I’m off to see some sexy friends on this, the third day of Sexy February. I spent the morning learning how to resize and compress video files – I’m practicing with screen captures from a computer game. I don’t think that even I could sell that as sexy. But the results, down the line, might well be. I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire … a couple of plans cooking up… “This time next year, Rodney…” Playing my cards close to my chest? Sexy. Hell yeah.
I’m going to play darts. Darts is traditionally the domain of men that you can smell from around the corner, wearing “hilarious” stained T-shirts, beer in one hand, paunch in other, yet somehow, at the ocke, their weight, heft and breath send those little arrows unerringly on target. I haven’t arrived yet but I strongly suspect we will be doing “hipster darts” of some sort because it’s in Shoreditch. “All the fun of darts at twice the price!” Or somesuch. I’m not sure if it’s actually possible to play darts sober, but I’m willing to give it a go.
We went to “Flight Club”, and actually I enjoyed it. It’s a surprisingly pleasant way of hanging out in a big group. We were celebrating a dear friend who has moved to America. What a bunch of beautiful legends our friends are. These are old friends now, mostly actors that trained around the same time as me, still digging with our hands and whatever tools we can find – and mostly for the sake of digging although occasionally we hit bags of money or cracked mirrors, bits of shit or beautiful complex artifacts. Everybody in that room has been digging for 15 years now since we trained. We’re carving a living in this shifting trade, which perhaps explains why we were all so bad at darts.
It’s a fellowship of persistent kind hearted geeks, riding the sine wave as if it were a bucking bronco. Up and down, up and down, get thrown off, get helped back on by someone at the bottom and up we go again, but now we know enough to expect the down and maybe even prepare mentally for it. One day I’ll prepare fiscally too. That’d be sexy.
By sheer chance, Katie and I turned out to win at killer. We looked harmless for so long we weren’t targeted, and then got lucky. Surfing my coincidental success, I swaggered into the bus home – which is considerably less lively than it was last night. I need to let a friend in who’s staying on the sofa tonight. We worked Ascot together, and were roommates at that bloody golf tournament where they threw me under a (metaphorical this time) bus. He’ll be at mine for a while – I’m not sure what’s going down at home but he asked and I like having guests. Now the heating works I can say “You’ve got a warm room to lay your head in for as long as you need.” Because I spent that money on the boiler. I was spitting about it at the time, but that thing where I traded fun for comfort… Maybe I need to make more trades like that going forward.