Author: albarclay

A friendly cabbie took me down to my favourite part of the island today. St Ouen, with the huge apocalyptic sands looking out across the ocean all the way to America. I chose Le Braye as my drop off, rather than my usual El Tico. Perhaps a little quieter, and I’m a fan of their lunchtime only crab sandwich.

I sat at the top of a wall and watched the sea. Getting my bag onto the beach looked like a spot too much faff, especially if I’ll be working on the beach most of the coming week.

I found a spot, comfy and warm. The sun soaked my skin and I read most of The Ocean at the End of the Lane. A good choice of book for me right now – a book about childhood memory and magic and ancient things. This island is replete with all three for me.

Anything seems possible while I’m on this soil. I sprung from it, like a potato. I grew and prospered on it. Then I was exported to get mashed up. Like a potato.

Walking around today I was regularly blindsided by strong emotion out of nowhere. I belong here, my brain keeps telling me it is right. The light. The wind. The colour of the stone. Here, it is right. The spirits keep asking me “why did you leave?” My tears are quick, ready and defying logic. Everything is close to the surface here. This is where nature stuck the eyes and other features into my potato head. My body knows it.

I never really wanted to leave, but in my twenties I was still somewhat under the sway of my mum and she wanted to be in London. She’s buried here now though despite that, and my sense of self is buried here as well. Sure, I fit London fine now, and I knew the London before Covid like you know the veins and blemishes on your own hand. But the world, and London … it will rebuild in a different shape. Maybe this wedge of Covid is a convenient cue for an exit? Or maybe I’ll end up plugging back in to that vortex…

Today though I just wished I’d hired a car. With all my stuff I found myself remembering that there’s not really much in the way of public transport in Jersey. Tired from sun, I started trying to work out how to get a bus to St Aubin. “It’s Friday evening,” the guy at Le Braye told me as I was thinking of ways to get to St Aubin. “I just dialed a cab for another customer and they told me at least an hour.” The nearest bus is up by Corbière…

With the falling light, I schlepped with my bag down the five mile road. More inevitable than hopeful.

Then up the winding road to the old defunct train line at the top of the hill. I let myself believe there was a romance in the evening and in my sweat. I smiled at the sound of the breakers as I walked and at the screaming of the birds. I ignored the screaming of the brakes of the Jersey drivers wondering why the hell I was walking in the middle of the road. I got to the top of the hill. I was still emotional. Still mostly happy.

Eventually, after walking was getting a little less romantic and more practical, I got picked up by Adam at Off the Rails, where they sell you pizza and beer (with expensive olives) from a wooden hut off the old train tracks, and I had to get myself a moretti to cut through the trail dust. He took me back to his. I was able to use his shower. Thank the lord. I stank after my long hot walk.

Now I’m back at his place, on my comfy double bed – a luxury after the Mornington and before the barracks. Adam is producing Christmas Carol this year over here. Beautiful things… We went for tasty dinner and now I’m in his spare room – about to finish consuming my book before sleeping as long as I possibly can.

I got on an airplane yesterday. That’ll be my first one for much longer than usual.

Travel is not touted as being easy. I can only speak for travel to Jersey, but it’s been surpisingly fine both times since Covid kicked off – first by boat at the height of it and now by plane. We are led to expect the process of going anywhere to be an expensive hell of testing and waiting. It WILL be that expensive hell once they’ve sorted out the model. But right now it’s infrastructure testing. You can still get through things reasonably quickly and cheaply.

Jersey airport arrivals has turned into a labyrinth where the Minotaur is replaced by a friendly lady in terrifying nuclear protective gear who skillfully rubs a swab on your tonsils for just shy of the time it takes to make you puke, and then shoves it up your nose as you recover. The unnecessary ground you walk on arrival to get to her lair is no more than the unnecessary ground you walk on departure as you trudge your way through that shiny and terrible compulsory “duty free” shopping maze. I had no checked luggage, so I was through and out before the crowds. I blissfully avoided getting trapped in the labyrinth. I passed through reasonably efficiently. Maybe those with bags were less fortunate. But there seemed to be lots of efficient people doing tests. So long as it’s staffed it won’t turn into a horrorshow, even if it’s impossible to hire a car at the airport anymore.

