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It was supposed to be a restful day.

Sunlight cooked me up from sleep before seven and headnoise kept me moving. At twenty past I abandoned any plan I might have had of turning over to dreams again. Day off? Kind of. But I started writing invoices and planning jobs almost immediately. I’m sleeping on my own sofa if I’m home. It’s not ideal but I’ll be away a lot and I am in a patch where I need to bring in the money, and it’s nice to live with Tom. If I was organised I would have found a sofa bed or futon for the spare room. The pressure of council tax and service charge and all the hateful hikes means that I’m part of the vast mess of people who are having to think about the pennies. I’m staying pretty busy. But still, the outgoings are astronomical. It’s not fun, living in this country without a minister’s salary.

I was up and out of admin zone by noon. Invoices sent and planning done for a great big drive I’ve been asked to do. Then I had a big old day in front of me.

I’m not very good at doing nothing. Arguably I need to get better. Lou certainly would agree. Faced with a gap, I overfilled it. I carried a load of stuff to the lockup where I met Siwan. She looked through some of my friends mother’s clothes – they’ll be used in a short film, as will her teddy bears. Then I missioned it to Kirkaldy’s Testing Works to try and pin down whatever the heck we are doing. It’s clearer every time, but the more time on the floor the better. I’ve got the keys now, but they are trying to write the press release and I don’t want it to say wrong things. We have been spitballing and dreaming. Time to make it concrete. But which of the many options?

Thinking of this I went to Jethro’s and grabbed the bag I left at The Willow Globe. It was Martha’s birthday, his daughter. You can never have too many Libras. I gave her a half crown that happened to be in my glove compartment. I didn’t stay to see her reaction as you should never linger on gifts, particularly when you’ve literally pulled them out of the glove compartment. A gift is for the person, not for you. I marveled at the mycology that Jethro has successfully encouraged into his little urban garden. I would have thought woodchip cat litter wouldn’t encourage mycological diversity, but those buggers were thriving. He is magic, of course. So are you.

Then I drove to Waterloo where I helped Flavia carry a wardrobe upstairs and jiggle a load of other awkward crap around up and down all those stairs. It was as much a social call as anything else but she gave me back my congestion charge. It was glorious to see her, and I brought Mel so she could see Hex again. Flavia and Ivo have become wonderful snake keepers. It’s brilliant to see the little pudding so well kept. Another weight off.

Now I’m in Gypsy Hill. Tomorrow morning I’ll have to be in Forest Hill and this is most of the way there. My clothes from The Willow Globe are in the tumble drier and I’m writing while I wait. I’ll sleep in a bed tonight. Luxury. All is right with the world. But from… HOW DID I TAKE NO PHOTOS ALL DAY? grrrrrrr

I’m tired. So tired that I think I’ve forgotten how to make sense. I’ll try. Extracting joy from people in London… It’s a living, but it’s not the easiest. And today was a real double header. Panda met some lovely people. Sometimes it does feel like therapy. Invited audience are always blocking themselves, but I know how that is from a million abortive attempts to rehearse immersive theatre.

The legit audience were lovely as ever. We had some crazy moments of truth. I just had to be the Panda while they talked. The joy is theirs to control, not mine. The only people who miss that are the ones who have been given expectations. “The phone is ringing. It’s for you. Who is it?” I ask as I give them a dead line. This is me throwing down the gauntlet for play in the form of a handset and that question. I’ve had The President. I’ve had The Queen from beyond the grave, and The King. I’ve had people’s mothers often. I’ve had my mother. I’ve had ex lovers, gangsters, fictional characters, animals, heavy breathing and a burglar alarm company. Whatever they decide to make up. “Who is it?” I ask one invited person. “Nobody, it’s a dead line,” I get from them. That’s the truth, of course. That’s the only answer I cannot cannot accept. I’ve just invited them to play and they’ve blocked me.

