In one hundred and four days I will be forty years old.
Tonight, I am standing in a hall in north London with my arm around someone, pretending to be happy.
Meanwhile, across town in Kilburn… is the one I really want to be with, again.
On stage the band appear effortlessly cool.
They’re good.
Really good.
You can tell their parents had taste.
How come they’re so confident?
Why don’t they feel awkward?
When I was that age I was ridiculously awkward.
Maybe I was awkwardly ridiculous.
Either way, it seems all that’s changed in the last twenty-odd years is that my sweatshirts are more expensive.
Not that I’m shallow.
It’s a nice sweatshirt, feel the quality.
So I stand here watching the beautiful quartet.
Like I say, they’re good.
But my mind is five miles away.
How come it’s taken me this long to regret not saying yes?
To trying to make two into three?
I would give anything right now to be stuck at home watching Match of the Day in between feeds. Surrounded by mayhem.
But here I am. A drink away from incoherent.
Tapping my foot out of time and clapping for too long after each song.
No one else can tell though.
Only me.
