
Friday night I went with James The Insane Movie Director and his bf Jonathan to some exhibition / performance in Kensington where this scenester guy, for the third year in a row, had hung these huge cartoony portraits with fantastic color work of scene people around him he thinks are happening right now, and where performances were taking place all week by the people involved. All three of us are in dire straits, and we had nice company of freinds of friends who came along with us after dinner, so this all worked well. We ended up in a pub with the performers and artists, crowing a booht and talking. I barely knew anyone, nobody was incoherently drunk, conversations went well, I had never been here before, so I had a great time.
Except it made lazy the next day, where I found out, puttering about after the gym on Saturday morning, I had miscalculated when my flight to Amsterdam left. I packed and left the house in literally 5 minutes, and ran to the pub to ask who to call for a cab, no public transport would do. One arrived and I was off in ten minutes after having left the house on a white knuckle ride of being stuck in traffic to Heathrow. We got there as the flight started boarding, 30 mins before take-off, so, again, I ran through a whole airport, barely stopping for security checks. Thank god I had a printed out boarding pass and there were no lines at Terminal 4, so I made hit, into seat 5D, trembling, heart pounding, low on blood sugar, and so grateful I was not letting my family down by coming in even later. My father's 76th birthday was being celebrated.
I barely stayed 24 hours, hanging with everyone, watching the kids play computer games, finishing roasts and cakes, before getting on a train Sunday afternoon to come back. Made it home last night, no running through Schiphol required. No another week of chasing leads. That's my job now.