Personal

I’m in Virgin Megastore on Tottenham Court Road, pottering around in the hope of finding a bargain with their 2 for £15 offer. I am a freshly cut n’blown Toni & Guy Academy guinea pig (originally drawn to their doors by the free haircuts rather than the pursuit of funkiness, but now admittedly rather keen on looking all choppy and Chrissie Hynde), and having courageously opted for the Restyle, Baby! over Comfort Zone Trim option, I now look edgy and windswept and anime.

A guy comes up to me. One of his hands clutches at his scarf, the other flutters nervously over the rows of CDs.

“Um, hi, I know this is going to sound weird, but, but, I’m part of an artist collective, we’re in Brighton, and um, would you be interested in appearing in a video for a club?

I probably raise my eyebrows or do something equally cynical and unreceptive, because he twiddles the scarf even more frantically than before.

“We do, we do visuals and installations, in Brighton, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a club, but it’s for projection on the walls, it’s the Zap Club, but we’re doing some filming in Whitechapel and, um, I’m not actually in charge of recruiting people, but you just look so fantastic and I had to ask if you’d be interested.”

Call me a sucker, but at this point I become a little more receptive.

“But, um, of course this is just an offer, and we’d pay you at least £20 an hour, and we have a website, I can give you the address so you can see it’s not dodgy or anything, and, oh, do you even like clubbing?”

I’m a whore. The 20 pounds has me interested.

He writes the information down for me. He asks what I do. I tell him I’m a student. He asks what I study. I say Law. His eyes pop. He sees the New Model Army CD I’m holding. His eyes pop again.

“So, um, please do look at the website, this isn’t a pickup or anything, but you just look so fantastic, and I really hope you get in touch.”

He pats me awkwardly on the shoulder and leaves.

So here’s the thing: should I do it? I checked out the site. He’s the creative director. It doesn’t look like a cunning ploy to abduct unsuspecting flattered females and sell them into prostitution in Haadyai…

Around 5 am this morning I tore myself away (note: not really because it’s all that fantastic, more because I’m trying to finish it) from The Ground Beneath Her Feet to go to the toilet. So I was in there, at 5 am, and I heard birdsong outside the window. I wanted to draw back the curtains and look out, but there was this sudden irrational fear that that was exactly the thing not to do. Sort of like how hearing children’s laughter in horror movies while walking in creepy houses late at night is never a good thing. My overactive imagination conjured up images of me opening the curtains to see a face pressed against the glass, eyeballing me. A small tape player, on the eaves outside, trilling birdsong. Wedged securely, so that it doesn’t fall as I am dragged through the window and gorily killed.

I skittered back to my room.

Back in there, and with the sense of security you get from being in your own space rather than a toilet, I looked out of my window, still hearing birdsong. I didn’t see anyone, or anything. Snuggled back into bed with Salman, Ormus and Vina, laughing at myself for getting spooked out so easily. When I finally turned out the lights, put on some Nick Drake, and tried to fall asleep, I could still hear that bird, keeping its solitary vigil, singing to a dawn that hadn’t come yet.