Author: albarclay

For the last few months, the van has been parked outside my flat with two pathetic back locks. They are so flimsy you could literally break them with a good pair of pliers. There’s never anything of obvious value in the van though. Flats and scaffolding. Boxes of random shit that would be meaningless to your average kid trying to work out how to fund his K habit. I frequently leave them completely unlocked because they were almost completely rusted through when I took custody of the van, so I don’t feel comfortable locking them in case they stick that way, and I don’t want the work of busting them open considering the reward is a bunch of mdf and a “Best of opera” vinyl collection. The window above the cab has never sealed properly anyway, so anyone dedicated can get in.

“WeyHEY lads lads lads this vaaaan ain’t locked!!” “Get it open get it open! Jammo da boyyyy!!!” “It’s OPEN!! It’s full of … WOOD! NO IT’S NOT WOOD. BUT THERE’S THIS BOX FULL OF … BOOKS!” “Da fukk Jammo?? Wot are bookz?”

Nobody wants anything I’m carrying, aside from the people I’m carrying it for. Plus, frankly, we are all made to feel less secure than we are as a matter of rote. Because security is a huge industry. Being burgled has got to be foul – it’s a betrayal of safety. It shifts your trust. And it does occasionally happen. I remember friends of mine being burgled at uni. Horrible. Such an invasion. But security and insurance companies capitalise on our shared worst experiences and memories, and monetise paranoia, and of course they’re playing the odds but they’re doing it successfully and making millions off us and if you need to make a claim you better be ready to give them more than you can afford. I pay almost £200 per month for a £300 car. Insurance brokers should be boiled in their own diarrhoea.

You can see where it started, that insurance industry. It’s taking money from people who think they’re important enough that bad things are more likely to happen to them than to someone else. It’s a thinking pattern I see with my friends. In this case, No! Fuck you. You are more likely to be targeted if you’re suspicious. Stet.

If I was desperate and had stolen before and you treated me like I was trying to rob you while I was working for you for fuck all and your internal distrust was making it infinitely harder for me, I’d be less inclined to choose to like you. And liking is a choice. And if you’re inclined to be a bastard to others you still need to justify it unless you’re insane. In order to be able to hurt someone it is necessary to mildly dehumanise them first. If you can think of them as lesser beings then you can dismiss them. And a great way of justifying that dismissal is “they don’t think of ME as human but I know I am human.”

Although it’s worth mentioning I once used this line of reasoning to try to understand how a very ordinary human being might have justified an action that had a negative effect on my dayjobbing.

But anyway today I went to B&Q and bought some reinforced padlocks to use versus Margate. Better than the rusted gossamer ones I found on the van.

The last time I parked on this road in Margate some idiot tried to open the driver door of my jag with a screwdriver, failed but bent the fuck out of it. It was my vehicle so I didn’t mind so much despite the insurance cost (because I’m an actor).

This time it’s not my vehicle. I’ve learnt that Margate is much worse than Chelsea for pointless crime. In London there’s no point doing anything without a profit motive. “We’ve broken into into the van!” “What’s in it?” “Fuck all mate. Records and books. Amazon are restricting record sales. The books are shit, I bar coded them. We should’ve filmed ourselves breaking in. We make more money per second instsgramming than we could off this shit. Come on. I’ll punch you, you film it, and it’ll go viral.”

But weirdly, I feel I need proper locks here than I do in London. So we bought some.

There’s scaffolding up my block, and it’s windy. Poor Pickle has been freaking out all day at the unusual noises. She hid under my bed most of the morning when the workmen were on my floor outside the windows.

The people that manage my block have an extraordinary propensity for spending money on bollocks. Their latest venture is to put pigeon spikes on all of our windowsills. Not only do they look crap but also I’ve never seen a pigeon on my windowsill. There’s one part of the building where they roost – above my windows – but they haven’t been told to put the spikes there. If I had a problem with pigeons I’d put them out myself. I don’t want those horrible looking things catching crap on my sills for no reason. But the problem is that this leasehold block is run by people that live in Wycombe. The two things we need to have fixed are the water outflow pipes, which are way too small for modern appliances, and the guttering or roof slates that causes a leak into my flat in heavy rain. We have had to pay thousands for what appears to be mostly a cosmetic job. Like last time when it cost me £18 grand plus 6 for the windows and they basically just changed the doors, stole my window weights, and fucked off on holiday. It took forever to get out from under that and it was a pile of crap. But we are beholden to these management idiots, even though they don’t even ask those of us who live here what needs doing.