I’m having none of it. I take the handset back. *Say yes to the audience* I know. I listen. “You’re quite right. It’s nobody. It’s a dead line.” They agree with me. “Whoever it was must have been cut off. I’m sure they’ll try again. OH yes here we are. It’s ringing again! Hello? It’s for you again. Who is it now, quickly before they hang up.” She’s not getting off the hook so easy. Worst case I’m gonna ask them what they’ve done to get themselves on a list where people ring the whole time and then hang up. But, this time it’s not a block. It’s a deflect that opens fun. There’s a plastic tortoise right next to the phone. She’s looking at it I ask her who it is. “It’s… It’s this tortoise.” “What does the tortoise want?” A pause. A need not to be asked. I hear her brain audibly screaming. “It wants to escape!!!” Which is what the querent wanted.

We are not being observed here, but if you’re in the window with a man pretending to be a Panda you are playing. It costs you nothing. Nobody can hear you but the grown man with a stupid head on. The only risk you run is being featured in this blog as the invited person who was slow to remember how to play. Sorry about that, I guess. But it turned out to be a wonderful deflection anyway. I was happy, and I hope it was joyful to the person, because ten minutes later we were both at the door encouraging that plastic tortoise to escape into Brook Street. “Fly little one! Run for your life! Go! Go quickly while you still can!” A touch of mad joy we wouldn’t have found without me being blocked, and one which spilled into the streets.

I finished the day fine. The volunteers threw the door open to the public most of the day and didn’t quite get why I kept on insisting on breaks from the traffic they were bringing in as I was cooking. “Mel yesterday was fine with it,” one of them tried at one point, around the time I got a text from her the day before saying “this is why there has to be two people doing this sort of work!” He’s a very keen volunteer. Glad of him. He was trying to cook my head and it is only my confidence in myself and what I’m doing that allowed me to tell him to close the fucking door. Yeah, great, if there’s two people, roll it back to back. But do you have any idea how hot those heads get?

Then it was Halloween spookiness. Kind of the opposite. I went walkies. We covered a lot of ground. Stories were told. I’m so fucking done. I’ve lost the ability to be positive. Hence the whole first half of this. I haven’t stopped for too long and I surf on my forward energy. Tomorrow? Nothing much to worry about. Just invoices. So many of them. Admin backed up from months ago. And a spot of rest. Don’t ring me too early. Zzzzz

Home and tired. Mel was covering Panda and I was helping a friend downsize his mum in the nursing home. Horrible process. And it involves furniture that needs to be moved. His mum won’t really know where she is anymore. So sad. Lou has a friend that might want some of the furniture pieces. The rest might fit into immersive theatre, but it’s always the same: storage storage storage. If I ran my own venue it’d be a different thing. You can have all the lovely useful things in the world but if there’s nowhere to put them and no art to use them in they are just clutter. I was glad though to meet his mum, even if it was mostly her asleep in a big room. “Most of my dad’s stuff was kept because he took a great big unit out and bought a load of stuff at auction to fill out a theatre he thought he was going to take over, but it all fell through”. Tragic. And yet we all do it. We cling into things against the possibility of them being relevant to us again.

Mel is back in town and we are brainstorming a show. It’s one way of dealing with the vast amount of beautiful clutter that neither of us want to see just thrown in the bin, knowing it is worth more than that. Dress a space. Make a story. I really want to find a space in spring next year that can go towards an experience. About how we define ourselves. About what we use to try to augment our ideas about who we want to be seen as. Identity and trappings and vanity and transience. Things that live longer than people. A response to yesterday’s blog subject maybe. Finding a way through art to help people think about their reliance on new new new. I’ve had a few ideas. Haven’t filled in any funding applications though so Spring is probably optimistic. But the amount of times I’ve had an idea and then seen someone else make it… Maybe it’s time to be the change. I just had drinks with the lawyer for You Me Bum Bum Train, which will only make sense to a few, but those who know will know how they changed everything for the better.

