Author: albarclay

It’s a Saturday and the rain is pouring down. The last thing we want to do is run a Shakespeare workshop for a mixed age group of kids. But here they all are. These enthusiastic young people. Running through the rain to get to a room that will be run by the two of us. Oh God.

Claire and I sit in the car watching them arrive through the rain, these happy people with their colorful shoes. Neither of us are feeling ready but we are about to go and be fun with them.

The good thing is that we’ve got each other. With the two of us there’s no possibility of a humongous brain freeze, as happened to me in one class in Annapolis.

The rain is a solid wave. We extract ourselves from our seats and challenge the elements for the tiny ten feet or so we have to travel to get to the door. We start tired.

Fifteen minutes later, we are both wide awake and enjoying ourselves hugely and exploding energy from all orifices. The two of us have a shared moment of connection and we both notice the distance between where we were just before the workshop and where we are now. Dr Theatre works for workshops as well as theatre it seems.

This evening we have the chance to watch somebody else work. Post Modern Jukebox happens to be passing through Greencastle and we have free tickets. We are towards the back but the theatre is packed. I’m writing as the MC works the crowd and incorporates his glass of bourbon in his banter. This is a man that knows how to sustain himself on a tour of the provinces.

It’s a strange auditorium and a familiar kind to me now. Organs, weird curtains and no real way of making sure anybody can actually be seen in any of the lighting states.

Somebody in sequins in singing a 1920’s loungeroom remix of Britney Spear’s Toxic.

As we are, these artists are doing their thing all over the place. As we are, they seem to be enjoying themselves in the process. I’m going to sit back and enjoy them working for a bit.

This is incredibly chilled and I’m exhausted. I’ve got back on this blog as we are in the back row so it’s not going to be noticed on stage. These wonderful people are singing for us all, and it’s making me feel cosy, warm and sleepy. Rather than letting my head fall back into a snore I’m letting it fall forward into a screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’re having a good time,” says the MC, and I am but I think my habit of putting piano music on when I’m winding down towards sleep, combined with the fact that it’s the end of another very full week is making me less than the ideal audience member.

“Welcome to the new wave,” sings the MC and we all obediently chorus “radioactive” and somewhere within this perhaps it’s ok to have a little snooze…

And then there was a total power outage to the area. You couldn’t make it up. Heavy winds have brought down a cable somewhere. “Now we’ll see what they’re made of,” I remark to Jono. “They’ll either pull the second half or if they’re artists they’ll hack together an unplugged set.”

They came together, stood with each other, held tight in their little community, said “the show must go on,” and let us hear them without the tricks. Until the health and safety crew shut them down in case someone tripped and hurt their ankywankle. Wonderful work.

Broad Ripple. It’s not really Indianapolis but it might as well be. We drove in, Claire and I. We found we had some time. It’s only an hour’s drive each way which is nothing when you compare it to the ground we’ve covered. The scale of this country!

Lunchtime found us having French Onion Soup by the canal. La Petite Chou, with incomprehensible amounts of cheese and a small glass of Laurent Perrier. Life is pretty fucking good. We then wandered around this suburb of Indy, as they call it. There’s an old railway, now concreted into a path and used as a cycle lane. Thankfully the law over here states repeatedly and visibly that pedestrians have priority, so you don’t get crusty shouty lycra clad beardfaced cockbuckets passive aggressively insulting you as they zing past on the wings of virtue and entitlement like you do in London ALL THE TIME. In fact a few cyclists wished us a good afternoon and we shouted it back after them.

The old railway is called The Monon Trail. We walked northwards down the line through the autumn trees, burning sharp to amber and blood red. We followed a man on a motorised skateboard when he cut right, into a residential area.

We suddenly found ourselves in a historic neighborhood. Big old stone houses. Signs all over the place advertising that it’s a Halloween Party Street. All the houseowners have been making an effort. Silly gravestones in the gardens, pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins. Dangling skeletons and giant spiders and cobwebs and bats. Monsters in the windows and projections on the walls. We still have a week to go but this state is gearing up for the big day. The houses we walk past have likely already spent thousands of dollars on candy between them. People will drive their kids ages to let them walk down this street next week and load up on sweeties.

It’s huge over here, Halloween. Last time I had an American Halloween I was working for this same company, in Denton Texas. We went round a load of frat parties. We made an effort with costume that day thank God. Everybody else had. This year might not be … quite so crazy. We will be in a very holy place.

