“We couldn’t do this if we were grown ups,” says my friend.
I woke up this morning and had a spicy curry Pot Noodle. It’s been in my cupboard for ages. I had it with biscuits, coffee and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Then I got in the car and drove to Hampstead, to wander around on the Heath. We clambered around in trees and looked at things. There’s a hollow tree over in the middle of the Heath. It’s a miracle it hasn’t been condemned as dangerous by some joyless fishperson. We were monkeys, fuelled by inadequate nutrition, and keeping all my ribs intact this time. I found a bolete but I’m not going to eat it. Mushroom season is coming into play though. Time to go to the countryside for nutritionally sound cheap meals and occasional lucky liberty caps.
I was meant to be doing an R&D this coming week for a beautiful little kids’ show at Greenwich, but too many auditions came up so I had to pull out in favour of someone with better availability. Good to have some meetings just before I plan to get out and walk for a month. But it means another week lost on money out. I need to start tightening the spending. Nights like last night where I finish a gig and immediately blow a third of the wage on booze and ubers – they need to get sidelined. Especially if the fallout is a morning staggering around trying to work out how many feet I have and eating plastic food from plastic tubs.
After the Heath we stopped at The Spaniard. Overpriced but well located, with a good beer garden and NEVER NEVER EAT THE FOOD. It’s a Sunday, I told myself. And my head hurts from drinking last night. Homeopathy. That’s all. Addiction you cry? No no. Hair of the dog. I cry back, fingers shoved in my ears. Glug.
Then more walking. We end up in Hampstead and by now I’ve made sure I can stay over on the sofa because there are plenty more hairs on that dog and my stomach is mostly full of the dissembling potted yellow welsh spicy food impersonator. There were maybe six dried peas in my noodle. They count as food mum yes? But outside of that my body is hoping it can absorb what it can from Guinness because it’s had literally no nutrition since I dragged out of bed. So we stop at a pub with a quiz, and in goes the Guinness. After all, it’s good for you. The advert said so.
But it’s not enough. We crash out of the quiz. Cooked food has become a necessity and now as I hear the autumn rain starting in the trees over the road, we wait for the oven to heat up and I wonder if her depressing pronouncement that “this might be the last lovely day we get” could have been right.
I’ll write my blog now before my body goes into toxic shock from consuming nothing of worth since that brick of beef last night at The Globe. And then I’ll try to claw back to normal working hours next week, despite day job vacuum and cancelling this R&D.