The snow has thawed enough to allow tonight's Spark show to go ahead. So I'm back at the Canal Cafe Theatre in Warwick Avenue - one of six people telling true stories around the theme of 'Unexpected'. I'd forgotten how much I like this venue. It's small and cosy, with red tables, twinkly tea lights and cabaret seating. And a faint smell of mouse, spilled wine and upholstery dust. Perfect for storytelling. The stage lights are so bright I can't see the audience, but I can see my own retinal capillaries. There's something relaxing about standing in bright white light, telling very personal true stories to a room of invisible but interested strangers. It's a mellow buzz. Cannabis to stand-up's cocaine.
I leave the warmth of the bar behind me - it's a icy clear night. The streets are quiet and there's a misty full moon high in the sky as I get in the car to drive home. The radio comes on when I turn the ignition. 'Moondance' by Van Morrison. Very appropriate. As always, when I hear this I think of 'An American Werewolf in London'. As I also do if I am ever on a lonely moor in the dark (rarely), in a locals-only country pub (occasionally) or in a quiet tube station (more likely).
I was once at Charing Cross late at night, waiting for the last tube - and (weirdly) the only person on the platform - when I got spooked so badly that I felt I just had to get out. Gut instinct. I wouldn't normally pander to this sort of feeling. I'd put it down to an overactive imagination and just get on with things. But on this occasion I had such an overwhelming sense of misgiving, that I felt compelled to act on it. So I legged it through the echoey deserted passageways and up the escalators, adrenalin coursing through my system, and my heart pounding. Massive relief to be out of the station.
Caught a night bus home. The sweet familiarity of vomit corsages, broken glass and flying chips. Better the devil you know...
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