AlBarclay

He’s much shorter than me. Intense brown eyes. Vague suit. Still. I’m at a press night and I’m drunk. Free wine. Hard not to take another glass. We have been talking for a good while now, and it’s only when I play it back in sober memory that I see the edges of the conversation. At the time I was drowning in it.

It’s like a Meisner class, in that he’s identifying what I’m doing and telling me about it. “You’re being defensive.” “Now you’re being apologetic.” “Now you’re being aggressive.” He’s managing my behaviours, and all the while I’m thinking he’s just being very observant. He rarely moves his head. I don’t remember him blinking. I’m feeling increasingly self-conscious, becoming increasingly passive. The booze ain’t helping. Then he validates me, thereby raising his own power in this interaction. “It’s not that I’m saying your behaviours are bad, Al. I like you. I find you very charming. I feel that I’m very similar to you.” “I like you too,” escapes my lips obediently. He continues “Although unfortunately I think we want very different things from each other.” He lets that hang. Still not blinking. A little light goes on through the drinky fug. No. Surely not. But yes. Yep. Oh yepparoonie. He’s definitely hitting on me. It’s a masterclass. Undercut undercut undercut. Validate validate validate. Dig out insecurities. Replace them with your approval. Wow. I rarely if ever hit on people. I’ve definitely never been hit on like this. I’m fascinated. I don’t tell him I’m not interested, although he knows it and it’s part of why he’s enjoying the game. But I’m thinking I’m going to need an exit from the conversation and he’s not going to make it easy. Then Rebecca comes battering in like a steam train because she’s as drunk as me. “Come on Al, we’re going home,” she announces, and his face falls. And we leave. “That guy gave me a really weird look,” she says as we get our coats. She lives near to me and it’s cheaper to share an uber, but that’s not the message left with “Right Al we’re leaving.”

I’m glad we left. It was a strange thing. It made me notice that we can compromise our desires for social anxiety. I know that I don’t desire men, even as I know that I do desire women. But when it became clear that the end point of his aim was for us to be going at it like rabbits until dawn, I didn’t end the conversation and walk away. I needed to be rescued by drunk-Rebecca, who thankfully came in on cue and pulled me out of him fnarr fnarr. But I’m glad she was there to do that.

I’m now thinking frequently about his methodology. It seemed a conscious and targeted approach. I get the sense he’s honed it. If I find someone attractive I either talk too much or completely ignore them. Next time maybe I’ll just stand still and talk about their behaviour. It’s not a bad approach. Works on me.

Eleven years of Hartshorn Hook. That’s my flatmate’s production company. It’s their birthday today. It’s also the press night for Six the Musical at The Arts Theatre. That’s their theatre, but not their production. I lucked into a last minute replacement ticket for the press party, which is excellent as the show is sold out until late September already and I was worried I wouldn’t get to see it. I’m sitting with the team right now, sucked into their post work birthday celebration, looking forward to catching the show. But it’s only ten to seven and someone is talking about tequila. I don’t want to be dancing on the tables surrounded by casting directors. I still harbor fantasies that they will one day start to notice that I’m a legitimate and saleable prospect. I missed Downton. The Crown is still going. There’s plenty of interesting and right headed stuff that fits me, and I’m still here, still optimistic, waiting for the audition, still not dead – miraculously. It just takes that one part to snowball work. We all know it. But you need the meeting to get the job. Someone might wake up before long. Meantime I’ll keep doing the random things and try not to dance on the tables after Wednesday afternoon tequila madness at a press night I’m nothing to do with.

I’m glad to get the chance to see some theatre. The diary is empty this week and I really don’t like that. My usual reaction to a week of no money in is to stop all money out and basically sit at home all day refusing to answer the phone to fun-friends and googling for money work I can do on my own terms without breaking the audition possibilities. Anyway. Showtime for Six the Musical…