I’ve been writing this town up as a small town. Next week is going to be smaller and considerably more religious. I think next week is the sort of place where I risk getting burnt at the stake if I admit that I play Dungeons and Dragons. I’m still up for trying to make Halloween fun there, although we have a show that night so it might be tricky with timings. We might be exhausted.

We got back to Greencastle from Indianapolis in time to reconnect with the unit. There are only five of us on this crazy tour. We have covered thousands of miles together. All things considered, we are getting on extremely well for people who have been in each other’s pockets for so long. Only two weeks left of work. Time past time to work out what is happening next…

We decided to go to the tiny cinema in Greencastle.

We had no choice but to watch The Addams Family. Not the most inspiring script but it passed the time, and the projector didn’t conk out. Apart from the 5 of us it was just a guy and his daughter. The guy had a shirt on that said “I have a beautiful daughter. I also have a gun, a shovel and an alibi.” I think there was only one popcorn bought – inevitably by Claire. And it was reasonably priced. For screening the movie, the cinema turned over about $50…

Now we are in Moor’s Bar. Pete the owner just came up and introduced himself. “You guys have been in here a few times now,” he says.  He’s the owner. He’s just saying “Hi”. Maybe making sure we aren’t dissidents. But it feels friendly. It feels American.

Pete is from here, went to college here, moved to Florida for thirty years. Now he’s come back home with his wife. She wanted a restaurant, he wanted a bar. They bought this place which is a little bit of both. The food all comes with bread. It also has extra salt so people drink more. But it fills a hole. And it just has.

This week is a needful slowdown. Not too many classes in the daytime which allows rest. Everything is in walking distance. The sun is still valiantly shining but there’s a chill in the air now. We are all feeling a lot lighter already though, from being out of the mix.

Silicon Valley was … interesting but there’s something in the air there. The energy of all that money being made, the potential at any time to suddenly find yourself underwater, the history of ambition and longing and crime.

Now we are just in a little green patch with friendly people and not a huge amount of history. The freight trains come by and lay their horns down on the crossings. Dillinger robbed the bank here. He got a good haul out of Greencastle bank, for all the good it did him. Another one that didn’t know when to stop.

The barman, Bailey, knew what all five of us were drinking as soon as we walked in. The people in the shops already know the five of us by name. Claire, Bailey and I ended up having a remarkable conversation about art and the film industry. The people I’ve met here have lived lives.

You can see how these little towns draw people back to them in retirement or depression or necessity. It’s pleasant and relaxing to feel the tiny boundaries around you. To feel you’re safe in your little place, and the big old world can turn, out there beyond the campfire. I’d literally be trying to eat my own face after a month here. I know I’d struggle if I went back home to The Isle of Man or Jersey. But this small town mentality is comforting, in small doses.

Which is just as well considering the politics back in the UK.

As far as I understand, the latest plan is to fill the English Channel with petrol and drop a match in it but blame it on the Germans. The fire won’t spread to the land anyway because we’ve always been safe in the past and fire doesn’t spread. If it does we can just throw hospitals and poor people at the fire until it goes out. Then we can skin anyone who we don’t like, hail the dead eyed aryan midget, and get on with making the world into the illusion of a meritocracy where merit comes with birth.

I need a city already. I just went to the hotel bar in my pajamas  The barman knows my name. Fuck. It’s nice here though. We are all feeling much more relaxed.

She’s playing the mouth organ. I’m not really sure if it’s part of the show or just what she does. She’s good at it. But from the looks of rage given by the other old folks, she might have been practicing constantly in front of them. It’s called The Waters. It’s an old folks home. And I suspect she isn’t part of the show I’ve been asked to watch.

I don’t know these places well. Mum died young. Dad was home and then suddenly he  was in a hospice. My grandmother hit a hospice at the end too. I love the hospice. They always get my donations. It’s a good way to die.

My grandfather died very suddenly of a massive coronary in his chair after his regular morning walk and his cold shower. It was quick for him, but too early and left too much undone.

My father’s parents were dead before I had memory. As a result, Old folk’s homes are relatively unknown territory. Maybe there’s always someone playing the harmonica. Maybe it’s a special kind of hell for the residents. But I enjoyed it on a brief exposure.

They have the best pumpkin patch I have ever seen outside. There are loads of scarecrows. There are two skeletons sitting in wheelchairs holding hands. It’s hilarious, apt and macabre.