We went walkies on the heath tonight. It’s a good route this year. I’m enjoying it. Sunday is the only night still with bookable tickets. We have hit the cap. That’s something to be proud of so early in the run. I am enjoying my stories and they seem to be enjoying them. The performers and costumes are all great. What a joyful silly fun thing. I’m very much buying into my multi-headed existence right now. I do occasionally lose track of who and when and what I am. And why. I am definitely not being the best friend I could be to anybody – I barely communicate with Lou and mostly that’s on the move from A to B.

Sleep now though. I’m back on my sofa tonight. My comfy sofa. The leaves are autumn. The daytime temperature is late summer. I’ll hold onto that…

I remember watching a video of some guys in Iraq filming themselves as they destroyed sculptures that had been there for many lifetimes, trashing a museum, because God or something. I remember thinking at the time how small it made them and their shit view on God. These angry children, breaking things for inherited emotional reasons and redactive faith. I saw how powerful they thought they were, as they wrecked heritage. Senseless arrogant immature behaviour. Short term thinking. Kids out of control in the playground. I didn’t share the video or react negatively. “Don’t give it air”, I thought. Yes my friends were reacting negatively, but the implacable men with sledgehammers will have been buoyed up by my reaction, had I given it. They would have felt that the short term cause for which they destroyed the ancient things was somehow highlighted by my outrage. Essentially me shouting about it would have added to a narrative that led to more damage being done.

A cause I believe in has just made me hate the cause. I think we have to protest. I think we need to make a stand. But there’s a basic level of respect for skill and beauty, not understood by these idiots. Two humans with no love or creativity in their souls have gone into a gallery to try to destroy something much much better than they will ever be. Don’t Google it if you can resist. If we bump up the figures by googling it and showing outrage online it’s only a matter of time before somebody sets fire to the Tate Britain because they think that “Slugs should be left alone in gardens!” Maybe they’ll blow up the Louvre to “Save Ebola!”

Yeah so this cause I was behind until they did that. Of course these idiots in power shouldn’t prioritise their corporate masters, and starve others… but they will… We can fight them but why destroy art? Destroying art is showy but ultimately it just makes the activist look arrogant and self centred. “My very temporary thought thing about a situation that had no relevance when this piece was created – it’s important enough that I will video me me me me with my soup me me gluing myself because it was me and then I get to stay there with my polymer printed plastic T-shirt angry about the oil industry me me me next to a piece of art now covered in soup that sure it has been overpriced by a consensus of which me me me me me is not part but now me me me I’m here and it’s my cause not me me me me me me me me me which is important me not me me me me me me me me me.” You needn’t watch the video, it’ll give them hits. Two smug humans try to ruin something deeper and greater than they will ever be while wearing T-shirts with words about this week’s thing. Then they very theatrically glue their hands to the wall with these expressions of great import, as if this childish act of vandalism will do anything other than alienate allies. I still reluctantly agree with their cause but I’m absolutely disgusted at their methods and what it might do going forward. Some turd already tried for the Mona Lisa. Yeah, again, it’s overrated. The establishment has created false value in art. That’s how the art world works. It’s horrible and wonderful. It’s art. Burn down the systems! Change the value structures. But they are augmenting those systems by proving that the thing with notional financial value has that value for a reason. Why not throw soup on their favourite painting, not on one that the consensus has given high value to? Probably cos those two fools haven’t actually looked at art ever, just articles. No context outside of the frame they’ve been radicalised though. No colour. No light. No joy. Just soup and smug.

The more air time they get the more likely people will copy them. You should never punch down. Pictures in a gallery are open and on display so we can all enjoy them. Now we will be more monitored in galleries. These humans who have no art in them and have found belonging in a cause to which they’ve been drawn on the internet… We can’t force perspective. Only time will bring that. But they punched down today, and there’s very little below them, two little nothing humans with a can of soup. “Let’s fuck up something beautiful and free because we want to belong to our internet group.” It’s not even really about oil, despite what the plastic words on their t-shirts read. It’s about belonging.

