Hex and I are back in Hampstead. After his hard work as Gonzalo in The Tempest last night it was only right to give him a tasty mouse as reward and they are in the freezer up here. I’m glad he still had an appetite after the state of him when I took him into my care just before lockdown. He almost took my hand off tonight. When I met him he basically had an eating disorder. So I don’t want to cause him unnecessary stress. But the internet is not working in Hampstead and the green screen and lights are all in Chelsea so he needed to be driven to the studio for his star turn. Just as well I have a car now. That would’ve been £50 in ubers up and down.
I chauffered him to Chelsea in the car yesterday morning, he did The Tempest twice with my humble assistance, using my ape mouth to speak words whilst everybody marveled at his lithe ancient serpentine beauty.
Once the acting work was completed he very eloquently protested about being back in his travel box for a night by ensuring that every inch of it apart from his little haven under his rock was soaked with water from the bowl.
Then his driver took him back here late morning while he slept. The driver was surprised that he didn’t object to the cricket playing loudly on the car radio.
In the early afternoon he was reintroduced to his happy home in Hampstead and by evening he was enthusiastically crushing a dead helicoptermouse that he pulled out of the air almost immediately. I’m thrilled.
I’m also glad that nobody pulled the car over. I’m paranoid now. Every time I see a squad car I worry. Ok, so all the boxes are ticked as far as I’m aware, but: “What’s that?” “It’s a python, officer.” That’s not a conversation I relish.
Jack came to Hampstead for the afternoon and we had one of those days where we dream into each other. Hex seemed to like Jack.
We went onto the Heath and then stayed on Mel’s balcony. Music and company on these clement summer evenings and what a blessing to be able to live in both of the bits of town I’m currently able to move between. I’m a lucky son of a bitch.
It was only after we had consumed a spot too much beer that I remembered I’d agreed to send a track of some Gypsy Punk singy shouting fun to Hastings. We crowded beerily into my little improvised booth and made some noises that felt a bit like singing. I haven’t listened back yet as my listening muscle dies before my generating muscle after booze (as I guess it does with everybody).
We were aiming for fun over accuracy. I’ll listen back in the cold light of day tomorrow and either marvel at the fact we hit the timing, or re-record it on my own sober. Drunk boys might help the style if the timing works though…
AlBarclay 