Jersey pays for your test, and pays for the well staffed testing centre, so there’s no hidden cost to travel (yet). To go to Jersey just costs what you pay for in advance. No more. You might find that surprising.

The idea of travel is being discouraged quite heavily. If you go on the internet and look for basic travel stuff, you’ll quite quickly come up against info that tells you to be wary of going anywhere at all. The noises made by people hit with hidden costs will always be the loudest. Also, inevitably, travelers from the UK into Europe are going to be persona non grata (which if you voted Brexit is dirty foreign speak for people who you’re not happy to see). We will end up conflating the effects of Covid with the effects of Brexit, because we haven’t had any mass travel since we fully “took back control”. Even in Jersey, the French wine has run out in restaurants I’ve been to. Not the Portuguese wine, mind you. Just the French. But there’s worse to come I’m sure. Not that we should have access to the best things from all countries at all times. This pandemic might help us remember to be more seasonal and less stupidly demanding of everything all the time.

Anyway. I made it here. I didn’t have to sit right next to somebody on the planec either. I got my PCR for free and I’m not gonna have to do three like we did in May. Coming here, both in May and yesterday, both proved a great deal less stressful than I had anticipated – even though I had to quarantine a few days in May. The thing I’m most happy about is not having to answer the daily “YOU ARE AN OUTSIDER” text messages sent by the government of my home island.

Who knows where it’ll land, all of the restrictions and constraints and fears and questions. For now I’m glad to be here, on my island, without any fucker trying to make me feel like I don’t belong here…

Ahh The Mornington Hotel. Cork above the bed with defunct Rediffusion alarm clock radios that were THE THING in like 1974. A large beige safe in the wardrobe. The alarm clock radios no longer work. But some of the other period features do. I’ve got a hairdryer and I’m not afraid to use it.

“Mummy? What is that thing with buttons?” “It’s a phone, darling.” “Why is it so big?”

This was the future when I was born, this room. These appliances.

It all works, but for the Rediffusion. I’m very happy here. I could’ve booked into Hotel Fuck for a couple of nights. Hotel Fuck has a spa and a view of the sea and they switched out their appliances a few times since 1985. In the end it’s only money, and whatever they spent on Bose soundsystems, you’ll end up paying it for the room. I booked the Mornington because it doesn’t hate you. Even if it’s outdated, it’s clean and comfortable and it wears its history openly. It’s an honest, fun and friendly hotel. Don’t stay if you hate people and love yourself. But for the location, I’m thrilled they have never shut down for a year and upgraded all the rooms, because then I would be looking elsewhere and so would a large number of people. This place fills a very necessary slot that is often taken up by Airbnb these days. It’s the best hassle free reliable and comfortable stay on this island. The whole island is sold out on Friday because of some sort of event, and of course this hotel is sold that night. I had to find somewhere else. But it’s a good place and the rates are just the right side to keep out Airbnb. I will gladly evangelise for this place, to anybody like me who isn’t interested in the insincere veneer about customer and money that you find at most hotels. This hotel employs happy staff, and it runs cleanly and tries not to fuck the customer in the eye.

I’m back in Jersey. Where I’m from.

I want to move back here frankly.

But right now I’m in a hotel again.

The next few days I’ll just be connecting once more with this island. With my history here. Then I’ll be off to connect with a bunch of artists from who knows where, and we are gonna throw a load of shit at the wall together.

I was here, in The Mornington Hotel, when Lucy sent me the information about this artists residency. “You might be interested in this?” She happened to read my blog saying I was in Jersey and just … thought it might be something that would be of interest to me. I applied while I was isolated in a room in this hotel surrounded by pot noodles and rice crackers and at the tail end of my sober year. Miraculously, I was accepted. I have literally no idea what to expect and I’m not planning anything. I’m just gonna go in wide. But it’s lovely that I’m going in wide here, in Jersey, where I was born and where I was an enthusiastic child. I’m gonna channel that little fucker, who could laugh so much and so hard that it scared his parents.

