).
Now, believe me when I say I knew that Luke might
be coming over too but in my defense I planned my visit to be little more than a quick cup of tea before I headed home to do some writing. We’d barely started on said tea and biscuits when Luke turned up with wine and a big grin. As anyone who plays rock/paper/scissors knows, wine beats tea. Half a glass full disappeared seconds after it was handed to me. I didn’t gulp, I just sipped rapidly.
There are moments when the world conspires to create a scene dripping with so many clichés that not even the shlockiest writer would touch it. That’s where I found myself, a few hurriedly sipped glasses of wine later, sitting across from Luke, helping him run lines with Lorna. He was Craig. I was Mark. Apparently they’d slept together but Craig was afraid of his feelings. Mark wanted answers. Where was their relationship going?
“But I love you,” revealed Mark.
“You don’t even know what that means,” rebuked Craig.
Method acting has never been so easy.
After we’d finished I carefully placed the script in the middle of the table. Luke picked it up.
“Thanks for that!”
“It was fun,” Lorna said, lighting a cigarette.
“It was fun.” I repeated, putting the emphasis on the was
“You want to know what else was fun to read?” Lorna asked, after Luke had excused himself to go to the toilet. She turned to exhale smoke. “Your blog,” her eyes gleamed, “I had a good long read of it today.”