In the first week of the job, the idiots who put the scaffolding out took a huge chunk out of the porch. When I sent photos to the management they responded by thanking me and telling me they’re getting a quote from the people who did the damage to fix the damage. I expect we’ll get another bill for that.

The downside of living in this beautiful Edwardian block, exposed to the elements as it faces the river, perhaps. But Jesus why do we have to be managed by those fuckwits? They can chase an invoice. Every time I am digging out from under it they hit me with another bill. They love to get on the phone and be passive aggressive. But I haven’t been able to get a shower put in because people that don’t even live in the block have decided we all need spikes on the windowsill. The people I’ve spoken to that actually live here can’t understand it.

The builders are cheerful, when they show up. There’s nobody managing them but they clearly work together well. I like them. I’m making them cups of tea out the window and asking them how they’re fixing the spikes down so I know how to get them off again. Glue. So I can just prise them off and then I’ll have to repaint the windowsill. I wonder what fuckups they make this time round. Last time, when they weren’t stealing my window weights, they swapped the lovely brass lion door knocker on my door onto my neighbor’s. I won’t get that back. Or my money. Or my weights. But I’m going to look into ways the residents can take over the management of the block because it’s ridiculous…

I’m probably getting worked up about nothing. But I’m 3k down, which is the second most money I’ve ever spent on anything, the first being the previous refurb. Grrr

I’ve just spent an hour on the phone to an old friend. I haven’t done that in years, those hour long conversations. They used to be a part of my fabric before everybody got so busy. One friend would call when she was walking home, then go into her flat and check for burglars and then we’d spend ages sending empathy down an open line. Another friend where the lines were always open no matter what time, and both of us made use of it enough that it was never a chore. “I’ve locked myself out.” “Get a cab here” There are friends who’d get a call or call me when one of us was showering tears and snot about something. One of those life things that can feel so all consuming, but that can be disempowered by talking in detail. Sometimes an hour and forty minutes or something, and most of it silent as one of us struggled to find the words and the other waited.

The fact it hasn’t happened much lately is testament to how much busier we’ve managed to make ourselves, and proof positive that the old depression is properly burnt out at last. I hadn’t thought of it. But my dear friend has been suffering and reached out. We were connected across the wires for a while. I hope it helped. It was lovely to catch up with them.

My mother existed on the phone. When I lived with her I’d hear her doing her morning rounds, calling one friend after the other, embellishing and sharing and developing stories as she went. She liked to know what I was doing constantly. She was like an information hub. If I went silent for too long she’d worry – to the extent that once when I went to Paris for two days with my girlfriend aged 19 she rang all my old schoolfriends asking if I was with them. I got back to loads of messages from people who I hadn’t spoken to since I was at school, worried that I was dead in a ditch. I reflexively rang her after her funeral to tell her how it went, and didn’t notice the absurdity until I got her voice on the answerphone and fell apart. But I guess she taught me to listen and to share. We used to talk for hours. Even little things like my first parking ticket. “I’m so angry.” “Of course. So you need to be more careful.” Nothing. But something.

Those long open conversations helped me think of talking on the phone as a good way of solving things. I still look for a number to ring if my thing isn’t working. I’d sooner talk to “Wayne” in Alexandria than do it via an online chat system where everything is out of the proper order as he runs his index finger down the same old list and eventually “escalates” me like he should’ve in the first place.