For now though, an early bed in this beige bedroom, with all the period features. This one even has a bunk bed. If I cared about watching telly I’d be a little put out by the location and angle of their one. But I don’t. I’ve got my iPad. I’m gonna boot up Sunless Sea. And then an early sleep and up in time for breakfast. The amazing packed lunch bags I got during Covid are no more. It’s time for bacon and eggs.

Ahhhh. And I’ve just looked at the website. “Hugely popular continental breakfast…” No bacon and eggs. And I have a horrible suspicion that, even if they do offer coffee, it’ll be as retrograde as their decor. But that’s fine. In May I found all the best coffee places in St Helier. I’ll just grab a sad croissant and go to Curiosity Coffee Shop. Good coffee, good music and literature.

Down in Emsworth, Hampshire, right at the bottom of a tiny little road on the quay, there’s a little restaurant. Emsworth is only about an hour and a half drive from London. It’s an expensive restaurant…

Established by Gary Pearce, who earned his stripes at such vaunted places as Noma, it’s a family run venue with a limited menu and not so many seats. To make it work they had to go to fine dining. There’s a Michelin Star for this year proudly displayed as you go inside. I came with an appetite.

This unexpected meal was on Tristan. He wouldn’t even let me help with drinks. The driving lessons I gave him, leading up to his successful test? This was his way of paying me back for my patience and time. The lessons were a gesture of friendship and freely given. Ditto this rather special lunch. A very tasty sort of karma.

Much as I like to eat out, it’s rare I go to fine dining. I’ve got the ghost of my father having a soup and a roll and reminding me how much everything is hugely marked up – especially the wine. Nevertheless this is too good an opportunity to miss. It’s pretty grounded as well. I really don’t think I’d feel intimidated even if I hadn’t been the guy in the suit with the pad or the guy on the pass with the tickets reasonably often in my abundant history of short jobs.

36 on the quay is the unassuming name for it that ensures they’re the first hit on Google. It’s a good thing I’m an omnivore. It was a very special meal, with lots of unexpected extra courses. Canapes. Amuse bouches. Pre-dessert. They even brought us a little glass of pink rosé when they got wind it was my birthday coming up. I was absolutely replete when we left. Here’s my wagyu steak…

I could even have a glass of wine, despite the long drive back to London, because Tristan was at the wheel! Teaching people to drive comes with all sorts of unexpected advantages. I sat beside him in a benign torpor back to London, trying to unpick the habit I still have of commenting on his gear selection and analysing his split second decisions as a driver. Now he’s passed his test I’m basically just a terrible backseat driver for him. Right now it’s understandable and pretty acceptable as it’s still so new, but if I’m still doing it in a decade he’ll have to throw me out at a bus stop…

I’m glad I tracked him down…

When I was a teenager at boarding school, I was often living with my divorcee mother in London over the holidays. I had my own room in her flat. She was dating. I was a Christian teenage boy full of ideas and hormones. It was weird that my mum was dating at the same time as me. It’s only just occurred to me that that might be part of why I detest the transactional nature of dating. Because I’d see these lizards and my mum was behaving as if she couldn’t tell they were lizards.

Anyway, she ended up with this guy. He was as bust up and glamorous as her, so I get it. Part of me disliked the story he came with, as he was always just about to be rich. Mum was not a city girl. She wanted to live in nature, but she spent all she could on this urban flat to stop having to make rent. The deal was always that he would buy the country house once his magic money came in. His magic money never came. Living in the city definitely contributed to her malaise. I resented the guy. He had constructed a fantasy world so convincingly that she had staked her happiness on it. It never came. The magical money is still almost landing. Almost… It never will.

