Hullo. Currently sprawled on a plump bed in a Marriott hotel in Kent, Steve laid out on the bed across from me, an old episode of Porridge playing on the room's TV by the wall. Hotel foyer a cross between The Great Northern from Twin Peaks and the Next Generation era starship Enterprise. 80s carpets and walls of royal yellow. Hummus with crudités and bowls of nachos in the bar with Steve and Big Steve and John, me on Pepsi, the others on pints of Stella and Becks.
Long drive down in the MPV with Steve, talking Grad happenings, videogames, not a whole lot. Roadworks. Traffic cones snaking. Car pointed into the night. Lonely illuminated warehouses looming from the darkness at the side of the road. Lanes of haulage trucks, quiet cars with their drivers half hidden in shadow. Tunnels, airports, streetlights, cat's eyes. Soft jazz on the radio.
Day spent writing before Steve picked me up, trying to get tomorrow's review drafted out. Went wandering down to Broomhill in the sun looking for a well-lighted place in which to work, ended up in what looked from the outside like a hipster coffee shop, but once through the door resolved into a Vietnamese-inspired cafe, replete with families sitting cross-legged in front of low tables on the floor. It was too late to back out, so I kicked my shoes off and got comfy. And it turned out to be perfect. Hanging paper lanterns, squishy cushions, strong black coffee, students sauntering by outside. I'll have that every day, please.
But first man work. Then pub work. Then more man work. More pub work. Then in seven days I have a day off. I will return to that cafe, kick off my shoes, submerge myself back into a world of words. Now though: sleep.
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