I’ve had a couple of good long phone calls lately and hadn’t noticed I missed them until I had them. Things are getting more bite sized. I prefer the long form. As I suspect you’ve noticed by now…

As part of the tidy up, I opened an old trunk, and it was a veritable oubliette. Stuff I had packed up when I left school and then just ignored. For decades. Old essays. Things I had written for the school satirical magazine that my friends and I made for a year or three. Terrible scripts. Awkward letters never sent. A photo of my first girlfriend and I at a festival. Hideously verbose and naïve short stories written long form, deeply inspired by Douglas Adams, fundamentally clueless about life, full of righteous indignation about human idiocy. Poems. Pictures and sketches, probably done in maths lessons. Self portraits…

I read much of it today and could barely believe it came from my pen. There were definitely flashes of insight. There were well turned sentences. I was trying to keep my reader’s attention. But mostly it was transparent how little the author understood his subject matter. Sometimes I tried to write about sex, and it’s reverent and fumbly. Much as I would have been in person had any of those teenage fantasies translated into realities. In one essay I write the history of creation from the point of view of an angry self-styled outsider with tendencies towards unusual belief structures. People had to read that stuff. I chucked most of it, put an old photo on Facebook, and moved on. I didn’t miss it for 27 years. I’m unlikely to lose sleep over it. And that kid was an awkward entitled little bastard. But at least he had my sense of humour.

It’s useful occasionally to touch base with where we’ve been. I’m glad I hit that stuff and found myself thinking I’ve evolved. If I’d been hankering after the good old days I’d be disappointed in myself. “Adapt or die”. Someone commented something like “It’s good to remember the good times” and I had a physical reaction. Those times weren’t particularly good. They were just times. Why else would I have put them in a trunk for decades and severed contact with almost everybody?

Now I can look back and see the process I was going through. Back then I was just … going through the process, and a lot of the time I couldn’t see the wood for the trees.

Fuck. Still. I’ve made things better in my flat with help from my friends, and yet there’s more to be done. Tomorrow I’ll be getting into my bedroom at last, which is a sea of clothes and papers and books. Gradually I’m getting things to a stage where I can see where I am right now. Every parcel I send on eBay cuts a bit more past away, and helps me move forward to wherever the future lies. It’s not as hard as it used to be. I’ve started digging into my childhood geek stuff, my mum’s clothes, all these things that would’ve gone to landfill if I’d been moving house all the time. I’ve even started sorting my books. Taking some to charity. Recycling others. Slowly and steadily. It’ll take a long time to finish this, but it can work well around the acting, and it’s therapeutic…

Early alarm startles me from too little sleep after too much fun the night before. I stagger into the van and boot it up. Then somehow I’m in Kingston driving into a scene dock. Armies of people come from nowhere, casually able to singlehandedly carry huge flats. The van is packed to the gills, and it empties like a dam breaking. Everything is swarmed into The Rose Theatre and laid out on the stage ready for the build. It’s a very different feeling to the load in, which was three people versus wind and seemed to take forever. Before I even know it it’s done. I’ve left my bag at Tanya and Tristan’s so I drive back, pay for two hours parking, and fall asleep again. Two hours later I emerge to a parking ticket. I wasn’t inside the lines. Buggers. That’s £30 to better roads in Richmond.

I drive home, park inside the lines, and go and take a load of stuff to the post office. I’ve sold about fifty things on eBay. I have no idea if I calculated postage correctly. I go to the Royal Hospital Post Office, which is manned by ex-services pensioners and is a delightful place to send your letters if judged on company and location. It has extremely odd opening hours, they take a long lunch, and if you need stationery you pay cash. But they’re really helpful in there, and full of jokes, even if it’s boiling. “This is a care home, it has to be kept warm,” says one of the lovely old guys behind the counter. He’s set off an alarm of some sort and it’s going the whole time I’m there, in a high pitched blare. It’s possible he can’t hear it, but I’m packing up old phones and addressing envelopes in this boiling room with a constant high pitched whine and it really doesn’t put me in a relaxed headspace. Plus this first foray into large scale eBay selling is a learning curve. The money is in my PayPal, but I’m told on the way there by a friend that “eBay favours the buyers. “Get them tracked. People try all sorts of things.” Most of Peter’s stuff is low value but it all sold for something so at the moment it looks as if this has been a lucrative first foray. But I’m not doing another big listing until I’ve seen how much admin is needed in aftercare and refunds to keep my 100% rating. “My shirt smells.” “My belt never arrived” etc etc… Hopefully we’ll be ok.