I’m here to see the Silver Linings. Fronted by Linda, they are a group of seniors who perform skits from Shakespeare. They’re doing it in another home tomorrow.

First up, the witches from Maccers. “Double Double Toil and Trouble.” Three older women speaking in gleeful unison. Plenty of cackling. All of them are wearing pointy hats. They have an actual cauldron. Thankfully they don’t have the actual ingredients – the ingredients are mimed. Macbeth has forgotten his glasses. He can remember some of it. But he feels the time pressure. Sometimes he improvises when he knows the intention but not the specific words. “Goddamn witches just do what I tell you.”

And then it’s Henry V. Crispin. 2 days from now. The Battle of Agincourt. It’s somewhat grounding to realise that the most celebrated English victory in Europe took place on St Crispin’s Day. This car crash might resolve around the same time.

The guy playing Henry V has somehow got hold of a massive heavy sword. It’s brilliant. But it’s also strangely moving. Give a different actor the same words and they hit you differently.

“Old men forget, yet all shall be forgot, but he’ll remember with advantages what feats he did that day.” (Or something along those lines.) It rings sharply to us, seeing these “seniors” doing such beautiful work with these thoughts about memory, knowing that this is their issue.

This job never ceases to surprise me. To expand my idea of “me”.

After the show tonight three of the old folks waited. I hadn’t thought they would, so I engaged myself in the bag pack until Jono came to find me and tell me they were waiting. A lovely validation. Even in small town Indiana I’m loving this job.

We are at the local cinema. It has the word “cinema” written on the outside which is how we can tell its a cinema. It’s right next to our hotel.

We walk past the big neon sign that says “Open” and into the lobby. We are curious. A woman is counting cash. She doesn’t look up. Her head is in counting, perhaps. We wait. “Hello?” we eventually venture when we understand that we are far less important than the maths. I understand that. She pauses, holds a figure in her head, looks up.

“Hi, we were just wondering what you were showing. Do you have a brochure?” She looks at us blankly. “A timetable?” I try. Blank. “A piece of paper that has the films you are screening and times?” She looks at us both, silent.

She has heard the question. Time expands. Five seconds? Maybe ten? All that exists is Claire and I, this woman, and the gears turning in her brain. I look into her eyes: SFX THE TICKING AND DINGING OF A CLOCK. LFX STROBE. PROJECTIONS OF MANDALAS AND EYES. MUSIC FROM A SITAR. A BACKWARDS CAT EXTRUDES FROM RINGO STARR’S LEFT EYEBALL. THE CLOCK GROWS LARGER. GHANDI SHAKES A COCKROACH FROM HIS FOOT AGAIN. THE COCKROACH HAS A MILKSHAKE. THE MILKSHAKE IS ALL THE COLOURS OF THE WORLD BUT LIGHT. THE LIGHT OF A PROJECTOR. A PPPRROJJECTOOOR. A PRoJector.

“We don’t have one.”

Pause.

“You could go online. There’s a Facebook page. I don’t know what it’s called. It isn’t up to date anyway.”

Pause.

“I think we’ll be showing The Addams Family and Maleficent Wednesday and Thursday. One of the projectors is broken. It’s hard to tell what’ll happen.”

“What about Friday?” “Oh. We haven’t thought about *newthought* Friday.”

We are in small town Indiana. It’s $4 for an expensive beer. $2 if you’re good with a PBR.

I’m glad of the chance to relax, frankly. It’s been full on and to suddenly be in a place where we don’t know the meaning of hurry is wonderful, even if I have no idea what will be screening at the cinema and nor does the cinema.

We had a day off today thank God. None of us have adjusted to the time difference having come three hours East. It’s always harder to the East. But at least we didn’t have to get up and be clever and helpful for students at this tiny but effective liberal arts college in Indiana with the jetlag. We had Tuesday off. I’m getting ready for bed now and it’s actually the normal bedtime. This blog is still late, but that’s mostly to do with the fact that the deadline was more familiar. I took my foot off the gas.

This town of Greencastle is actually surprisingly vibrant. I found a shop which sells all the things I like. I ended up with a wallet, an oven glove and some beard oil. The beard has officially reached “monstrosity” status, and I’m not allowed to shave it or cut my hair as I use both of them to make Belch as unruly as possible…

Fun and games.

Alarm at 5. Sticky eyes. Heavy. Grab bags. iPad? Got it. Leave flask on bedside table. Go to check out. Worry I’ve left iPad. Back upstairs to check. Fail to notice abandoned flask. Flask mark III, farewell.

