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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Last night, I went along to one of He Who Only...'s gigs, because I am a very supportive girlfriend who likes to encourage him in all of his endeavours, and also because I love watching him perform on stage because he is deeply attractive and also finally because quite often ladies of dubious moral values hang around comedy clubs with a view to luring innocent comedians off to do wicked things to them, and He Who Only... is no longer allowed that luxury.

The gig was taking place in a venue I've been to three or four times since moving to London, and because I didn't have to be there before about 7.30pm, I spent a lovely hour after work cruising up to Oxford Street and then meandering around Waterstones picking up armfuls of books before narrowing my choice down to three and then putting the rest of them back in totally inappropriate places. The lady at the counter congratulated me on my choice, which I think proves how brilliant I am once again.

Having purchased my books, I decided it was probably high time to head for the gig, so I hopped onto the next passing bus and congratulated myself at being so great at being a Londoner, able to move through Thursday night shopping crowds and navigate tourists, and basically being at the top of my game. It was only when I got to Bond Street station that I realised I was lost.

Never mind that, I thought to myself, as I got off the bus, I know it's around here somewhere. I'll just head back where I came from and all will reveal itself. I tried to ignore the ticking of the clock as time came ever closer to the start of the gig, the fact that my shoes were quite uncomfortable and my socks were falling off, the fact that the books I had bought were actually quite heavy now that I thought about it, the fact that the tourists wouldn't get out of my way and the fact that, despite knowing exactly where I was, I didn't have fucking clue what I should be looking for.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, worse than trying to find somewhere you know you should know, and still not being able to find it. Standing on a street were everything surrounding you is achingly familiar, and yet still not having a notion which of the four turnings you should be heading down. The longer you stare, the less it becomes evident. Admitting defeat, I called He Who Only..., admitted I was lost and promptly burst into tears.

After finding out a few important details, he let me know I was in fact standing exactly where I should be, and the venue was but mere moments away.

I'm 30, for fuck's sake.

This entry was posted on 17 November 2006 at 8:51 pm. 0 comments

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