Last time I saw him properly we had a row, and at the time I decided I was done with him. This amazing life he’d had – he kept on telling me how he was close to having it made into a film. Then a couple of years ago we went to a pub. It was his idea to do so. We ate a meal and caught up. After the meal he said “I just need to find a writer who can take the time to give a good account of my life – to turn it into a book.” I found myself in a difficult situation. Not only was I very busy, but also my history with him was not exactly free from complication. In a few moments I cycled through all sorts of emotions and questions: “Can I take the huge amount of time needed to collate this information about him, with no guarantee of payback?” “Will I be able to put aside my suspicion of the not-my-father man who stewarded my mother’s wet death?” “Will it make a good enough story?” I fought with myself silently, mentally sacrificed some low paid work to make room for some sessions with him, and eventually agreed:

“Very well. If you’re asking, I will take it on. We’ll have to see a lot more of one another though over the next few weeks. A lot more.”

I had misjudged it.

“You? What do you mean you? No, I need an actual writer. Like — (celebrities who write)”

“Oh. Oh… Um… I thought you were obliquely asking me. Still… I mean… I could… Maybe it’d be good to start by meeting up next week and I could start to make notes. It’ll take some time…”

“But… But no, Alexander. What have you ever written? I need a writer?”

“Well… I have this daily blog…”

“A blog?? Good lord no. I’m looking for an actual writer.”

…

My pride got in the way. Without expecting to, I went home hurt and angry. I dismissed him as utterly as he had just dismissed me. Earlier I had misread the situation and thought he was asking me to write his story. I ran the gamut and eventually put aside my historic distaste, knowing I could maybe be an interesting and catchy scribe of this remarkable life he had led. I even told myself that perhaps it would bring us closer together. My history with him, his crazy life story. There is a book there. I knew it in that moment. But his response was to belittle me. “It has to be a real writer.”

That was few years ago now though. He’s ninety. And he’s in a home. I worried about him and made some enquiries. I went to see him today. He never found his writer… I’m over the insult now, but I know that if I were to suggest once more that we could find a way to collaborate he’d throw it out again. I need a recognised prize. Perhaps I should submit myself to some sort of blog award – but I think the whole medium is empty of significance to him. Plus I’m not writing this for you to validate me. Screw you.

In the end though it means that because of his obsession with celebrity his remarkable life won’t be remembered.

But despite all this – I’m glad I tracked him down again. The last time we met I left in anger. But he was a part of my life, and now he’s in a home, sitting listening to classic FM all day in a sterile room with friendly nurses who can never be friendly enough to stop you knowing that you’re finally trapped in your own body…

Suddenly Nathan.

In keeping with the “old friends” theme recently established, I saw Nathan today. He and I lived here in Chelsea together for many years after mum died. It’s his birthday today. The 12th September. I used to know it very well indeed. We were inseparable for a few years before he moved up north in “the divorce,” to have kids with his girlfriend.

When he moved in here there were no doors. Mum didn’t like doors. There was also no furniture, as Max and I had always thought we were going to sell the place and had been working towards that. There were two beanbags to sit on while we didn’t watch telly. There was no telly. We slept on mattresses on the floor. Mine was a futon mattress donated by friends who were moving up north. He was paying peppercorn rent so I got him a bed online – the same bed that I very recently burnt outside an Airstream in a Sussex woodland. Luxury.

Slowly things came in, but that was the beginning. It’s amazing when I think back on it – how empty it was here apart from the attic. And we had both just left drama school. We weren’t earning much so couldn’t spend on furniture. A year later and I was still sleeping on a futon mattress on the floor. I like a hard bed so paying for better slipped down the priority list. But slowly things changed here. And we lived, and it was good. But all things come to an end. And arguably the lifestyle we had slipped into was not sustainable long term. Good God we had some big nights around London together. We would frequently arrive and leave as a unit, speak in shorthand, argue in public. Putting doors on the bedrooms gave us both something to slam. My sister in law was convinced we were lovers. I can see why, with distance. It was a strange, intimate, powerful friendship.

Suddenly he was in town to see Hamilton. I don’t think he’s been back to this flat since he left, perhaps a decade ago. But after the show, we made arrangements to see each other. He came over with the lady.