Into the car. To the airport. Scales. Bag is overweight. Shoes to handluggage. Scales again. Still overweight. Employ charm. Roll a 20. Bag goes on the flight.

Security. Laptop and iPad at top of hand luggage. Efficient now. Or so I think. “Sir, can you take your shoes off.” “They’re fine,” I mumble. “Been through every week with them on,” I continue, muzzily, all the while obeying him anyway as there’s never any point in disobeying. Everything goes through. It all goes back on my person. I’m through security. It’s too fucking early still. I need caffeine.

Coffee. Peetz. Better than Starbucks but you could say the same of a cat shitting in your mouth. Caffeine. Loo. No flask. Water fountain. Find gate. Wait.

Board plane. Worry about accordion. Find overhead locker. Relief. Sit down. iPad. Take off. Look out windows. Land in Phoenix. Wait fucking ages. Get stuff back from locker. Transfer.

Board again. Worry about accordion again. Locker again. More relief. Much more sitting. Much more iPad. Play 66% of Day of The Tentacle. Could’ve finished it but got stuck.

Land in Indianapolis. Rain. Torrential buffeting rain. “Gee Toto, I guess we’re not in California anymore.”

Baggage reclaim. Bag is drenched. Enterprise surprisingly unobstructive. Haven’t eaten yet apart from salty pretzels and some cheesy biscuit stuff. And a small plastic glass of coke. It’s evening. “Want some fruit,” says Kaffe. “No.”

45 minute drive. It’s getting dark now. Get to reception. The phone at reception rings as we arrive. It’s for us. ugh. We need to go to a meeting immediately. Dump stuff in room. Find beef jerky. Eat half a dried cow. Regroup in reception. Walk into de Pauw. Can’t find it. Ring? No answer. Ask. No clue.

Meet a young woman. “I’m Ron’s daughter. Are you the actors?” Follow her, Ariadne through a maze. Glad of her.

Meet a load of people. Be charming. “Hi, I’m Al.” “Hi I’m Al.” “Hi I’m Al.”

Food. Good Christ there’s sandwiches. Eat sandwiches. Eat potato salad. Eat pasta. Be charming. Nice people. It’s easy. Time to go? Time to go.

Walk back to hotel. Oh well goodness me there’s a bar in the hotel. Order beer. FUCK ME THE PINT GLASSES FILL FROM THE BOTTOM WITH MAGNETS. Order two beers. Stick a curious finger into the bottom of the glass and get beer all over my arm. Get the rest of it into my throat. Get another one. Loo. Sit in a circle with the others. “Cheers” “cheers” “cheers”.

Write blog. Feel warm. Enjoy company. Mention my blog. “Oh I still haven’t done the blog,” says Kaffe. He has to do the official one. Oh I know that feeling. Sorry mate.

I put Kaffe onto 80 Days. Best travel game possible. It took him almost the whole flight to get through it on a first play though. Both of us, geeks, gaming instead of blogging.

Here I am, exhausted. Monosyllabic blog, go.

They’ve called it “Methuselah” after the oldest person in the bible. But he only made it to 969. This tree is twice that age. The plaque pulls the number 1860 out of it’s arse, and the plaque looks to be fifty years old. I’m going with 2000. I just hung out next to a 2000 year old tree. It must’ve seen some things. Although mostly just nature happening.

For the first three quarters of its life it lived in comparative silence. Woodpeckers, birdsong, wind. Coyotes and wolves at night. Occasional lions and bears. Right at the top of a hill, deep in a forest, looking down on the huge woods, at it’s kin, many older and wiser trees in more accessible places. Perhaps the nomadic tribes hunted nearby from time to time. Maybe it provided a good viewpoint if climbed, being a huge tree in a high place.

It was there when the Romans came to Britain, this tree. It was there when they suddenly left. It weathered the Dark Ages that followed as people moved into the stone vacuum, and the abandoned infrastructure. It sat there in the wind and weather as Harald got one in the eye at Hastings and everybody started to pretend to be Norman. It was there through the crusades when we had coalesced enough of a united sense of identity that we could pit it that identity in opposition to another worldview. It was there when we fought ourselves at home and won and lost and won and lost. Henry VII hit the throne of England and it was still peacefully growing. Then after this millennium and a half of peacefully existing, the event that was going to lead to a very different existence took place. That Italian brute setting forth with three ships from Spain found a “new world”. Still, nothing would have really troubled this tree until a couple of hundred years ago, when thousands of clever monkeys swarmed into California.

