This Sunday has been coming since Wednesday. I know the same could be said for any Sunday coming after any Wednesday but what I actually mean is that how I feel and what I'm doing on this particular Sunday was influenced by what I felt and what I did on Wednesday last. as well as last Thursday through yesterday. Every day this week since Wednesday in fact. Blah.
Anyway, I am sat in my mothers house (who is in Egypt until Tuesday) writing this cyber addition to my literary life, reflecting on the last few days (feeling unbelievably tired after a night of insomnia) and coming to some conclusions. Nothing climactic or earth shattering, but on a personal level, quite profound.
As I was sat on the train from Euston, I looked at my rucksack perched next to me on the vacant seat by the window (because I'm a aisle person you see). The harsh strip lighting shimmered all around me on the relatively new interior of the train and the twilight of the London skyline slowly receding away from me, becoming dark green tufts of nature. I just sat. I watched. I listened to the Noisettes on my iPod (Wild Young Hearts is an amazing track and evokes wonderful thoughts of me kissing someone I shan't mention here). I thought back to last Wednesday about something a good friend of mine asked me (over a magnificent breakfast). We were talking about my writing, my direction and what my plans were. He was helping me focus myself and giving me some reality checks (he owns a successful innovations company, so it's in his blood). All very positive. All extremely kind. Suddenly he asked 'so why are you in London?' I simply replied 'because I've always lived here', 'that's not what I mean' he continued 'It's so expensive in London, you need to make it work for you. Use it. Otherwise you'd might as well not be here'.
That played on my mind. It lingered heavily. Why was I in London? The opportunities. The exposure. The sheer brilliance of this amazing city. I'm a city boy; I love blocks of buildings, roads with harsh junctions, jagged corners and crowds of damp, unhappy commuters. I thrive on the spectacle of the intimate vastness of such a place. London is in my veins. So why wasn't I grabbing it with both hands?
In the days that followed I found myself ingratiating myself with the city more and more. I walked around. I met people for drinks. I went to Soho. I went to Shoreditch. I had a few great nights including bowling, margaritas and Mexican food . It dawned on me that I was over compensating for that comment that was still lingering in my thoughts. The excess was filling the void in my answer to the question I'd been hearing in my mind and it was wearing me out.
Today I was sleep deprived. Very sleep deprived. Sleep deprivation has been known to cause psychosis and I was definitely feeling unusual. I looked at my newly bought diary, now filled with various meetings and events, and glanced over the next couple of days. On noting I didn't have any set appointments, I decided to return to my mothers house and catch up on myself. And some work. I was feeling a little scatty and overwhelmed by procrastination. Things to do and no energy to do them. Those who know me know that isn't good. Not at all.
Back to the train. I sat there and saw London disappear. It went away and gave me some space. Then it occurred to me; some people say that acting is about the silences between the dialogue of any play, I feel that being in London can only be gauged against the time you are away from it. Those moments of silence in a particularly loud and aggressive play. Not something by Alan Bennet.
I will always love London but to truly experience it, to really muck in with it's opportunities, gain exposure and recoil from it's sheer brilliance, you need to leave it behind for a little while. Even if it's just over night. Alighting from the train at Leighton Buzzard station I took a deep breath of non London air (recognisable by the fact you can fill your lungs with it and not cough or get black nostrils) and began walking to the house. Walking. No taxi. No bus. Back to zero. A long bracing walk with my rucksack on my back.
It sounds strange but I even changed what I was listening to on my iPod (I only realised this once I'd done it). 'All by Myself' by Eric Carmen (very Bridget Jones I know). It clicked on and you know what? I was. All by myself. And I smiled. Because I knew I wouldn't be when I got back to London, but until then it's just what I need.
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