Postage done I get home to a demoralisingly cluttered home. Today is earmarked as the start of the home clear up. By the time I walk in the door I’m feeling rancid and could easily talk myself out of this, but thankfully Jack has come to help and he just takes point. “This is what we’re gonna do,” and then we do it, and when Marie comes after work we get much more done than I could ever imagine we would. By half nine the kitchen and bathroom are immaculate and the living room is a relaxing place again and we eat curry in it. Now I’m sitting on my sofa breathing and writing and I think I’ll get an early bed. I booked off dayjob tomorrow so I’ll have to get £120 worth of tidy done. That’s a whole lot of tidying…

But what a difference. And even though there’s lots more to do I’m feeling so lucky to have friends that will do that with me, and for me. Everything is easier when it’s shared…

Mother’s Day is a bit weird for me but then it’s a bit weird for lots of people.

The alarm woke me earlier than my body clock was ready. The time change shocked me. I had to get the van to Battersea Arts Centre in order to fill it with flats, props, costume and materials ahead of the tour of Rotterdam that’s coming up. I’m cutting my fee to bare bones for this drive because I want to support this forthcoming tour. Rotterdam is a wonderful show. It has been recognised with Olivier Awards, but that’s not enough to guarantee ticket sales. Mostly it’s people already involved in theatre who notice the awards. The true test is the court of audience opinion. Go see it. 

It’s a love story. Just that. The themes are wedged into gender and sexual identity, but it’s an intelligent contemplation. It’s mostly a love story. They market and lead with the gender stuff because that’s what’s easy to get hold of in terms of “why this story now?” And to show my hand, I love to see a “non-binary” love story being told tenderly and not seeking controversy. Touring to small communities with this good play about unfamiliar thoughts will be powerful and hopefully will help people shift their empathy a bit. Sexuality and gender is a tricky thing to discuss interpersonally, as many people are extreme in their views one way or another, and others are brought up to avoid the issue. Stories like this help humanise the nuance, and touring it helps open discussion. I’ve watched it a few times, and watched audience members rethink long held assumptions about gender. It’s not an axe being ground. It’s a love story. Just … the themes are unusual.

But yeah, I loaded the van with the set for Rotterdam, to be transported to The Rose in Kingston ahead of their first week starting Thursday. It was me, Faith and Jake. They had been using the facilities at Battersea Arts Centre to dress the set, so we had to take care with the load as it was all pristine. Jake wanted an early start, as he was going to see his mum. Oh fuck, yes, it’s mother’s Day…

Until that moment I’d forgotten the mumness of today. Always just after the anniversary of her death. But she was brilliant, my mother. So glamorous and forthright. A community builder, and a huge personality to boot. I love what she gave me – my kindness, my empathy, my patience, my drive (even if not in the direction she wanted). She’d have been prouder than I am of what I’ve built so far. She’d have LOVED my friends. She was so supportive, despite desperately hoping I’d “get it out of my system.” And like me she’d have been looking to what’s next for me. She would have been setting me up with eligible women left and right, and I’d have thought 80% of them were bores, but it wouldn’t have stopped her. God I miss her. I kind of need that, being utterly disengaged with getting websites…

I hung out with Tanya’s mum tonight. She kind of remembers me, kind of doesn’t, peppered by that fucker Alzheimer’s. We used to get on beautifully twenty years ago. Even without the details we rembered our dynamic. It’s funny. I’m still the same, even if i feel totally different. Happy Mother’s Day. If you can remember your mum, honour her in memory. What a hell of a thing they did for us, wherever we go in terms of their expectations. Mine was marvellous. I bet yours is too.

I told Tanya’s mum how she used to help me out when I was struggling with life stuff. For a moment, through the fog of that bastard disease, I felt her remember. The things we teach people are for life. We don’t need to hold ownership. That’s Parenthood. And we can all do it with anyone. But mums are the best at it … 🙂

(Here’s Jake showing me what I had to get in the van. Aaaa)

Another crazy arts space in another railway arch. This time it’s called “Matchstick Pieshop”. They sell pies. They do cabaret. There’s weird stuff outside.

