I told myself I needed to take care of my shoulder. That was my motivation for doing the square root of fuck all today. Truth be told, the shoulder is feeling a lot better for the rest so it was probably the right thing to do. But at twenty to seven I’ve started to feel extremely restless. I’m hardwired into showtime now. There’s no show tonight. But try telling that to my adrenal medulla. It’s started to pump me up ready for a fight.

So I went for a walk. Maybe there’ll be ninja assassins. It’s unseasonably warm and there’s no rain. The streets of Chelsea are empty at this time of year, as everybody has gone to one of their houses in The Cotswolds for New Year. I don’t blame them. I like to try to get as far from the centre of town as possible for midnight on New Year’s Eve. I’d quite like to do something more constructive than lie on my back groaning for the first day of the decade. And those loud parties tune all my instincts towards oblivion.

This year I’ll be doing a show in Mayfair, finishing at 10pm. It doesn’t leave me much time to escape. The easiest option will be stay in the venue…

I’ll have to fire myself out of the centre of town hard and fast. I’m not paying entry to a thumping building full of skin and sweat and shouting. Not this year. If my shoulder is no better I might just slink to my flat and go and burn stuff in the park at midnight. I’m not enjoying being in pain so I’m hoping my lazy day has allowed some genuine recovery to take place. I’ve only had two ibuprofen today so I can keep an eye on levels and it’s not seizing up as much as it has been so I’m optimistic that the worst is past. This is over 40, kids. Random inexplicable muscle pain in unexpected places for no good reason. I remember my dad telling me all about the joys of it. Now I get to experience the ride for myself.

My nephew Campbell is staying for a few days. He is bouncing around London on his skateboard taking in the sights and sounds. He went to an art exhibition today and came back declaring that now he knows what he doesn’t want to make. “It was some old guy making a load of self indulgent rubbish, and they wanted £20 on the door to look at it, plus I couldn’t bring in my skateboard. Who’s this shite for? It’s not for me, that’s for sure.”

Good lad. Having an opinion is so important. I think he’ll end up making some interesting stuff. I’ll help out with a roof in London whenever I can. It’s nice watching him whizz around while I’m nursing this broken wing. Fly, my pretty nephew, fly!

January beckons. I might do it healthy and dry. Give my liver a little bit of a breather. Eat vegetables. Wear a badge. Go on about it to people. Look constantly restless in public. Sign up for depressingly enthusiastic daily emails written by the 15 year old intern at Macmillan. We shall see.

For now I’ve stopped in Maze Grill, Gordon Ramsey’s steak house round the corner from me. I get half price food on Monday and the steak is to die for.

I should probably have drawn the line at 500ml of Carmenere, but what the heck, it’s my night off and it’s not January yet…


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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