Met the Dr in Kings Cross on Saturday, where we had celebratory chips on the basis of her having a copy of her book. It's all very exciting to see it actually in print.
Thence to Cud playing at the Scala - an indie band I used to read about in the pages of Deadline. And how it did take me back to nights out in the early/mid nineties; there was even a fantastically ill-loved performance poet in the line-up.
Cud were really very splendid, a lead singer Carl Puttnam all very Jim Morrison, squeezed into very tight leather trousers. How exciting to see m'colleague Will Potter being a rock and roll star. I danced about like a foolish buffoon before we ducked out mid-encore to make the last train home.
All the way back there was earnest speculation everywhere you looked as to whether anyone could really vote Boris. People even said they'd x'ed his box "because of the comedy value". What a depressingly stupid place London can sometimes be.
And more so yesterday, when it took an hour and half to get from Waterloo to Richmond (a journey that's usually about 20 minutes). Met up with the brothers and a cousin for beers and cheery chat - and the final delivery of a belated Christmas present. Had meant to get back home in time for last orders at a friend's birthday. But it took nearly three hours to get home...
Rewrites today on a thing as-yet-unannounced. And if that goes okay I might watch last night's Droo.