How the hell do you even cut one of these things down? Once it’s down how do you load it onto the wagon? There would’ve been bigger trees than this in the area. Many of them. It would’ve felt impossible to have felled so many at the start, but people realised that the real gold was the wood, to make houses for the people who found the gold.

Pretty much all the ancient trees in this area are gaps on the forest floor, surrounded by younger trees. It is a tremendous endeavour to have managed, to have turned so many of these unfathomably ancient living organisms into houses. But when there’s money to be made…

They are tough trees, these redwoods. Their soft bark protects them from disease and fire. They shoot straight up into the air, so high, amazing vast organisms, living at a different pace from us, providing habitat, making the light beautiful.

We walked to a few but this one was the oldest and it was so old. The hippy in me was thrilled to find it.

Today has been a lovely end to this week in California. A good walk. Great company, and a fantastic tour guide in Lisa. Plus an incredibly old tree, now protected, that probably survived the logging in the 1800’s by being at the top of a hill.

In 1968 at the Olympic Games, American athlete Tommie Smith took the podium after winning gold at the 200 meters, with his teammate John Carlos at bronze. They both were shoeless in black socks, with a black glove. They stood and made a fist, wearing Olympic Project for Human Rights badges. Peter Norman the Australian stood there at silver. He wore the badge as well, and was known to be an outspoken critic of the White Australia Policy.

Tommie and John both raised a fist and dropped their head when The Star Spangled Banner played. It was a simple but powerful gesture identified by the media at the time as “Black Power,” identified by Smith in his autobiography as a “human rights” gesture. It was extremely controversial back then, loudly shouted down by angry red faced men established in well regarded word outlets. “Ignoble”, they decided. “Juvenile!” they sniffed. The usual assembly of dismissive rhetoric. History remembers it better than it was received at the time. Especially here, at San José State University. This was where the bronze and gold medalists went to university. This is their training ground. And they are proud to be so.

There’s a gigantic statue on campus of the two men standing like gods with their fists upraised, that defiant bold gesture immortalised to inspire future generations of students here. Peter Norman’s spot is left unoccupied, but with a plaque encouraging passers by to join them and raise a fist in solidarity. I like interactive art. I have no doubt at all that all human beings should be treated equally. I stood and raised a fist, a little embarrassed, a little galvanised.

Now I’m watching the modern day giants here. The Spartans. They aren’t quite as big as the statue. But some of them are monstrously large. I had one of them saying “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow!” for me. If I’d pissed him off he could’ve made me into jam.

They are playing the San Diego Aztecs at American football. “Just so you know, we are almost certainly going to lose,” we are told as we go in. Good to be warned. Not that I understand it completely yet, but I’m getting better at it now. It’s a lot more stoppystarty than football football because it’s designed with commercial breaks in mind. But it’s still a fun night at the game.

And they lost alright. Only by 10. 27 to 17. And I saw some very good throwing and catching happening even to my amateur eye. Nobody did anything very controversial, although number 79 got a little bit fighty towards the end causing the enthusiastic drunk guy behind me to loudly call him out. The stadium’s small enough that the player would’ve heard “Hey, 79! You’re an asshole!”

This has been a pleasant residency. Tomorrow we will finally get the chance to go and look at thousand year old trees, but for now it’s just about enjoying the last vestiges of warmth before Indiana and then Colorado bring in the cold winds that blow.

It’s the half.

It’s the first time we have had a two show day this tour. We did a matinee to a large amount of high school students at 11am. It really is far too early to act, 11am. I was essentially leaking coffee out of my ears as I fudged my way through the show. It only started to unravel in Act 5 where I had processed most of the caffeine and made a noise like an owl instead of saying one of my words. I momentarily couldn’t remember if it was “two” or “twain” so it came out “to-whoo”. It’s not by any stretch the worst fluff we’ve had this tour. There have been some corkers.

San José has considerably improved in my estimation now I’ve realised it is so well located for all sorts of natural beauty. The redwoods are still to be found – it’d better not rain on Sunday. Also my mood has considerably improved since I burnt £115 on steak and lobster tail last night.

I’m going to switch my head into show mode again. It’s easier having done one already this evening. But boy I’m tired.

Interval. That’s the thing with evening shows after a matinée. No matter how well you warm up, it’ll never be as effective as doing the whole fucking show once already. We’re having a lovely time up there, and nary an owl in sight.

