I went to the 12 Bar yesterday evening to see a former student play at eight o'clock.
Drifts of attention-seeking young men passed through, in character hats.
I did not pay any attention to them, and I didn't want their attention either; I tried to merge with the walls and the floor, but I felt like a giraffe. Everyone stared, but out of curiosity rather than hostility.
Had I bumped face-first into a freshly painted white wall?
In the stage area, a lone singer songwriter tuned his guitar, and fiddled with a self-important looking set list written in thick black felt pen.
A girl arrived, tall and bohemian. 'If it's crap, you can always stop and go home', she advised him helpfully.
I examined the grubby chic around me, and felt alone.
No sign of the former student: in a rush of release, I decided to go home.
Across the gloomy street, Andy the promoter sped past on an invisible mission, blond hair sailing behind him in the shadows.