“Remember when I had a massive hypo here and you called the paramedics,” says Ruth, the aforementioned lady. They’ve got two kids now up in Manchester. I remember that hypo very well. At the end of a long heavy night she suddenly came into the living room speaking in tongues. Then she fell over. She’s diabetic. Half an hour later some attractive young men were feeding her sugar from tubes while we looked on in hapless concern. She’s the mother of his two kids now so it’s good she got herself out of bed to tell us. But that was my first experience of what happens to diabetics when they get the balance wrong. It was good to have her here.

And it was amazing to have him here – in this very different flat. We covered all that ground post college and then, in our own ways, we both moved on.

The sofa is the about the only thing that’s the same here now. Nathan used to sell fine leather sofas and he roped me in to cover the warehouse on the weekends. I got this sofa as close to cost price as John would ever let anybody have it. It’s huge and it’s done good service.. I have no idea how they got it up into the flat. But … it has lasted. I’ve got my money’s worth from it. All that shit we’d talk about – “This is more than just a sofa, it’s a legacy. That’s why you pay more. This will be a sofa for your kids, for your grandkids.” Utter rot. But thinking about it that sofa has had over a decade of heavy use, it’s still comfortable, and I paid less half of what the sticker said. Had I paid full price I’d need at least another ten years on it…

We caught up. We chewed the fat. It was a long time ago and we are different, but the points of contact are still there. We still know how to be friends. We could still spiral into one of those charming carnage London nights of old. I got him to model one of the 23 moleskin capes… I still haven’t pushed them out, so they’re in a pile on the sofa. That’s for “later Al”.

He’s on a train back to Manchester.

Until next time.

I think often we have to work out what we think by saying it out loud to somebody else. They will query it, interrupt you, find inconsistencies, make jokes and generally be another person who doesn’t share your brain. The more certain you are of something, the more important it becomes for you to try it out with somebody you trust who thinks differently. So much is subjective… We learn more through humility and listening than we can ever learn through certainty.

Minnie and I have been “sorting it out” friends for so long now. Back when we had just left college that involved drunken calls at 2am, long evenings of too much wine and dancing and saying the difficult things as the dawn broke. We took each other through the various heart aches and heart breaks. When I think back it all felt so loaded with meaning. I guess it was. Shakespeare’s seven ages of man and we were at the stage he called “the lovers”, with our woeful ballads made to our mistress’s earlobes. Then we shifted to soldiers. Seeking the bubble reputation. And there’s plenty to talk about if you want to dig into fairness or the lack of it in the creative professions. I sat at lunch with somebody just a day or so ago as they told me “But you enjoy your work. You shouldn’t get paid to play.” I tried to explain that it’s my job, and we all have to earn. They were having none of it.

But Minnie today… She’s heavy with child, her second, and still so deeply enamoured with this work we have devoted our time to for so long. As we all can do, she’s wondering if she’ll ever work again. It goes like that. One day we feel unemployable, the next day we’re in Eastern Europe dressed as an officer. It’s the way of it. I’ve somehow avoided a brood so there’s only one mouth to feed and I still know that constant pressure.

We walked around Ladywell. I was curious about the well but it’s been developed over. There’s just a plaque. Ladywell likely existed long before the Christians showed up.

There was a lady from an earlier folklore – Brigid the blacksmith. She would’ve needed water for her work. Bog iron to make swords, water to cool and harden. Maybe the Lady of the Lake was a blacksmith. Anyway, this well was consecrated to the Virgin Mary like most of the holy wells. Then when we all got taps it got buried in some foundations somewhere. There’s a good fecund park there though, the trees well bracketed with old fungus. Water running in the substrate. All the plants connected through liquid and mycelium, sharing nutrients and wisdom. Minnie and I walked in the park and did something similar for each other. Somehow, after a morning reconnecting with my friend, I feel a little lighter.

It’s been a long time since Lou has come to to London. I’m the one with a car right now, and everybody hates trains in this pandemic. Still, it was today or bust as her work is picking up, and I’m constantly on the verge of going to Jersey. I still haven’t booked my flight. But definitely very very soon now. I have to be there ahead of the coming weekend…

We hung out in my manor. It was ace. She’s on the train back now and I’m running a bath and winding the day out. I’ll probably have to think about packing and all the logistical stuff. But today we had a London day.