They chucked soup on a picture of the Ukrainian national flower painted by that depressed Dutch impressionist who cut his ear off. Then they theatrically glued themselves to a wall next to their idiocy with expressions of great pride and defiance totally at odds with the fact they’d both just shat in their own mouths. They brought someone to document the whole atrocity. I hope they rot in hell, all of them. I hope they don’t inspire further morons to further atrocities. Yes it’s all very middle class rage here. I’m sure they’d be thrilled. They likely don’t see it as punching down. They likely don’t see the short termism or the selfishness. But I do, and I detest them for it.

Make something, you idiots. Making things is much easier than destroying things and can send stronger messages. For every family sandcastle theres a kid kicking it over just after they leave the beach. For every field of snowmen there’s three drunk teenagers running at them at dusk. Destroying is never clever. Never. Shame on them. Nothing is ever as easy as we want it to be, particularly if we aren’t mature. “Just”? Like it’s easy. Just stop being selfish destructive humans. It’s not so easy, is it?

Thinking about it, it is a long time since I purchased a whole tank of fish from the deputy headmaster (now retired). I didn’t have a fucking clue when I bought them. I still don’t, but most of the fish are still alive.

The angel fish were the first to go, followed by the solitary goldfish. The rest of them though – they were all robust, and all varying types of loach. Bottom feeders. Catfish.

Knowing how fish work, I allowed them to clag up and for the level to drop. Catfish want it sludgy. That’s their happy place. Still, I was aware that they also might want the option of SKY. But I knew that it takes time to clean them up. And recently I haven’t had the time.

This morning I set it aside before work. I scraped them and I squeezed out their sponges and jiggled their medium and generally reset things. Then I put the Fluval U4 back together. That’s the aerator.

For context, I inherited the aerator from the previous owner. “I’ve had it a while,” he told me. I felt flush. I bought one the same, brand new. I put it in and literally the first time I changed the medium, it packed up. Dead. Not the fuse. Just dead. Thankfully I had the old one which still worked. That has been my workhorse. I never bothered to contact Fluval and tell them my then brand new filter broke almost immediately. I did notice that there is something of a monopoly with the big pet stores regarding that brand. I’m happy to buy a filter if it doesn’t suddenly arbitrarily stop working, particularly if I’ve had it for less than a month. But this morning I was in a hurry to get to work. I suddenly had a tank full of fish that were gonna die if I didn’t get air to them, and half an hour. Option 1: Try and fix one of the two filters that have identically packed up. Option 2: Drive to the pet shop and buy a third.

I had time pressure. Had I tried to fix it and failed, dead fish. I spun to Pets at Home Battersea where the staff couldn’t find me by post code but flogged me another sodding Fluval and honestly I hate that brand they are fucking awful, somebody please disrupt the fish tank filter industry as they don’t appear to give any fucks.

I made it to work with a minute to spare. The fish are happy with me and I’m happy with them. The only asshole here is the monopolising faulty filter company. If I hadn’t lived ten minutes drive from a pet shop, I would have a stinky tank and dead fish. The last thing I want to have to do is to replace another fucking Fluval product with more of the same. There must be another way to stop our fish from running out of oxygen… Or is this just prefiguring what is going to happen to all of us, via water and air. The capitalisation of ALL. The Truss Funders. Fuck you, human. We like money. Buy my water.

I promised my captive fishes that I would make it nice for them this morning. In so doing I almost killed them. I had to go out of my way and spend to prevent their death. Now, looking at them, knowing that they are tiny little lives, I am so happy I went for it. Despite the expense, and the fact I gave more of my money to those idiots who make faulty filters.

Towards the middle of the day, two mothers came in to see Panda, carrying their two suckling babes. I first knew it from the screaming. One of them got carried in to the anteroom and was immediately terrified of the donut. It began to ackwaaaggh.

“It’s a multisensory learning experience for them,” said one of the mothers, proving that she looks at very different articles to the ones I am consuming. The child was on edge, not sure if it was meant to be terrified or not. I was speaking in my softest non creepy voice, or at least I hope I was. I was trying to make no sudden moves. The other child just sucked and stared, baffled, but this one was always deciding whether or not to start making more noise than I could happily handle. I gave him a furry chocolate finger. It’s not edible. He stuck it in his mouth. Progress.

