Midas

Well, last night was carnage. I showed unusual restraint by pulling out early. It was sort of a necessity. I hadn’t eaten all day and I started drinking at 2. By about 7 I was already pretty much useless. I took myself out of the equation.

I have a robust homing instinct. I’ve been slipped a roofie before and have just made it home, admittedly by emergency black cab and forcing myself to keep awake. That was weird. I’ve never had a headache like the next day.

I don’t know how I got home last night but I definitely did and it definitely wasn’t uber because I haven’t installed the app. And my head was fine the next morning. I reckon I passed out at about 9, and was up and fighting all of 11 hours later, feeling hungry but rested.

Today I did admin in the morning. Sexy. Then in the afternoon it was back on the worst hourly paid job ever, but I’m still enjoying it. Putting together this adventure day for next Saturday. All the pieces are now in place. It’s become an excuse for me to walk around looking at fun stuff when I’m not working.

I know this town so well now. There’s always more to learn, but part of the reason I’ve spent so much time doing this is because I have been enjoying challenging my knowledge and filling in the gaps. It’s a good way to spend the unallocated time.

The strangest part of the day came when I had to get the number of a specific moving statue. A company I work for spotted her a few weeks ago and wanted to employ her to do a bit of filming. All I had to work with was “The bronze lady in Piccadilly Circus.” I saw this person in front of Eros. Dropping a pound in the jar I took this photograph.

sdr

“Is this the woman you mean?” I send. And then I wait for a reply. Meanwhile she is, of course watching. What she has seen is a man come up, drop in a pound, take a photo and then stand for ages looking at the phone, close to her. Eventually “Yes that’s her.” Great. They want her contact details to offer her some filming.

So now the guy who took a photo and then spent ages looking at his phone looks like he’s plucked up the courage to talk to her. She thinks I’m hitting on her. I have no business card or anything to make me look official. I’m wearing a loud summer shirt. I’ve been standing there watching her for ages and now I’m blithering on about filming. “What sort of filming?” I hear her worry. I try to derail her concerns with my usual genial schtick and generally not being weird, but she still husband-bombs me three times and watches me hard for a reaction which I don’t give. She eventually gives me her stage name: “Violetta, The Gold Lady.” She gives me a mobile number, which may or may not work. I give her my employer’s mobile phone number. Hopefully she’ll make some money out of this interaction, for very limited work.

Meanwhile Charlie Chaplin takes an interest. He’s looking out for his friend. They’ve been speaking asides to each other in the time I’ve been waiting, punched through the air in an unfamiliar, glottal language. They stand about five feet from each other. Come to think of it, I’ve seen them together many times before. They share the same makeup. I bet they help each other get ready, go on breaks together, make jokes together and sort stuff out together. That must must make the days bearable, up on their hot podium. “Look at this twerp.” “Reckon’s he’s got the Midas touch.” “Thinks his first name’s Erno.” “Film fan – likes the golden globes?”

As I give Violetta my number Charlie Chaplin appears behind me like he’s going to bop me with his truncheon. “What’s happening here?” “Oh, um, I don’t think they’re looking for Charlie Chaplin but err it’s just to do with some filming… I’ve got the number now.” She placates him with unfamiliar language and he returns to his podium with a look of suspicion. I thank “Violetta” and wander off on my way feeling like I’ve just successfully hit on someone. Although the number I gave her is for a 7 foot tall bald northerner who looks like Buzz Lightyear, and who knows who the number she gave me is for.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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