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It’s fantastic. It’s 6 women playing the six wives of Henry VIII. If you grew up in the UK you would be familiar with them. We all had to slavishly learn about them as kids. Catherine of Aragon, the spanish Catholic who Henry invented the Church of England to dump. Anne Boleyn who could never have expected to be beheaded. Jane Seymour who bore him a son but died in the process. Anne of Cleves who didn’t look like her portrait. Catherine Howard who died for odd political reasons and habit. Catherine Parr, who didn’t want it but lived. Six women on stage, and women – not girls. Women. Telling the patriarchal story from their angle, knowing history would not have remembered them had it not been for their husband. With four musicians visibly backing who are also women. Ten visible performers. And yeah there are joke references and homages to the Spice Girls. But this is what I’ve wanted what I’ve really really wanted. It’s not actually about the gender or ethnicity balance, but yes I am glad of it. Because more it’s about the fact that this is a corking show. They smashed it up in Edinburgh. Now they’re smashing it here in London and YOU TOO CAN GET A TICKET. Which you probably ought to if you like musical theatre.

It’s short, complete, punchy, modern and Tudor. I loved Anne of Cleves. Such a smart take, that she didn’t look like her profile picture. But that’s the show all over. It’s smart and modern and funny and on point.

And now we’re off to the after party at Hospital Club for fun and friends. And NO TEQUILA.

My best friend has cut her hair. It’s considerably shorter and looks great. Seeing her this afternoon immediately made me want to do the same – to get a set of clippers and buzz the lot off to grade 1. I’ve got the pilgrimage for it to grow back. And I like myself shorn like that. I feel sexier and faster. Plus it’s nice to rub.

I can’t shave it right now though. I’m doing this one nighter at The Arcola on Sunday 23rd, the night before my birthday. It involves someone stroking my bald bits and telling me there are still some strands of hair coming through “like spider legs”. I get all the best jobs…

Maybe I’ll do it after the show before I go walking but then I’m Scrooge in December. Can Scrooge be shorn? I haven’t the foggiest. Maybe. I’ve seen a shaven headed Scrooge. But then if I shaved I’d have to get new headshots and all that malarkey… Ahh so much to consider.

It was good to see Min today albeit briefly. She was winding down and feeding fish to the baby and I was hanging and unwashed. I felt big and unwieldy and smelly so I didn’t stick around. Today has not been particularly productive generally, although it has been lovely. Anyone that read last night’s ramble would know that I’d had a few too many, so I’ve just been recovering in good company. The advantages of actually “resting.”

But while I’m going on about haircuts, over in Brazil possibly the greatest cultural disaster of our lifetime has taken place. The Brazil National Museum has been completely gutted by fire. My friend in Rio messaged me to say people are talking about arson, which leaves me speechless with rage. The burning of the Library of Alexandria catalysed the period of backwards motion and comparative ignorance we call The Dark Ages. We are already in a period of backwards motion and comparative ignorance. But 20 million artifacts from our past up in flames? Their loss can only add to the general worldwide level of idiocy over time. So much lost. So much irreplacable. They weren’t insured either, not that you can put a price on the sort of things that went up in flames. Surely arson is just a rumour. What could motivate an arson like that? Covering a theft? Surely nobody is that venal, he says, knowing at last sadly that yes they can be…

And as i wrote that last sentence, Pickle pissed on the beanbag right in front of me, looking me dead in the eye. She hasn’t done anything like that for ages. I reckon it’s her way of protesting about the library burning. Perhaps demonstrating what she would’ve done to put the fire out. Brian and I cleaned it as best we could, propped it up in the bathroom to dry, and watched Better Call Saul. Now it’s a comparatively early bed and tomorrow I might try to do something more productive than watch a baby eat fish and clean cat wee off a beanbag.

Oh God. Normally when i write drunk I try to pretend that I’m sober or at very least not make it clear that you’re reading the ramblings of someone deep in the throes of mindpoison. But tonight there are a load of people who read this nonsense reasonably often and who are actually physically here in the room with me right now. And I’ve been here with them for a while. And one of them just said “Here you go mate ” and passed me what must be my 8th pint. They don’t necessarily expect coherence, these friends. But they expect argument or image or wordnoise of some sort, surely, otherwise WHAT MADNESS IS THIS? Sentences… What have I got left? Not much. I’ll try. Subject verb object. Go.

I drove the Jag. Back from to London. Drive, Al, drive. Golfo and I were together. Golfo is 5 foot tall. Hello Golfo. I stayed at hers last night. Sleep, Al, sleep!

