I lurch into the final month of the year beset by disrepairs in this hellish flat though I’ve noticed that in the last few weeks I’ve dealt with it a tiny bit better. The things I can’t control, it’s not worth shortening my life over by constantly fretting about them. I’m a slow learner. The latest thing to fall apart here is the bathroom light, again, this despite having a new bathroom pull cord. The issue is likely to be far more serious. The electrician arrives first thing tomorrow and it’s a toss up as to what’s worrying me more, the potential cost and revelation of the extent of the problem, or the likelihood of my OCDs being triggered by this workman coming into the flat with his shoes on.
I have two shows today, having had a late cancellation on Monday. The first kicks off at the unusually early start time of 3.30pm, the first of three 14th birthday celebration shows that night is holding today. I’m doing a short set there, the first half of a new set I haven’t done for a few weeks. After last night’s gig, I was on the bus back running the lines for that in my head, and it was definitely a little rusty in places, so I need to work on that this morning. The second is local and is a longer set which I know off by heart and can be great fun to do, though the crowd work got me into a very tight spot back in the summer. It’s quite a dark ending and when it works, it’s brilliant, when it doesn’t, it can get pretty precarious up on stage.
It was my now (officially) 85-year-old aunt’s birthday yesterday, which she has always celebrated 8 days after the birthday on her passport. That’s Spanish Civil War Time administration for you. My cousin and his wife had come down to south London with their little dog (I don’t know my dogs but he’s a cute dog) but for some reason, took an instant dislike to me. That was disappointing as I had my left hand specifically at my side for the task of stroking him.
We all once again raked over the controversy over my oldest cousin’s actual birthday. My aunt and uncle remain divided on his date of birth. I don’t understand how when you have just two kids, you can get this wrong, especially as he's their eldest and his birth was surely a milestone event?
In café news (I’m off there shortly), news came through that a longtime regular, a 70-something Spanish man who never recognises me but whose wife was a very close friend of my mum’s and they lived on our road, is on life support. This guy was/is the Buy to Let King, one of the handful of men responsible for turning Clapham into the Rupert enclave it’s been since the 80s and unlike the other Spaniards who got into property, he loved the rewards so much he remained in London. I’m waffling. He’s on life support anyway, some head-related cancer. His wife, suffering from dementia these days, called my aunt and without any segue, simply said ‘M’s dead.’ Only he might not be dead. He’s on life support. That much we think is accurate. With no hope of pulling through. I let Seb K, the café’s greatest coffee maker know yesterday but after hearing differing versions of the story yesterday, I’m now worried the possibly deceased Spaniard may not be deceased after all, pulls through and returns to the café, making me look silly. Let’s not forget, a couple of years ago, my aunt gave me the wrong information on someone that had passed away. I called to pay my respects to their children only to find myself speaking to the deceased.
My aunt is not the most accurate deliverer of news.
Oh, and I lost my best outdoor hat yesterday. It goes without saying that when I told people, they all inevitably asked, ‘How’d you lose it?’
HOW THE HELL DO I KNOW?
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