I should probably stop turning up at the dominos gigs on my own. Tonight I went to Tiger Tiger after a late London meeting. I was absolutely soaking wet after walking all the way from bloody Waterloo in the rain! There were loads of beautiful girls in high heels and tight dresses and I looked like a drowned rat in a suit, with flat black boots on and make up, which had been hastily applied this morning, dripping down my face. I managed to catch the last few songs and once again they lit up the crowd. As the meeting I was at had provided champagne but no food I was dying for dinner and a cigarette, so I stayed long enough to say hello to the boys and an 'I miss Meribel conversation'. I was fully aware that hanging about Tiger Tiger on a thursday night on my own was not exactly the coolest thing to do so it wasn't long before I headed off. But it was my little bit of my season in London. A high five from the singer and a mouthed 'I know you' from the drummer (the reps favourite person in the world) during the start of Don't Stop Believing and I'm a very happy, if still damp, Seasonaire in the City.
Do I care that I went to a London city bar, soaking wet, on a Thursday night, to catch the last 15 minutes of a band I don't really know?
No, I don't give a flying fuck. I need that memory of my season like a drug. That music keeps me going. That memory keeps me going. There isn't much more to it that that.
Other than that, right now I'm huddled round the radiator on the bus trying to fend off hypothermia. But I'm happy, for another week.
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