Sometimes beds can be evil. After too many times kicking the bedfooty wooden block thing at the end of my leg, I deliberately attempted to sleep diagonally. The duvet doesn’t like that though, so it punishes your ingenuity by falling off. So my sleep was hard and shattered and my fucking bizarre brain decided to dream that I was sleeping at the home of Procrustes. Of course.

In Greek myth Procrustes  would put you in an iron bed and would either stretch you if it was too long or chop you if it was too short. I woke repeatedly, lying diagonally across with the blankets falling on the floor, expecting a guillotine to take off my ankles. Who the fuck makes bed frames so short? It’s a double. I’m only six foot tall.

But to this evening… How did I get so drunk that it’s pointless pretending I’m thinking straight? Networking. I’ve been networking, mofos. HOo ah. That’s when a load of people try not to get their conversation destroyed by their social anxiety in the hopes that they’ll find collaborators. I met some people but I don’t have a card because fuck that. I also spent some time with very old friends who make things, and I laughed harder then I remember laughing for a long time. I laughed alongside people I didn’t know too but then I didn’t hand them a bit of cardboard with my name on it to tell them I’m available for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

The evening was organised by The Gunpowder Plot who are beautiful humans who care about this thing we have started to call “immersive theatre.” They described it as a “movement” at one point this evening. I like that feeling, to be part of a “movement”. I think back twenty years to when I was playing with people at BAC on this theme and was told by a man who ran a pub theatre that I should stop doing all that stuff because it’s never going to go anywhere. “It’s not acting” was his big one. But now it’s business. And maybe it IS “acting” mate. Maybe the onus is on the performer to abandon their shit. Art is what we tell you it is.

Now audiences understand that they can feel they’re part of the story because there’s a whole skillset that involves not having actors acting AT them. If you want to be part of the story, you can do that, on your own terms, and mostly you won’t have someone with blind eyes shouting at you – although that’s still occasionally celebrated because it is comforting. But here am I grinding an axe. Stop turning out your impressive performance.pStart listening. Grind. Grind. Grind.

I’ve ground out another 500 words, somehow. Now I’m genuinely going to try to watch The Return of the King, extended edition with Brian and Golfo, without falling asleep. It’s half twelve. We will all go sleep before it’s finished. But here we are in the uber.

Oh God. It begins. “At dawn on the fifth day, look to the east.” etc

My old college friends massed together in Manchester last night, reconnecting, for a fortieth birthday. It’s hard to ignore the passage of time, when you’re confronted with your youthful companions of foolishness, and almost all of them are talking about their kids. It was particularly resonant after the conversation with the Imam yesterday. These are people from my drama school. And they’re almost all settled, bred up, doggerised, mortengaged, doing the stuff we childishly decided we were supposed to do when we were grown ups.

It was a lovely night. The next morning I hung out with an eight year old whose dad lived in my flat for years, sleeping in the room I now sleep in. We dreamed and planned and fought and laughed. “Remember when we moved in and there were literally no doors,” he says. “And no furniture but two beanbags.” He’s younger than me, this dad of two, this dear old friend. All of these friends and mums and dads of two are younger then me. “What’s harder – going from no kids to one? Or going from one kid to two?” They ask these questions like I might ask my friends if they prefer a Margarita or a Pisco Sour.

I feel ancient. “We’ve known each other for longer than I was alive when we first met.” Nooooooo! Another beer.

Being out of work still and with no kids or loved ones, I’m not in any great hurry to get back to the smoke. I’ll always make it in time for an audition if one happens as I can smash it in the new whip. But while I’m in the North I may as will enjoy being out of London. I saw my cousin. We went for Sunday roast in a country pub where they didn’t behave like they hated us. The Indian summer is not disappointing after the heatwave. We sat outside and tanned and gorged. Then I jumped in the jag and was in Liverpool almost immediately. Now I’m in Birkenhead. Near the ferry to Douglas. I could go back home tomorrow although the keys to the place in the IOM are in London and it’s about £120 on the boat. I think it’s probable I’ll sleep in London tomorrow unless we can find a reasonable distraction. I tried Wales but everyone’s too busy. I reckon we should get a car load and go to Douglas in November. See the seals.