They were delightful and busy, and I just calmed and calmed myself. I think they might still be there now if I hadn’t started cooking in my head. My face was boiling like a cabbage by the time their calm-time was over. I ushered them out and two people were waiting. I needed to take the Panda off though. I’ve not nowhere to hide in my room. “Go in before me,” I told the next two – a mother and child. That was my mistake.

We don’t encourage children. This one was 4. The two infants had put me into a calm state of mind, but hot, and I had just invited a 4 year old to go into my little space first. It of course immediately made it HIS space. He colonised it.

I came in and he was already getting started on trashing it. “What’s your name,” I tried and he shouted it to me so he was at least responsive. Then, to my surprise, he bellowed “I like to pray!” For a moment I was relieved. I was in a peaceful state. He’s a religious child. Maybe we could all have an invocation to the great Panda, I thought as he picked up a ball with “love” written on it, chucked it at my head and repeated, clearer “I like to PLAY”. Fuck. His poor mother I think had hoped he might be distracted enough by Panda for her to get a break. No such luck. I am virtually blind in the Panda and it is hard for me to move quickly or react. I couldn’t have managed him unfettered. No chance with restricted vision and no warning. Praytime for us all. Oh God.

Some time later I was discovered hanging by my fingertips to the burnt remains of the universe, surrounded by a carnage of balloons and empty cans and pencil cases and romantic novels. I shivered back to the knowledge of myself. “Hug mister Panda goodbye, but ask him permission first.” He hugs me. “You’re not a Panda, I could see your beard,” he concluded over his shoulder as he left, and the plastic sheep fell over sideways and lost an ear.

I decided long ago never to have children,” the volunteer comments. We are trauma bonded now. The rest of the day we talk loads and some lovely people come by and it’s a fun thing. The whirlwind child was great as well, but dear lord I pity the mother. She won’t come up for air for a long long time yet… He’ll be an actor. Poor sod.

I was up at half four this morning when two of my dear friends video called me from a bar I know all too well in Greencastle Indiana. My alarm was set for half five and bless them they must have forgotten the time. They sang me a song. They wished I was there. I think they might have been… drinking? This is a Macbeth tour of the states where two of my favourite people are out there together. I’m so glad they’re having a lovely time! It’s ace of them to include me. I can enjoy their joy vicariously, without having to give up all the mad shit that’s happening to me. They are soon to go to some of the most incredible destinations and I’m mildly hankering after it. But I’m off to Uruguay soon, just… not for acting. But, the Uruguay job is MINT and I’ll likely be Scrooge again in December and it’s all good and good and good.

They videoed me, then I went back to sleepish. Then up again to drive a load of branding to Paddington. Then to the doctor to persuade them to give me a load of testing shit. Then back to Paddington to pick up the tables, then back to mine in time to meet Russ and give the things to him. Then up to Hampstead to write my stupid bio again for somesuch thing that my head isn’t on yet because it was dress rehearsal for the Halloween Walk. Some guy was there from the local amdram who appeared to literally hate the fact I was extemporising because he has done the job before and likely measures every word and checks the pitch with a tuning fork. Everybody else seemed to have a lovely weird time, which is, of course, the point. Rarely have I come across a better named outfit. We are Peculiar London, and this is a very peculiar experience. We had a wonderful jogger who became part of the experience, and two teenage girls who attached themselves to the end of it and even offered to buy us all a pint if we “do the tour again here for us!”

They were like… thirteen. They would never have got served. They followed us on a rehearsal. I think we are going to be their evening distraction. I might have to build them into the tour…

I don’t have much headspace. I don’t have much free time. But… I have joy. That’s enough. That’s more than enough. And I’m surrounded by lovely people. This is going to be a good month.

No Panda today but non stop despite the lack of timechunk. Tomorrow much the same, then back into Panda.

