A Lightbulb Switches On
Harv came over from Hamburg last night and gave me some of the sort of advice that makes you sit bolt upright in your chair and wonder how the hell you didn't think of that yourself. That 'of couuuuuurse' moment when something just makes sense.
He says he's said it before, and so I'm sure have others, but it was only this time that it triggered my dull creaking brain into action. I feel so much better now. I'm getting cracking on the plan right away.
I'd sat in the hall cupboard before going out, wondering if I could fit a bed in there, and hide, irrationally. Meeting up with Harv in a weirdly unFrench French restaurant in Mayfair (why do all Mayfair bistros make you think of Michael Caine, somehow?), we were sat too close to other tables. The candles, attentive waiters and darkened panelled ambience conveyed enough false air of intimacy to ignore people at the next table, four inches away, just sufficent for the film star next to us to avoid eye contact. But the idea we weren't crushed together unnaturally was patently false - I could have twitched a muscle sleepily and touched someone on either side. It was silly to pretend this wasn't happening. We couldn't help but talk to people either side of us. It would have been weird not to notice that when we spoke, their candle flickered.
Sometimes you can't keep up the pretence that you have enough space to breathe comfortably. The light above my head pinged on, and I decided what to do.
He said what was going on in the ever bleachening ever emptying house I built with Wickedex was too hard to cope with; impossible to ignore it, insane to try. He said move out. Move out now. Do it right away.