It’s owned by a cat. Humans run around pretending it belongs to them. It really doesn’t.

Cats have always come to me. I must smell. The amount of times someone’s cat has jumped into my lap and their human has said “That’s weird, she never normally does that.” Now Pickle is in the equation too, so my shoes smell of cat. The owner of the arts space immediately came to sniff my shoes. He spent most of the show sleeping apart from a perfect slinky moment to end the first half of the show.

We were doing Macbeth again. It’s my old friends at The Factory. Our last show before a week’s residence at Theatre Clwyd in Wales. A lovely way to get into the groove before money comes into the equation and changes the air for everyone. It’s a playful company and it was a playful show. I had a great time and so did the audience. The company was bound together, listening, playing and challenging. Exactly the best atmosphere for an interesting show and I was pleased to be part of it. Unless something changes I ain’t going to Clwyd. So I’ll take my adrenaline hit where I can. Doing a Factory show is a very efficient way of mainlining adrenaline. You just don’t know what the fuck will happen, but you also know something will happen and I’ll be in front of a paying audience. We are hitting more than we are missing with Macbeth, and the room is very alive. I’m proud to be involved, and getting better at partitioning my time. Often in the past I haven’t been able to think of anything other than the show I’m doing. I’m getting much much better at compartmentalising. I did some driving for Tristan and Tanya. I’m doing a lot of driving for no profit at the moment, with my time on the van running to an end. They needed some stuff moved, I got lunch. It’s still a lunch I didn’t otherwise have and their stuff is moved now.

Then I went home, washed, made sure I had my keys, and put on my trainers with a suit so I could look sharp but still run around. Leaving the flat I realised my trainers were too far gone, turned around, quickly changed them, rushed back to get to the theatre on time and locked myself out of my flat. Fuck.

Brian is in America.

Thankfully Mel who goes out with Brian has spare keys. She’s out tonight, in Brixton, getting hammered with the girls and dancing. I persuade her to bring them in her clutch bag.

Having done two hours of Shakespeare, darling, I get an Uber across town to some underground cavern. It’s a birthday night. It’s all women. It’s throbbing. You have to show ID to get in. She’s there, having a ball, thrilled to see me. She introduces me to her friends and one of them almost reacts with dry heaves. I try to explain to her that I’m just collecting keys and I’m really good mates with Mel but she’s terrified to let me come within 3 foot of her. So I get Mel a beer to say thanks, and get distracted by something (the exit). Everyone is smashed here. I’ve got my keys. It’s a win.

Now I’m almost home.

Perfect to have a keyholder who is as unpredictable as I am. I’m glad she has a set. Most of my friends are kidded up now so they can’t take receipt of post show Al and help him home. It was hilarious being a momentary half welcome part of the Saturday night Brixton brigade even if I felt like my friend’s weird uncle…

My old friend is a vicar. Well, many of my old friends are vicars, but I’m thinking of one in particular. You might not know this about me but I was a very strong Christian back when the world was easy. Lots of my friends from that period are vicars now. I don’t see them often as I feel I’m a patch of darkness. But I went to see this one. He lent Brian a thurible and returning it provided an excuse for us to catch up.

He’s an interesting soul. Excruciatingly intelligent but self deprecating. Loves his geekery. Cares about his ministry. If I’d followed that route I might have ended up very like him, engaged in pastoral care and resigned about bureaucracy in his institution. An empath in a structure designed to prefer the career-monsters who jump through the right hoops but at heart care for nothing but their own comfort. It’s a pattern I understand from various day jobs. It’s not enough to be good at something, you have to prove you’re good at something, and the criterion by which you have to prove you’re good at it are laid out by people who aren’t good at it and don’t understand what it takes to be good at it.

He’s good at it. We walk to the tube station. He greets his parishioners and gets a response. This is London, but he’s sunny and you can see he’s liked. We are talking, chewing the fat, looking over points of connection, establishing new lines of friendship as we bounce round sunny hellos. And suddenly there’s an ambulance.

Immediately his demeanour changes. “I know them.” I refrain from saying “Of course you do.”

