Locked in a dervish lodge as it's snowing stormishly outside. The scene I seek refuge in is this: I am in a supermarket queue to get snacks for my hotel bed dinner just off Piccadilly. There are 4-5 people in front of me and almost all of them on their mobiles. I decide to log on to the conversation of the man in front of me. He is having a conversation about a girl's life, he and his interlocutor- who I am sure is also male- are tearing her decisions apart. I feel for the girl. It's a very solid moment, shiny and brittle with suffusedness. Stagy, larger than life. I half expect someone to come and ask me whether I have the right seat.
So I am in a museum cafe and my enthusiastic interlocutor tells me I am a bright young thing, that I could be something in the world of letters and I almost believe him as he tells me that he comes from a family butchers and knows what's what. Ah, my naiveté.
At the time, I have not even heard of Westminster School. Oh, Hampstead.
Rory says when he realizes they need to burn the body of the Doctor. Properly, of course, is to put the body in a boat, set it alight, and let it float on the lake. Doctor who IS the Englishman's prayerbook. Nuff said.
The blue headscarf I was wearing that day has grown purplish in places, the places that come right above my forehead, the places that are exposed to the sun at the perfect angle. Three years, I've had of it.