Any old Sunday.

In the morning I find myself back underneath Hyde Park, walking the miles and miles of subterranean caverns full of beautiful and not so beautiful cars.


and security everywhere. I’m very wary of taking a photograph. “Oh look, it’s a Rolls Royce silver ghost in one of the Dorchester spots. Parked next to a Peugeot.” Ferraris and Lamborghinis and Aston Martins galore, likely driven more frequently by the guy – I’ll call him Steve – who is paid handsomely by the owner to turn it over once or twice a week in his absence. “Steve, I’m flying into Scotland on Tuesday! Be a good chap and bring the rolls will you? I’ve put a couple of grand into your account.” I’d do Steve’s job, but for the old obsession…

I get to the underground Enterprise in Park Lane. Drilon is there. “The company only booked it last night. We haven’t anything the size you need today.” “I’m only picking up one guy. So long as I can tell him I’m getting a bigger one tomorrow we’re fine.” “I’ll definitely have a bigger one tomorrow.”

I drive to Heathrow to pick up a producer. He’s concerned about the car. “I’m going to get a bigger one tomorrow,” I assure him. I drop him off and I get a phone call.

“Are you keeping the car you’ve got? You need a bigger one.” The dashboard IS in headbutt range but I stifle the impulse. “I’m changing it tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

An hour later I get a text telling me I’ll be changing the car tomorrow for a bigger one and giving me Drilon’s name as contact. We know each other too well. Between this company and Cragrats I’ve become a regular face at the morlock Enterprise below Hyde Park. I know them all. I miss Hussein. But Drilon is an A1 dude. And the two of us HAD THIS IN HAND. Ach.

Sometimes when people have a lot to do, they spend a long time doing things that have already been done.

In the afternoon I park the car up in Somerstown. I leave all the doors unlocked and my laptop in the back seat and I go to sightread a new play written by a ten year old in front of about 50 people alongside an actress I’ve never met before.

It’s a beautiful short play. It really is. Loss, love, past, present, future. A bright new day. I’ll be playing an ice bucket. She’ll be playing a venus flytrap. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.

I heard a lot of other wonderful plays and briefly met a large number of delightful old friends and acquaintances and kids. You’ll inevitably hear more of this project anon. But it’s always sold out so it’s not like they’ll need for audience.

I return to my unlocked car –  plum in the middle of one of the roughest estates in London – and clearly nobody wanted my laptop. Maybe they didn’t notice the car because it was so small? Perhaps I should think about asking someone to change it…

I drive it to Peckham to pick up Hex.

Hex is a royal python. He’s acting up. He’s not eating. Mummy’s on a job in New Zealand and he’s been living in an IKEA plastic bucket with a burlesque dancer and instagrammer who definitely definitely didn’t want to relinquish him and looking at the insta I can tell why. Poor thing must be knackered. No wonder he hasn’t been taking his tasty dead mice.

I’ve brought him back to my flat and tomorrow I’m taking him home to his happy glass terrarium in the hopes that he stops sulking and eats his mouse like a good little snake.

So that’s been my Sunday. Always the fucking same, my life.

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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