London through painkillers

Here I am in Gipsy Hill. Sober for a change. Tired though.

This morning was a bludgeon. I woke up on my sofa to a cordial but painful conversation with Tom. He went to work, I went back to sleep, head throbbing. About half an hour before he came home, I staggered into the bathroom and unearthed an emergency Anadin Extra. Paracetamol and caffeine. I stood in my pants in front of the fridge eating grapes until I felt I had had enough, downed the pill, refilled my water and went back to semi sleep.

Tom came home early afternoon and I was just starting to feel human after the drugs. I ordered Five Guys. With an oreo milkshake. “Do you know it’s 23 degrees out there?” I nodded. I put the fat into my body. I drank more water.

3pm. I was moving at last. I had clothes on. “Where’s my torch?” Thankfully I had left it at Siwan’s. I wore my stovepipe hat and riding cape home in the uber. I grabbed them, put them on and ordered another damn Uber.

Parking ticket on my car. I wasn’t in the right sort of resident’s bay. I pay it immediately and leave it there to prevent another one. I go to Sam’s and clamber over mountains of dust and mouse shit to find the items that will go to Majorca – to make packing easier when I zoom out on Tuesday. Another house absolutely plugged up with crap. We can cling onto things our whole life with the idea they have value. Nothing is worth more than someone you can find will pay for it. If we want it to get a fraction of what granny paid for it we have to make it our full time job, and life is way too long and interesting to only do that stuff.

Then it was walkie time, and I wasn’t in the right place. Still hanging, sweaty from clambering and burgers. How the hell to be charming like this? Interesting bunch though, a bit less full on than last night. Friendly. Talkative. Drunk. Some good costumes. And it’s fine. I do this for a living

We trail through Hampstead Heath and the little streets. Stories are told and at some point I am handed a beer but just the one. Drinking it proves complicated. I leave it half finished. Sam gives me some bags of stuff to get rid of and I mission it to Gipsy Hill, stopping momentarily in Camberwell to see some old friends post show at The Golden Goose theatre.

Now I’m in bed. I’m gonna sleep the sleep I didn’t have last night.

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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