For now it’s friends and wine in Liverpool. I’m staying with Golfo and her parents. Golfo and I cleared out a huge warehouse many months ago and realised we were great friends. Her dad spit roasts lamb like nobody else. It’s only right that while I’m in the north I play Pictionary and Pass the Pigs with her and her parents here on the Mersey. And now I’m winding down and she’s put on Only Fools and Horses. And there’s Roger Lloyd Pack. Lovely man. I had a few beers with him a few years ago and oh yes he’s dead. The passage of time again. Bollocks. It’s following me around today.

I’ll have another glass of wine then. Pass the Pigs.

Blablacar sends me a message as I sleep. I wake up to it. “Luke, 51, has joined your trip with a second passenger.” I’m driving to Manchester. I listed it on the ride sharing site to offset the cost of petrol, but now I’m regretting it a little as I’ve never done it before. Who is this Luke? It he going to garotte me? I can get no information on him through the platform.

He’s late at Sloane Square. I’m looking at everyone as they come out. None of them seem to be looking for me. Then suddenly, Luke. He’s imposing. Dominant. He speaks in certainties. His wife is with him, kinder and quieter. One of his first conversation topics is how a woman completes a man. “We do the practicalities. They have the emotion. They’ll always do things better than us if we let them.”

We assess each other. He tells me he’s a science teacher but avoids talking about teaching. He has kids. I mumble something like “Not for me mate.” I’m still trying to work out what I said. Because he mishears it. He says “You’ve got 4 kids? I took you for one of these people that’s just breezing through life avoiding all responsibility. Good on you.”

That leaves me with a tricky choice. I glance at the satnav. One and a half hours left of this trip. How big can the snowball get if I confirm his misconception? I either say “That’s me! Shirking responsibility. Parasite of fun. Contributing nothing.” Or I do what I did. “Yeah. It’s expensive but … you know… We make it work.” Thankfully he doesn’t want to talk much about childcare. But still, I feel the lie rolling and growing. How big will it get? Before long I have an estranged wife in Aberdeen.

And then it gets harder because I start to like him. When I lied I was feeling the weight of his judgement on me for my creative freelance life. Then we start to vibe. We have covered politics. He talks about diet. I mention that I fasted the first two weeks of Ramadan during the Grenfell volunteering time. He sits up.

Turns out he’s not a science teacher – or not only. He’s an Imam. And now he’s in his element. He starts to talk about the responsibilities of Muslims in this country to integrate and to be active in their communities. His voice starts to fill the car and beyond as he involves his considerable diaphragm support. His sentences flow complete and honed. He has said these things at the front of the mosque. His wife is curious about my curiosity. She tells me I should’ve been praying at Ramadan as well. He understands better though. I tell him I did it so I could understand what people were doing and be more compassionate towards it. I dislike having an opinion about something until I have a reasonable understanding of it. I like him more and more. He’s upset with the Imam I spoke to, who just gave me a timetable and basic info and suggested i “find Muslims in my area” He says “I would’ve given you my number. Got you to call me whenever. Talk through the hardship. And through the advantages after a few days.”

Then we stop for coffee and pastries and he sees the damage on my car. He booked me on the site because he loves jaguars. Blablacar tells you what you’ll be riding. “I can get that fixed up for you, good as new. Get it round to me. Don’t even worry about the money. We can work something out. I’ve got people who know.” It sounds entirely sincere. He’s thinking his son would do well as an actor. He’s looking to find direction for a lost boy. “It’s a hard life,” I say. “But the companionship is great. And it’s wonderful when you’re working.” But you need the passion or you don’t get over the speedbumps…

By the time I drop him off I’m overwhelmed by his generosity and passion. He’s clearly a good Imam and a good man. I’ve got his number now. Maybe I’ll take him up on the jaguar. But the snowball! He had me pinned. Breezing through life, chasing my passion, far too few attachments. But I allowed him to think I had these 4 kids. I didn’t break the mistake. It’s big now.

So I reckon I’ll sleep on it, and then probably send him the link to this by text. See if he’ll look me in the eye after that. Sorry Luke.

