10-14th January: Meeting Hamlet & Jumping on My Dad

This week I actually started to do vaguely constructive work again including have a meeting with an accountant. This was like a mid-twenties crisis signifier. If anyone had told me, as a teenager when I was on a school bus swearing at strangers out of the window, in a few years I’d be meeting accountants, I’d have spat my tropical Capri Sun out at them. The guy was absolutely lovely and in a weird sort of way learning loads of way to minimize your taxes is quite interesting: it’s like legal hustling.

The beauty of having nothing to do most days means I can meet up with people I haven’t seen for ages at random events no one else can get to. My old school tutor Sutters, who I hadn’t seen in two years invited me to a talk at the National Theatre at 3pm. I got the invite partly because we get on really well but mainly because I’m the only adult he knew who wasn’t at work. The talk itself was by Rory Kinnear, an awesome actor who Sutters used to teach, about what it’s like playing hamlet. Although the talk was belting a Q&A followed, which is an excuse for every self righteous, pompous idiot to ask banal questions that were previously answered just so their voices can be heard. The demographic of people that go to the theatre is very different to that of a comedy gig. The audience was 99% middle aged/old white middle class people, 0.5% teacher & 0.5 % comedian.

After the talk we went for a couple of drinks with my friend Nick Halewood, who also has nothing to do in the day: he is about to become a lawyer so will soon have lots to do in the day, including rolling around on bed made of crisp £50 notes. The best thing about Sutters is that he loves telling and hearing amusing anecdotes. Despite the fact he was technically my moral guidance tutor, he has got into some funny situations with me and my friends, especially one on my 18th birthday that heavily involved my dad. I cannot reveal too many details due to the public nature of the internet. Let’s just say it was very funny.

That is probably the worst end to a blog ever: I have a funny story that I cannot tell you. That’s the same as someone going, “I have a secret about Steve, but I can’t tell you”. I hate people who do that. I now hate myself. God day.