I took Mel in to Brook Street thinking it was going to be easy, but all the roads were closed and it was a nightmare. We made it, just. By that time I was too late to go to Canada Water so we did the meeting over the phone while I was waiting for some tablecloths and branding boards and trestle tables to be dropped off at The Natural History Museum by Red Bull. I chose to use Max’s work to have things delivered as I couldn’t with any degree of certainty predict where I would end up at any point today. Not the best idea as Max only checks his phone once a month.

With the car loaded up I went home and grabbed some fly head masks, a carriage cape, my stovepipe and another top hat. I was already late. I rushed into Kirkaldy Testing Centre. We threw around some ideas for photos for a show taking place in the first week of November. I only had an hour. Tommo works fast. We got some goodies. I left precipitately to go to Hampstead. Lots of driving, a touch of photographic modeling, nothing that hasn’t been my primary earner at some point in the years I’ve called myself an actor. Then a pub. Walking.

I ordered chicken at The Freemasons, just as I didn’t want a repeat of the explosive wine situation from a few days ago. It turns out I’m not as young as I used to be. If I’m gonna be burning the candle at both ends I need to be taking care of myself within that, rather than eating nothing but a Pret salmon sandwich and then drinking all the red wine. I actually have to start slowing down. Taking care of myself. Oh how I would have laughed a decade ago when I was working out what the boundaries of my endurance were.

I did walkies. Still have some bits to straighten out. I’m trying not to cover ground I’ve covered before, but last year I carefully pulled out all the stories I was curious about, so this year has been harder on the research and repackaging. Still, the route is different and, I think, very good. I’m happy with it. We finished and we now traditionally share a baked camembert at the King William IV – a lovely way to end the tour.

Now I’m home, and Bergman is full of stuff that has to get to Paddington at crack of dawn tomorrow morning.

While I was running around I confirmed my flight times to Montevideo in November. I’ll be off for two weeks, and then hopefully back for Christmas Carol. Oh hell. Oh life.

Early start. Not such an early bed. But it’ll do. Night all.

“Dude, you’ve got Stockholm Syndrome with Barbara Cartland.”

For eight hours a day I live in a window. I am surrounded by colourful ridiculous brilliant things and among them are blown up book covers from that record breakingly prolific author. Her books are scattered about hither and yon, and when you discover me I’m reading one. It’s my opener. Connection in a book to genuine human connection.

I’ve finished one book already just from reading it through the gauze in my Panda head as I wait for people to come. It’s hard to see but I’ve got time. It was “A Touch of Love,” where Tamara melts the stony heart of the Duke by first finding the love in her own heart. It turned the pages. Tamara with her oval face and her long “Hungarian” ginger hair, The magnificent but cruel Duke with his stallion. It’s kind of Jane Eyre without the literature. There’s a bit of magic thrown in. All the loose ends get tied up neatly in a little bow and onto the next book.

She’s dictated her oeuvre, each book after a period of meticulous research. Well over 200 of them. You can see she knows a great deal of detail about how a big country house can be run. She’s very involved in how guests are supposed to be welcomed so she can highlight the shortfalls in her fictional Duke. She’s a champion of the Romany people, she believes there are magic healers out there, and apart from kissing eventually it is all very clean in her pages. No unnecessary raciness thank you very much.

There’s a book she put out when she was famous called “I seek the miraculous,” which is diary snippets from times when she has encountered something slightly magical or ghostly or otherworldly. It is filled with little epigrams and moral snippets, fragments of happy doggerel and observations that could be characterised as innocent or trite depending on your predilections. I like it very much. You couldn’t publish it if you weren’t famous. It reads as if she never lost the glow in her eyes, with her bouffy hair and dripping with jewellery and floofy dogs, living out of some stately home and channeling a romantic book every few days. “I ask myself, and then the book arrives, fully formed. All I have to do is speak it.’

It’s good clean wholesome drivel. It teaches insidious things about how important money is, and it enshrines bad old class systems. I could take her apart much more easily than I can build her up. But she’s worthy of respect, giving an escape to so many, being so prolific and actually having a good heart under all the pearls. Good old Babs.

