One is fun

We tossed a coin and it was wrong, you're disappointed, he said, you should go. I stuck out my arm and paid two pounds and before I could feel the burden I was stomping down Old Compton Street. Pockets, a tenner and a house key, I felt free. I skipped the familiar with lightness offered by those shoes, like nature, they know what to do. Hopping up kerbs and down pavements, noticing no-one, I spotted the grail of a sign that is Wardour Street W1. What the fuck am I doing, I smirked, it didn't work last time, maybe it was the mojitos but my doubt now was quite the fallacy.

I paid in past the ropes of privilege and was dancing before I thought about it, Tim Jumpin' Jive stashed my coat in the dj box and became my ally. Tim Jumpin' Jive! With his itchy suit and grim pallor, he chatted at me and for once I listened because, I don't know anyone here, I'm out, alone. He warmed. He actually warmed, smiled, looked at me and I swear we touched cheeks on some of those turns, and I don't like that memory one bit. I like it less than remembering being snared by a man in more eyeliner than me. I re-read my sentences and don't know which one turns the El Salvador in my stomach more. Let us not think about it.

Anyway, wannabe-models and kids and application forms for cool clubs aside, I had a fun time without the potential heaviness of a sole self. There was a lovely glorious moment, when I went outside to cool off, where I dipped into the 30th anniversary book. I'm not late, you're lucky. Hang on. I'm not late, you're lucky. Shit! That wonderous mono-thought of a quote which stuck in my head, stuck on my old college toolbox, was Emin to the bouncer at Gaz's when she worked the cloakroom back in the day. I love that. That sort of thing makes me so calmed, when you feel like a circle you never planned rolled round your way. A marker of things being right.

I'm leaving, you coming, he said. No, I smirked. It's over anyway he said. It was over but I'm glad I lost him. What the fuck was I acting. Glad I had the last minutes where I danced on the stage with the man himself, who so pissed fell over, missed the record ending, and dropped his wallet. I checked the contents, pulling out a grubby tenner and a membership card, pushing them back cus it wasn't mine, and look at him, he fucking needs it. I watched him lech on a cute vacuous thing, a puzzled look on my face at her bewilderment. A lost animal. It was over now.

I almost walked home. Instead I walked to Kings Cross and bought a Twirl and didn't buy a Big Mac. I don't know if I'll go there ever again. I'm not sure I need to. It feels like an experience which stands for something, a story in itself that can't be re-read. I imagined it a certain way, it hit certain marks and offered reasons and examples. I acted my way through the evening, with no-one watching, the self is ultimately loose. Character building really. I gave him my last two pounds and got on and that was the end of that. Delia was right, One Is Fun.