Meanwhile I’m in Chorlton. Just about to hit my old mate Nathan’s surprise fortieth. He used to party harder than I could. How he’s got two kids. Not as many as I don’t have. Oh deary deary me…

I like having a car again. But I forgot how expensive it can be. I needed oil. The screenwash was empty. The water level is low. And I’m going to be doing a lot of driving. £70 gets another tank but I’ve got to watch the pennies now. My usual day job at Imperial gave every single bloody invigilation shift away because I was at festivals and didn’t confirm my availability in time. So – world: Money in exchange for acting, driving or being fantastic. I do all three. I’ve got a pilgrimage to fund. Go Go Go. Also anyone who wants a bed in a happy Chelsea flat with the best flatmate ever and a cute cat, I’ll give you decent rates so the flat stays nice while I’m away. Better someone I know and like than putting Brian through the unpredictability of Airbnb types unnecessarily.

I told my agent about it. The pilgrimage. That makes it official. I’m going. Leaving on or around Wednesday 26th, two days after my birthday and I have a show at The Arcola on the 23rd. Returning on the 9th November. So basically the whole of October. I feel totally sure about doing it, even if I’m a little weirded out by all that time away from anything related to acting. But I think it’ll make me calmer and more honest. And I think I’ll be able to properly and convincingly lay a ghost, and honour it as it passes. I’ve got family about 100km from Lourdes, which i reckon is about three days walk, although I haven’t got my distances sorted properly yet so I might be way off. Maybe I could do it in 4 easy days and call it warming up. I’ll have to break the habit of a lifetime and draw up a proper hardcore schedule. They’ll be good for me as well.

Anyway. Today I tinkered with my jag. I had the bonnet up, getting grease all over my hands.

I looked at the manuals and watched YouTube videos. If I was married, my partner would raise their eyes to the heavens and say “That bloody car. It’s his pride and joy.” As it is I’ll do it about myself. I can’t drive it at night though because all the lights on the left side are smashed out and once I get stopped then I have to expensively replace them. Still, it was nice to get my hands oily. I’ll need to top up the water and do the tires tomorrow morning. Then I’m screaming up north for a day or two.

Having a car, even if costly, makes perfect sense with my lifestyle. I wouldn’t have booked a train ticket until tonight to go up north because I couldn’t have predicted auditions etc. By now the ticket would be really expensive which is why I’m always on the Megabus. This way I can list two seats to Stockport on blablacar at £15 quid each, go in my own time, and stay until it makes sense to come back. If i have to mission home for a meeting I can. So, yeah. I’ll keep justifying the expense to myself and to you, best beloved. And I’ll get my nose to whichever grindstone presents itself from next week to make sure I can keep bleeding the insurance out so I can keep bringing behind the wheel of my swank whip…

It’s only about fifteen minutes by road from my flat to Wandsworth dump, and now I’ve got a car I’m not afraid to use it. There was a load of junk that was too big to throw in the bin. I made two trips to the dump and now I’ve got even more space in my lovely flat.

Of course the dump doesn’t call itself the dump, due to the modern trend of avoiding anything that might be considered to be in any way offensive. “I work at the municipal household waste and recycling centre”. “Oh you work at the dump!” “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that vocabulary, it triggers me.”

I had three great big sheets of glass, but they can’t recycle them, despite all the signs telling us how “committed” they are to recycling things. “Just throw them in household waste.” says the bloke, repeatedly trying to give me a leaflet that says the same as they’ve got written on all the walls, because I’m clearly an idiot for asking. Recycle sheets of clean glass? Pshaw. Pull the other one… They can’t recycle anything that doesn’t fit in a transparent plastic bag, like the ones they collect outside your house. The bags likely get shipped off to Denmark or somewhere at vast expense and then thrown in landfill by some Dane in a green hat saying “Recyclodane”. We haven’t the facilities to sort them properly here, and nor do they I suspect but if we show a transaction on a piece of paper then it looks like we are trying so TICK and back we go to clubbing that orang-utan.