The door is open. I hang behind, but he stands attentive before it, a bloodhound at point. He is praying. We said grace before we ate lunch. Before he goes in the door, he is gathering his power. He’s interceding. Like Bruce Banner making himself angry, he’s making himself kind. He goes into the house. I wait. He is in there a while.

When he comes back he explains a little bit about the dynamic in the home. There is chronic illness there – people struck down with these desperate incurable painful conditions. As far as he can tell this is a minor complication – a blood pressure issue – and it’s being dealt with.

My whole time with him I’m aware of his generosity and kindness. He derails or questions any negative assumptions that he detects in my conversation. He monitors me for darkness, and tries to bring light. In the time we are together he never once raises the question of my faith. He says grace before I tuck into my chicken, but I’m not under pressure to say anything and he’s paying. So for me it really is a meal provided by divine providence. I say “amen”.

He has a home and a beautiful church. And his life has recently brought him great pain. He deals with it very well – he’s pastoring himself as best he can but it’s sharp and hard in his eyes, where he can’t hide it. It’s a pain I know well, his pain. I can help him know he’s not alone, so he can help his flock. We help each other a little bit for a few hours on a sunny day, each with our own brand of ministry.

This is a balanced, gentle, strong individual, and one I’m glad to reconnect with. Whatever you think of the things he must believe, on the ground level, he is a demonstration of how the church can be a wonderful thing. Hopefully I’ll see a lot more of him.

I’ve been fortunate enough over the last three years to have been involved with one of the “magic circle” law firms for two days a year, helping them find young talent to have a week of work experience that frequently leads to a life changing job or a paid university place. It’s a hell of a thing to be involved with. These candidates are pooled as widely as you can imagine. The firm is actively trying to diversify. They aren’t just taking the best graded candidates. They’re acknowledging that straight C from a tough inner city state school is harder to achieve than straight A from a fee paying school. They’re looking at the individuals not the system.

I’m always a little winsome, as I won a place on one of these events when I was that age. I think it was at that very firm. I only remember it in a blur. I enjoyed the day and met people from utterly different backgrounds. I was offered a place on the initiative, and turned it down because I wanted to be an actor. My mum and I fought bitterly about it but I was adamant. One door closes… … … another … um …

It has been two very lovely days, in really diverse rooms. I remember having my mind blown by the difference in background and education on that day for me, and that was in the nineties. This firm is good at making opportunities, good at thinking outside the box. They are guaranteeing a continued future for themselves by employing deeply from all classes and backgrounds, while also seeking gender parity. If I could teleport into 17 year old me I’d still make the same decision, but it would be much harder knowing what I know now. Some of these young adults are going to have remarkable lives, catalysed and given direction by this day. There’s nothing I can do with my obsession. Its wired in my blood. I’ll be an actor until it kills me, and the opportunities will either catch up with my obsession or they won’t. I’m internally and externally ready for whatever. My craft is honed to a sharp point. But it takes two to tango. And one of my last conversations with dad was “I’ve got nobody in your industry. I can’t help you. Any other industry I can offer you something, but acting? I play golf with Sean Connery… But I don’t think he likes me much.”

Meantime, this evening I’m chilling with my best friend. She made a human so she’s busy. I just had to read a bedtime story to that small human. It was fun, but I think it got us both a bit too excited. So now I’m downstairs listening to my friend do top class bedtime mothering and reflecting on my day. Once the small one is sleeping, the mum and I will eat pizza, have a spot of red wine, and put the world to rights.

I didn’t check up on my hat at Kentish Town. Hopefully it’s not lost.

(Details only obscured in the picture just in case, and out of habit.)

We were on holiday in Ibiza and my dad tried to fix the lights by the pool. He ended up ten foot behind himself, in the pool, thanking God he was still conscious.

In Thailand I got back to my shack and fumbled for the lightswitch to get blown backwards onto the bed. I woke up an hour or so later with bruised legs wondering how I got onto the bed. I flew!

As a kid, dad told me a story of an incident he had with an electric rail as a kid. He was stuck to it for a second and then blown off it way up into the air. He used it as an illustration of how you can become part of the circuit, be unable to disconnect yourself, and cook. “If I get connected, hit me with a piece of wood. Don’t grab me or you’ll get connected too.”

