Saturday morning. I wake up in the hotel and fumble around for the TV remote. I have no idea what time it is. I have no idea what day it is. I lie there like some kind of fool. Trying to come to terms with the existential crisis that I was having in my dream. Attempting to work out my motivation for this scene.
As tempting as it is to lie in bed drifting in and out of sleep, I know that I need to get my sorry arse into the shower. I need to somehow clear the haze and the throbbing that the night has left in my head. And I need to be in London at lunchtime.
I finally got rid of the Bordeaux Rugby player last night, after a couple of days where I learned that a) he may be great to look at, but there's not much going on behind the eyes; b) he has a girlfriend who seems to be keeping him on a very short lead (which he seems quite happy with) and c) sporty types are no fun because they don't drink and look at you accusingly for having carb's on your plate.
However, despite all of this I also learned that d) I still would, if he was up for it. Which, I should point out, he isn't.
Anyway, he's gone back home to wherever home is. And I'm heading to London to meet a friend who has bought me a ticket for a gig in town.
We're meeting, as usual, at Joe Allen. It's become our meeting place of choice largely because of the bloody marys. And it's only the thought of the drinks that gets me into the shower, into the car and into the city.
As I walk down Exeter Street to Joe Allen, I get a call from Mark. I don't answer. He leaves me a message - he's going to be in Lyon next week. Am I going to be there?
Two bloody marys later, I feel like I'm ready to call him back.