Now I’ve thrown things away, I’m going to get more things to replace them. The cycle of crap. I’m going to IKEA to get tomorrow’s junk today. My friend needs an induction hob and i “need” a load of stuff. Lights and an extractor fan. And candles. And a little wall unit. And smoked salmon. It’ll all get used for a bit and then end up in landfill along with the guts of this dying planet. But if it makes things marginally more convenient then it’s worth it, no?

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Yeah so, we didn’t get back from IKEA until almost 11pm. I cooked a late night Nasi Goreng and now it’s red wine and conversation. In a bag by my foot there is a shelving unit that I’d better bloody use.

Also a load of candies that i fully intend to burn. Also a lamp so it’s easier to read books in bed. And too many lightbulbs. All this disposable stuff. IKEA, homogenising houses worldwide. I’m surprised nobody has told me to boycott them yet. They’re huge. Surely they’re bludgeoning babies to death or making glue out of puppies or something. Doubtless there’ll be a petition before long. But I’m as bad as anyone else. I just threw red wine all over my trouser leg.  “You should take them off, change them, right now. Put them in the machine with some white wine or salt.” “Nah, it’s fine they were only £10 in Primark.” And so the world burns.

Hell, she was probably just trying to get me to take my trousers off. And who can blame her?  But what sort of maniac recommends throwing wine on trousers? Anyway those tiny hands make such usefule replaceable clothes.

I was standing on a little circle of lawn, triangulated between Bartholomew’s Hospital, Smithfield Market and the Haberdashers’s Hall. Scattered around me were various props – a little plastic house. A truck. A castle. A seesaw. A jump. Then three golf balls, three putters and a golfing umbrella. I was wearing a traditional golfing jumper and a little white sun visor. It was 3pm on a Wednesday. Keeping alert for groups of people coming around a certain corner, I spent most of my time looking like this:

Outside of the groups who were playing the game I was a part of, nobody directly interacted with me. A few people took a moment, wondering what I was doing, but mostly they just went about their business unfazed by the very serious miniature golf player in a public space. Apart from one twitbiscuit, who apparently thought it was necessary to call the police.

I blame London underground via the met police, piping “See it, say it, sorted” paranoia on a constant drip: “if it doesn’t feel right, we want to hear from you. Let us decide if what you have seen or what you know is important.” So some small-world twonk decides it’s worth calling in a bloke playing mini golf. Because there are only 12 people in the world and everything revolves round them.

Enter policeman Dave. Short and hard, he’s a ginger and he could give me a right good kicking even if he’s pocket sized. He comes swinging round the corner I’m watching for players and I know he’s after me because his eyes are on me immediately and they don’t leave. I stand and meet his eye contact, smiling and open bodied until he’s right up on me. He’s walking very fast. One hand is on his belt of tricks. It’s been a long summer and I’ve been working outdoors, so I’m in much more danger than usual.

He clocks the mini golf stuff, looks back at me. “I’ve had a report of potentially dangerous activity here. What’s going on?” RP accent to the ready. “I’m practicing my mini golf, officer. It’s for a treasure hunt. It’s all rather fun and silly actually. I’d offer you a go but you’re busy.” Dave defuses himself instantly. His weight moves to his heels. He then starts telling me about bloody mini golf. “There’s a proper course round here, you know. It’s privately owned. It’s really near. I won’t tell you where, but I stumbled upon it once. Unsecured property, you know how it is, I come round to check, 12 holes of mini golf, all sorts of obstacles.” I’m recruiting at him by now, making the right noises. He’s doing the same. We’re a pair of frauds. “Gah that’d be a lot better than this. It’s ridiculous the sort of stuff that’s hidden from sight in this area,” I reply. “I went to college round here.” (#Local!) “Went into a load of the guild halls because thy sponsored the place. Amazing. So much beauty. For so few people. Even that church over there.” I point, showing I know the area. It’s a beautiful hidden medieval church. St. Bartholomew the Great. He nods, he smiles and he doesn’t taser me even though I’m tanned and unusual. “Good. So long as nothing suspicious is going on.” He smiles, and so do I. “Haha” because we both know it isn’t quite a joke. And off he goes, still at high speed, to his next bit of business, a dangerous but friendly law-hobbit.

And I’m left wondering in what world it makes sense to call that me in the first place. “They came in the guise of mini-golfers. We never could’ve known.”