Thankfully when my hat blew suddenly onto the live rail at Kentish Town I managed to derail the instinct to go after it. I just looked at it disconsolately as it sat on the far side, on top of the live rail. Then I hit the button on the station platform.

2 minutes to the next train, and there’s a hat lying on the rail. No staff on the platform. I am a little worried. I’m running worst case scenarios.

Possibility 1: My hat has a metal wire. It somehow electrocutes everybody in the train as it comes in. I stand and watch them cook, looking around for bits of wood to hit them with. I find one, triumphantly whack someone, breaking their legs but failing to disconnect them from the circuit. CCTV goes viral: “Sick actor bashes dying woman with stick – Exclusive.”

Possibility 2: My hat suddenly catches fire. The fire spreads impossibly quickly. The whole tube network is destroyed for miles. London shuts down. It’s the final nail in the coffin for the British economy. We get bought by Trump and turned into a golf course. Nobody comes to play golf because the queues are too long at the border and there’s nothing to eat. One of the holes is dug so deep it springs a leak. We sink and are forgotten by history.

Possibility 3: A rat finds its way into the felt of my hat, and safely absorbs huge amounts of electricity becoming a foul decaying super-rat with magical powers. It goes on the rampage in London, killing the Prime Minister as well as some people of actual consequence like the folk who clean the loo at Kings Cross. The city is evacuated and the army is called in. They nuke the rat in Somerstown, taking out a huge portion of London and calling it a victory. A massive amount of money is raised online to rehouse the displaced people, and all of it is legally embezzled by the remains of the government who then build what they call a “learning resource centre” which is basically a library with no books where there are three bedrooms upstairs and no staff. They patronise everybody involved, say “The money has gone to the benefit of the people,” and go on holiday to Turks and Caicos. The seat of UK government moves to Reading from whence people can battle hordes of irradiated zombies lurching from the smoldering city, plus get cheap beer in pleasant surroundings from one of any number of centrally located pubs, and consult The Oracle for all their shipping needs.

I wait on the platform listening to the phone ringing. Nobody comes close to answering the emergency button in time before the first train comes in. Worth noting, that. The train rolls in. It rolls out again. Nobody dies. The hat is now lodged between the rail and the wall, tucked away a bit, filthy. Intact.

Someone redundantly answers the emergency button after about 4 minutes. I’m waiting politely by. By that time I could’ve been dragged into the train by my attackers, and the train long gone while I’m being punched to death after my last ditch attempt to get help. I tell the emergency operator that my concern is past – none of the scenarios appear to have taken place yet. She takes my name and number.

I go up and speak to Mo, who is standing in the assistance box artlessly oblivious to any buttons having been pushed anywhere, despite three people opposite him eating crisps in front of that packed room full of monitors, occasionally pushing the “See It, Say It, Sorted” button. Mo gets permission from his manager, comes down and has a look. He seems to be happy that the hat can stay there until the end of the day.l, but checks with his manager. His manager allows it. He asks for my number. I give it to him. He gives my number to his manager. I leave him with his manager. I wonder if my hat might have been cut in half by the time I head home.

If there’s a fire at Kentish Town, I’ve done all I can to prevent it. I’d like to get the hat back but can chalk it up to experience. Right now getting rid of stuff is more important than accumulating it.

23:16 and my hat is still present but bleeding.

It has moved around a great deal but it’s still on the same platform. Here it is. It’ll definitely need a clean up. Bastards, for not just keeping an eye out and fishing it out when possible. I almost get it myself. The all powerful manager likely says “no” to anything other than procedure. But I know I could probably grab if without getting stuck and cooked. Probably not worth risking though.

Let’s see if, when the working day is over in about twenty minutes, they can be bothered to keep a hat for a random passenger. It’s definitely still there. I only didn’t fish it out because they’ve got my mobile number and they’d get overly exercised about a human in the track. Plus I could die. But not if I’m careful. I fished out a woman’s heel once in rush hour and was treated like Bin Laden…