Lunch by the river up at Twickenham. We’ve hung out in North London a fair bit, up in Hampstead, so I figured it’s good to balance with some South as well. My little Chelsea area is pretty urban no matter how you spin it, even though it used to be fields. It’s not so far out to Twickenham and you get a plethora of decent pubs with good views. The White Swan. Way too much food and good company.

Having company in my flat helped me make sense of some of the costume items that came my way recently. We spent a good amount of time just playing dressup, and having her eye on the things I was wearing. I’m a little less discerning than Lou. She knows the materials and the cuts, plus she can tell me if something suits me. She was perhaps less hot on this particular silky number, but I was very fond of it.

I’ve now tried the lot on apart from some of the breeches and a bunch of waistcoats. Once I’m done in Jersey it’ll be a good use of my time to actively try and move the things that are in multiples on, as well as the stuff that just doesn’t fit me. The intention was to have a little costume store to pitch for gigs like this ghost walk and after dinner stuff etc. Basically it’s just useful to have.

Twickenham inevitably brought Tristan and Tanya – first time they’ve properly spent time with Lou. Lovely for me to bring together these two worlds a bit more. We went to see the naked ladies in an imported Italian fountain. That’s a lovely thing about London – you’re pretty much always a few steps away from something beautiful, old and buried.

We even managed to have newly legal Tristan drive all of us to The Angler at Teddington lock, which is one of the only pubs I found in my sober year that has decent alcohol free beer on tap. I am still keeping my booze lead free where possible. Baby steps.

I’m knackered so you get stream of consciousness tonight… Have a good day. I’ll try to be more considered tomorrow…

And so to Leopoldstadt… I’ve got a reasonably good hit rate for seeing Stoppard plays in the West End first time round. I like words and arguments and well framed thoughts. I also tend to have worked with the sort of people who end up in his plays. And somehow I just seem to luck into tickets. Kitcat messaged me this morning with a spare.

There were supposed to be two friends of mine on stage this afternoon, but it all got very complicated. One of them was sick and the other one was understudying her part so got bumped up into the larger role. I was oblivious to the adrenaline that must have been pumping through her veins as I watched her effortlessly play a part she’d barely ever played before, hungover and with about an hour’s notice. Brilliantly observed physicality, muscular vocals, excellently observed and rendered. My friend the legend.

The problem was the soundscape in there. At first I thought I had tinnitus again. Constant high pitched whining… But it was relentless, and it was higher and louder than anything I’ve experienced after banging out truss poles with no earplugs. It was when I realised that Kitcat could hear it as well that I started thinking maybe it was the soundscape. “The sound designer should be shot,” I found myself thinking, following a line of argument that told me that somebody had deliberately crafted a hostile soundscape for artistic reasons. It was often impossible to focus on the scenes through the high pitched constant howling… Not even consistent enough in pitch to be forgotten. Relentless, hellish falsetto screaming. Whyyyy? (It wasn’t the sound designer of course.)

I still got pulled in to the material. Nothing remotely close to how I might have been able to listen had we not been bombarded by constant electronic screaming. Was it the dimmer for he chandelier? No. Is it a dodgy connection? Surely they’d have noticed it… Streetscapes, and an offstage struggle at one point, levels going up and down, switching on and off, never free of that high pitched banshee scream. I was weeping at the end from an earnest and simple device well rendered. Just a list, but closing all the human stories we had been told. And still, under and over my tears, that electronic screaming, stealing the edges of every moment.

And then abruptly it was gone. And I saw the old couple directly behind me unplugging something from their ears.

The audio loop was fucked.

It’s possible that the couple behind me were not the only ones causing such screaming at the edge of hearing throughout the show. Certainly the post show discussion in my area of the audience was entirely devoted to the sound we had all been exposed to. “What the hell was it?” “I thought I was dying!”

We barreled out of the theatre and with some careful questions established that it could be heard on stage as well. Oops. Hard enough to engage with arguments. Having them whilst wondering if you’re having a stroke? No thanks.