For the most part, we don’t need to be scared of the unusual. I find the ordinary more worrying by far. The biggest threats to our welfare are telling us what we should be frightened of.

“There are creatures beyond the campfire. They want your tasty juice. This charm will protect you. I’ll trade it for some tasty juice.” Surely things would be better with a bit less fear and a bit more open-mindedness? But we’d sell fewer newspapers.

It’s Tuesday after the summer bank holiday. Traditionally a day when the schools go back, when people return to the grind. Not I. I spent the entire morning sleeping and reading. Pickle was thrilled. She sleeps on my bed all day anyway so this was validation for her. She got a great deal of belly stroking out of it. Then I got up about 1pm in order to continue doing fuck all in the living room, for a change of scene.

The problem with absolute shameless indolence is that it saps your energy more than exercise. I feel more tired now than I would do if I’d walked 20 miles. Who would believe that laziness could be so exhausting?

I knew I was due a crash though. Tomorrow I’ll get back on the rollercoaster. But God help us all, none of us are as young as we used to be. And my body needed to recover. To eat salad and eggs and have two baths in one day. To pour an entire packet of honey roasted peanuts into my gullet. To chew through a whole bag of liquorice allsorts. To order a pizza and eat it alone in front of Jumanji 2, lying sprawled on a beanbag with a cat by my face after far too long re-establishing how to play Dragon Age Inquisition, trying to remember what the plot is and why I’m being followed by all these weird people with bows and how fighting works even though I’ll probably leave it another year now before I pick it up again.

The only useful thing I did was to start to work out the route of this pilgrimage that I’m planning. It’s going to be a mission. I reckon it’ll take 40 days from Lourdes to Santiago, if I don’t take the piss and run myself into the ground. 40 days and 40 nights is a satisfyingly biblical figure, and very much suits my tendency towards mythic things. It looks like I’m going to walk 600 miles, and some of it through mountains. But loads of people do it, so it’s not like I’m going to be in the desert getting rabies and dying in a hole. I’m going to be in France and then Spain, moving freely through Europe while I still can.

First leg, which is just me being awkward and not officially part of it, will be about 100 miles of yomping from Lourdes to Saint Jean Pied de Port through southern France. Lourdes is where my mum got her holy water, and St Jean is where the official Camino starts and I get my scallop shell and run into a load of other maniacs. Then it’s smashing through a million places I’ve never heard of, ending up 500 miles later 12 stone lighter and with no feet left in Santiago di Compostela, delirious and probably seeing visions of the virgin Mary.

Anyone living in the south of France or with a house that has space for a car for a month, I’m going to drive as close to Lourdes as I can and leave the jag somewhere – ideally on somebody’s property so it’s safe. Anyone living in the north west of Spain, I’m going to need to die for a day or so before mustering the will to get public transport back to my car in Lourdes. All beds in that time greatly appreciated as accommodation in Santiago will be prohibitively expensive, especially as I can’t confidently book in advance knowing the random element. If my knee explodes somewhere I’ll need that hotel money to pay for the hospital.

I doubt there’s anyone I know that lives en-route – I’ve never heard of most of these places – but it’s worth putting that out there too. After a few weeks I’ll be missing familiar faces. And I’ll be taking Sunday as a day of rest. I won’t be bringing a tent, sleeping bag, stove, gas canister and ground mat because I like the idea of being capable of moving my back without agony when I’m old. So I’ll be sleeping in humongous stinking alberges full of gaseous snoring pilgrims who will probably lynch or convert me if they hear my Buddhist chanting, and will charge more than I’m happy to spend for beds made out of coathangers and piety.

The plan, barring Spielberg/The National etc, is to leave home on the 22nd September, and start walking on my birthday – Monday 24th. I’m still fuzzy on itinerary as I haven’t got elevations and these things are subject to the elements, knees, feet, and optimism. But I could walk 500 miles and I could walk 100 more. It’ll be hard to take the time off work. But work has not been banging on my door lately in any consistent sense, so maybe the walk will do me good karmically. I’ve never been one to sit and wait for the phone to ring. In the scheme of things it’s only about a month out. I’ll be back in time for fireworks. Maybe.