Just as an aside from my dating challenge, since I do have an ordinary life, with a day job etc, that goes on in the meantime…
On Friday night, I went out with the lovely LP in Brixton to see Toots and the Maytals at the Academy. It had all the promise of a great night. Cool music with a great vibe in one of the best music venues in London. It turned out to be quite different. The sound was REALLY badly mixed. The drums were echoey, the bass too loud and the vocals almost impossible to hear. The crowd quickly got tired of straining to listen, and so they chatted. All of them. Hundreds of people, all talking to one another, while this boomy reggae went off in the background. That is, until Toots called to a woman in the crowd – ‘Do you want to join me? Come on!’ and dragged her onstage. She took his guitar, put it on and turned around, and that’s when we all realised it was no woman at all, but Ronnie Wood.
Collectively the conversation ceased as everyone turned to their friends and said ‘Is that who I think it is?’
Yes. Yes it was.
His arrival also seemed to resolve the sound issues, at least enough for us to realise he wasn’t playing the same guitar chords as anyone else. So so strange. LP and I went afterwards to have a cup of decaffeinated Earl Grey with PJ and PW (we’re in our 30s and we’re
middle class. There’s no point in pretending otherwise) and we were still in a state of surprise. Did that just actually happen?
Yes. Yes it did.
At the end of the night, I got back home, to hear the news from my flatmate, who had walked in half a minute earlier, that he’d found a mouse sitting on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching ‘The Big Bang Theory’. Well not quite. It was sitting on our sofa, something I find wholly too familiar for a rodent. Which meant that Saturday morning was dedicated to Operation Mouse Elimination, removing all potential food sources bar poison and blocking up every hole that could be found with wire wool. We now wait to assess the success of phase one…
Yesterday I was in Gloucestershire, interviewing teenage polo players for Audi Magazine. As you do. One of the dads had just brought us a tray of coffee with a full cherry cake and a bag of biscuits, when one of the boys fell off his horse. His horse proceeded to walk over his arm hard enough to potentially break it, and then run off the pitch and out of the open gate onto the country lanes beyond. Suddenly we all went from ‘Do you take sugar?’ ‘Oh no, I’m sweet enough!’ kind of chat to full on action stations with one of the girls galloping after the horse, someone leaping into a 4×4 to chase the galloping girl and the poor boy who fell off lying pale and green on the floor with a rapidly swelling and very sore right arm.
That night, I figured I’d have more than enough conversation to dine out on at LW’s birthday drinks over the road at the BBC. But believe it or not, I was trumped. Paul McCartney had been at church with a couple of the guys there that night. PAUL MC-freaking CARTNEY. They had shaken his hand and invited him to an exploring Christianity course (hilariously), and still reckoned they’d been cool. I’m not so sure. What I do know is that in weekend top trumps, meeting Paul McCartney at your church beats watching Ronnie Wood invade the stage of a reggae gig, drinking decaf tea with PJ, finding a mouse watching TV in your living room and then seeing a kid break his arm.