We had dim sum in a place that wasn’t screaming high pitched hell. We broke down thoughts and feelings that had been woken up by this very clear and sharp work of traditional theatre. I’m happy to enjoy such a piece – to attend and be moved by a theatrical story with great eloquence and heart, employing so many people. The theatre was well filled for a matinee. It was lovely just to sit in the audience watching friends and colleagues work – and even through the hellscream of that badly calibrated hearing loop, to be breathing as part of an audience in the West End again. I rarely get to go, because of the ticket price. This was a rare treat and wonderful despite the fact that now, in the peace of my own bedroom, I can still hear the sound of that loop. It has awakened my old tinittus, but only because I’m thinking about it. Probably now I’ve made you think about yours. Sorry. Just lost the game.

I’ll go to sleep. A lovely day. Many other things happened. But in keeping with my experience, the screaming of that loop takes over it all, seeping into every attempt at quiet, battering all the contemplation. I have no idea how much money my friend paid for last minute tickets to that show. But despite the whining I’m glad she got us in. And I’m proud of her for not joining what was probably a very large line of grumpy people demanding their money back afterwards. Sure, they kinda need to sort that shit out. It’s nasty.. But let’s not take any more money from our industry. It’s been a hard year. We all need the work in a hostile environment. Fatima’s next job could be in cyber. My next job? Something like this:

I think this might be my last night in Hampstead. I happened to be here this evening, so I came over to check on my friend’s place, as I’ve been doing since she got stuck in New Zealand. Sadly her landlady has used the pandemic to pull the flat out from under her because she thinks it’s made of gold. Maybe it will be for her. Either way, it means my friend will be arriving here at the end of this month – so long as movement is allowed in New Zealand – and she will be immediately having to empty her long time home of everything. She’s been here twenty years and more, outside of getting stuck in NZ recently. It’s going to be an extremely difficult process, both practically and emotionally. The deadline is October 6.

I’m going to help as much as I can, but the final date is imminent and I’ll be in Jersey for most of the rest of this month. In early October I might be calling out for all hands on deck, because this is a good human who is going to need to have things carried downstairs. She’s recently asked me to try to sell random things of hers on eBay, but the truth is that there’s nothing that will sell for enough to justify the time and work, and I can’t arbitrate what might or might not have value to her. I have to admit, I thought she’d be here by now. She isn’t.

I’ll wash the sheets ahead of her arrival, and make sure the dishes are done. I’ll try and turn the place over and freshen it up for my friend’s arrival, even if part of me thinks that they won’t make it back in time for this deadline that the landlady has set. They don’t want it to be true. I get it. But it’s true.

After the deadline I’m really not sure what will happen. I suspect it’ll involve me trying to get the books and the personal things out to somewhere other than a skip. I have a feeling I’ll be asking for help. Watch this space. I’m gonna do my best. For now though, I’m just gonna sleep.

This evening I did a spamthrough of the ghost tour that I’ll be fronting in Hampstead in the run up to Halloween. Typically, after having access to this flat for over a year, the month that I’m finishing my evening work ten minutes walk from it I won’t be able to be here. It will be just after the landlady has decided to start refurbishing the place and I’m persona non grata. Maybe there’ll be the chance of an extension… She likely hasn’t booked the work yet. It all feels like a negative haphazard choice. I’m not sure if there’s enough good will left to overturn it though. It feels like that landlady has somebody in her ear telling her that my friend “shouldn’t” etc. And we all know that as soon as we start to care about how people “should” and “shouldn’t” behave we easily become monsters.

I’ve had a lovely day anyway. Lunch at The Bull and Bush while crunching facts and then leading a pleasant walk with friends across the heath alongside some delightful geeks also working, with a few pub stops on the way.

I’m sure there’s online stuff about this thing I’m doing, but I’m not in the mood to share it right now, frankly. There’s summer rain outside the window, big fat drops. I’m hoping it doesn’t signal an end to this momentary joy of heat we’ve met with in London. At half past midnight, I’m gonna crash down here on the edge of the heath for one last night, and hope that maybe I’m wrong in my assessment of how this flat stuff will all pan out given the personalities involved…