I’ll probably read another one next week, and see the formula. I’d sooner read this crap than Fifty Shades crap though. I might not choose these books, but I’m locked in with them. Just as her heroines do, I’m solving it with love instead of hate. Generally it’s the best way. Power to the Cartland.

“So, this blog, you write it every day?”

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

“Ok. Every day no matter what?”

“Yeah, no matter what. I used to set a minimum of 500 words but WordPress introduced blocks and so now I just write until I think there’s enough.”

“Until there’s enough?”

“Well, yeah. I mean sometimes I’ll just stop because I’m tired, and other times I’ll stop because I think I’ve completed whatever thought I was trying to convey.”

“So you’re trying to convey thoughts?*

“No not really. I’m just… I dunno. I’m just writing life. Whatever is there…”

“Ok… So you write everything?”

“Well, yeah. No. Yeah. No yeah ok so no… No I don’t write everything.”

“Aha. So this is interesting now. You keep things back? So you’re trying to craft some sort of a version of yourself?”

“Not so much, no. It’s not a curation exercise. Much of it is to do with friends of mine with boundaries. I’m very respectful of those boundaries. To the extent that I’ll often ignore very deep interactions in order to preserve the privacy of those I love.”

“I see. Ok. So that’s why you aren’t writing about how you shat yourself this evening?”

“I’m sorry?”

“On your way home tonight. Are you preserving somebody else’s privacy by not writing about how you basically shat yourself between Sloane Square and home?”

“That’s an exaggeration. I had it under control. Yes I shat. But my trousers were not involved. I got away with it.”

“Barely. By sheer coincidence your car was parked between Sloane Square and your flat. You got off the tube, got to your car and immediately shat into the gutter by your car with the door open.”

“Exactly. Into the gutter! And I had a big box of excellent tissues on my passenger seat and it was totally fine and as soon as I got home I ran a hot bath. You seem to be very much wrapped up in this whole surprise poo incident.”

“Are you surprised? Listen to yourself. Lovely Lou, and all this filming and collaborating with artists and off to Uruguay soon with your flat in Chelsea. You overprivileged wanker. I’m happy you shat yourself.”

“I didn’t shit myself. You’re making it worse than it is. I contained it all very well. I just had an emergency movement by my car, and took advantage of the fact I’ve got a bunch of free tissue boxes.”

“You’ll never write about it though will you? Too busy curating this ideal version of yourself.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m trying to make a place where I can be flawed. I got caught short and I was lucky. My car was between the station and my home, and I had a free pack of Kleenex giant tissues literally on the passenger seat. First time since Camino that I’ve not made it to a formal place. Bergman provided the necessary infrastructure. It all happened. That’s the way of it. Done.”

“Done?”

“Yeah. Done.”

“Ok. So now you’re out of the bath. You’re clean. You feel great. Tom is in York, you have your own bed. And it’s blogtime.”

“Totally. And I’m going to write about all the art I did and the amazing chats I had as Panda.”

“No. You’re not. You’re gonna write about how you basically improvised an outhouse from a car door. You’re going to tell these idiots who think you’re a glamorous actor that you emergency shat on the street in Chelsea.”

“No, dammit. Nobody will ever know. They can never know. I’m shiny and sexy. That’s me. Shiny Sexy Al. Sparkly Alec. Alec Sparkly. I’m better than real. I can’t let my adoring public know I’m flawed! Watch me work it. I’m perfect. *Hyperventilation*

“It’s too late, mate. I’ve written this whole exchange. And you’re knackered. It’s almost 2am. Bedtime. This is the blog, like it or lump it.”

“So everybody will know?”

“No. Only the people who read this.”

“That could be anyone!”

“It’s your fault if you refuse to read the stats. Who knows how much harm you’re doing, bumfungus streetpoo-man “

“That’s bullying!”

“That’s life. Just be glad there’s no picture, asshole.”