Sleeping on sofas was fine ten years ago. I'm kind of over it now.
That said, it is on a sofa that I find myself waking this morning. A nice sofa, mind you. A nice charcoal grey number from Heals. But a sofa, nonetheless.
All of my London friends are normal people (i.e. they don't have trust funds and they're not on City bonuses), so if I stay over at someone's house when I'm in town it's pretty much guaranteed to be on a sofa. But I'm not complaining. Sofas are actually great places to sleep - you can go from lying in bed to sitting up and watching breakfast news in minutes, and have an excuse for eating breakfast wrapped in a duvet.
Anyway, last night was the Sex Pistols gig. Which was many times better than expected. But then I did expect it to be shit. In fact it was great. John Lydon giving a performance worthy of any regional panto, backed up by excellent music, played really well. I was really unsure about going, but had an excellent night.
Which was just what I needed after I finally gave in and answered Mark's call on his fourth attempt to reach me.
"Are you going to be in Lyon next week?" "I don't know, probably yes".
"Can we meet up? I need to talk to you" Again, I answer "I don't know, probably yes".
"Did she throw you out?"
"Fuck you" he says, and hangs up.