Sitting up in bed tapping onto my phone screen, soft lamplight caressing the covers, stretching up the walls. First night I've almost plain forgotten to write the blog. Liz went to bed early, exhausted, and Jamie and I ate a cheese board and listened to bossa nova post-punk covers and shoegaze indie from Berlin, while Mum, who's got no game, talked about songs from her teenage years, American Pie and Spirit in the Sky and Chirpy Chirpy Cheep.
Mum looking for song names on her phone to jog her memory, accidentally playing samples, at full volume, The Eagles, Creedance, drowning out the underground singer songwriters Jamie is introducing me to. Oh bugger it, Mum yells. Blasted thing. Oh Where's the button gone? The whole screen has disappeared now! Bloody useless thing.
God I love her so much. But she's seriously got no game whatsoever.
Eventually we run out of cheese, Mum runs out of seventies radio hits with which to interrupt our playlist, and Jamie and I walk her back to her hotel down deserted Westminster streets. We come back and mean to go to bed, but then sit up for another hour talking about music production, and writing, and then videogames from our teenage years, Prince of Persia and Counter Strike and Grand Theft Auto 3, our voices rising, our eyes sparkling with the thrill of remembering.
Jamie and I have also got no game whatsoever.
I'm back up to Sheffield in the morning. I'm full of flu, I've got no clothes washed, my room is a tip, I've got a million things to sort out, and I'm back in work first thing Friday, but I wouldn't have traded these days for anything. Family means the most. Even if none of us have got any game.
It's all family. And cheese. The cheese was good, too.
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