No more classes this week. It’ll be weird next time we are in a show where we aren’t stage management, transport, director, props, company manager etc etc. Where we do a thing in the evening and a couple of matinees and then don’t do millions of constantly changing workshops. I do love it though. The constant variation and stimulus fits my taste.

Show’s down. Everybody is changing. I’m usually pretty quick out of costume. Sometimes I’m in the bar before the audience but there’s no bar here. I’m not sure I’d go if there was. My body feels good but tired.  involved. Playing Sir Toby involves spending a considerable amount of time with my legs wide open in a kabuki drop. It’s safe and my voice is not restrained in it. But it’s a workout for the legs. Twice in one day but only once tomorrow, although it’s an early show. But once it’s done we’ve got a day and a half free before the last of the long travel days.

Three weeks left on the road. I’ll really miss this one when it’s gone. But things are beginning to look interesting back at home too. It’s likely to be an interesting winter.

Everybody is changed at last. Lisa just bundled into the dressing room with tickets to a college football game tomorrow. “Our team will probably lose,” she warns us. I’m fine with that. It’ll be an experience.

I lose WiFi when I leave this building so rushing this out before we drive to the hotel as it’s pretty much due. Time to wind to sleep. First a burger, I hope…

My work was over by lunchtime today, and Jono’s as well. What better opportunity to get out of San José. Although I’ll need to see some redwood trees before I leave this area for good, today’s agenda became about getting to the Pacific Ocean. It’s not far, and after yesterday’s blog you’ll know I’m in need of something a bit wild and unruly. You can’t do much better than an ocean on that front.

We stuck a pin in the map at a place called Pescadero, and drove out there as soon as we were finished. Off to the ocean. Winding roads through woodlands without much traffic, narrow with dead hares and “Beware of the deer”. As my old friend and teacher Martin helped me realise, it doesn’t take much to get out of the concrete jungle here. Pescadero itself was settled by the Portuguese in the 1860’s or thereabouts and commands some good vistas and beaches. We stopped near an island full of pelicans and contemplated the vasty ocean. Nothing to the west until Hong Kong. I went for a stroll along the beach. Not much in the way of shells. Plenty of crab carapaces, big bits of wrack, and lying up on the rocks, many curious bits of driftwood, bleached clean by the sun. I drift through the driftwood, looking for a piece I can take home – a memento of this moment that will sit on a table in my home full of meaning to me, bereft of meaning to anybody but me. As I’m there, lost in the rocks and wood, I realise I’m not alone. Between me and the sea two lovers sit, contemplating one another. She sits on his feet as he faces the sea. They are locked into each other’s eyes. He has the sea before him but all he sees is her. She has her back to it, barefoot and wet – when I reached this piece of beach she was running in the surf. While I’ve been looking for wood she has come to him and when I notice them together I feel like an intruder. Their regard is so intense. Here I am, this wildhaired man drying out with all the other driftwood. There, too close, these two strangers. And amidst the driftwood here at the end of the world I remember firmly what I lack. I don’t think of it often, that hole in my life where love might be. I’ve found so much intimacy with friends, so much ease to shoot each other’s shit. I’ve filled all the holes but that one (wahay). Seeing them together with me in the driftwood really brought it home to me.

We got back in the car and struck for home down the coast road, better to be back in time to connect with our friends as they finish work, we think. But they’re all massively exhausted and going to bed immediately.

I need a conversation and I’m back in this faceless hotel room. That’s the lack. If you’ve got parents or a lover there’s a reliable place for that. You can give and receive these heavy conversations and make them lighter. I’ve got a weight in my chest. I don’t know quite what to do with it.

Get on with it I guess. Hi ho. Stiff upper lip and Netflix.

Early bed is good if I can sleep. It’s a two show day tomorrow. It’s gonna be harsh.

I was wandering in to get some food and ran into my friends heading home, equally emotionally confused. Good to connect for a moment and know I’m not alone in conflict.

We have all been on the road a long time now. It’s to be expected. I’ve decided to solve my malaise in one of the tried and tested ways for me: Expensive food, solo. Oh God. No wonder I’m often broke. But tonight, my dears…

Tonight I’m sitting at a place that I think is called Fleming’s Overpriced Steak and Fuck You House. I put a shirt on for it. I’m getting a rib eye and lobster truffle bearnaise caviar monstrosity and to hell with the lot you. I’ll wash it down with a solid quaff of Chateau Bastard and my bank balance can go suck a goat.