Locked out

Last night Nathan went to see our mate Alison, and some born again Texan dude, singing at the O2. I'm told it was a evening blessed with a few too many Christian worship songs, and much weeping and gnashing of teeth by the mainly black audience, but that the vocals being showcased were virtuosic. It would seem that Jesus has a penchant for soul-singing because I hear there was even a finger-waggling soul version of Nessun Dorma. 

Anyway, half way through the night, I got a bit bored and lonely and decided to break up the monotonous television I was watching with a trip to the corner shop for some penny chews... My tragic treat in the midst of this heavy-duty diet.

Imagine my joy, therefore, when I slammed the front door shut and realised immediately that I'd left my keys on the kitchen table! Even more horrifically, I was wearing pyjama bottoms and didn't have a coat or a pair of socks. 

Fortunately, the evening was not cold and I had my wallet, and a fully-charged phone with me, so I sat on the top step, like a tragic child waiting for Mummy to come home, eating Jaffa cakes (no space for dieting in times of crises) and trying to think of  things to occupy my mind. After my parents had kindly kept me talking on the phone for 45 minutes, I settled down to some serious internetting. I trawled through Facebook, googled myself obsessively and called Nathan at five minute intervals to see if the Christians had stopped screeching. It was gone midnight by the time he got home. The most tragic thing? I could hear the telly on, behind the closed door, blaring out programmes I'm sure I would have enjoyed!

Still, when I got back into the flat I was rewarded with an email which included all the mastered versions of the Four Colours, which sound rather beautiful. A great relief.

It took me a while to get to sleep. Silly  thoughts kept darting around my head, and as a result, when I woke up this morning I felt dizzy with exhaustion. It was like someone had thrown a vat of grit in my eye. I noticed that Julie Clare had sent a tweet saying she was similarly exhausted and that she'd woken up with "double bags." When I responded to say I was also struggling, she suggested a secret "busy-off" to see who was going to claim the crown of exhaustion. I suggested the competition would undoubtedly be hijacked by a new Mum because, let's face it, a mother will always try to suggest that she's written the book on tiredness. It's all relative. 

After a day of editing, I find myself on a train heading to Epsom where Nathan is doing a concert with the West Enders. Whenever I end up on a train heading into deepest Surrey, I wonder if people will regard me as the alien I'm constantly made to feel like. I'm surrounded by toffee-nosed posh people. One particularly obnoxious Indian woman, dripping in designer clothing, decided she wanted to sit next to me, removed the newspaper on the chair, and held it out in front of me, without acknowledging my presence, like it was a dirty pair of pants which belonged to me. I ignored her for several long seconds, and then spoke: "You can hold that there for as long as you like, my love. It's not mine and I'm not going to take it off you." It was plain that, because I was wearing a T-shirt, she felt as though I should be treated like staff. She spent the rest of the journey sighing loudly before she silenced herself with a deeply undignified burp!

There exists in me the capacity to be the most extraordinary inverted snob and the ability to find great delight in someone who thinks they're a cut above the rest being brought down to earth!