The Shout Goes Out

Current mood:*no longer extant facebook moodmoji* grateful

 

Last Monday was laid back. I took the Central Line east and met Miss Meikle in Kensington Gardens. The air was full of drifting seeds and she leant me her sunblock, ferried me round a lake on the stern of a pedallo, and explained the effect of hormones on tissues to me in a big leather pub in Holland Park. Hanging over the whole jaunt however was the Schrodinger's Cat-box of her limbo veterinary status... waiting for results. And my feet were a bit hanging too. There were no white men on the Central Line west that evening, just pink.

 

The next day I took the Central Line east to go and see my friends in "...SISTERS" at the Gate, but it was sold out, so I ended up in Kensington Gardens again. Fortunately, I'd brought a book. Unfortunately, it was "The End of Eternity" by Isaac Asimov. There were no seeds in the air that evening, just moths and bats. I also spotted an Archery contest, and a mugger resisting arrest. Quite a few people saw that last one. There were about four police vehicles pulled up beneath the trees, and nine officers sitting on a twat. As I made my way back to the theatre, past the victim and the ambulances, it occurred to me that I had actually quite wanted to spit on him. I thought: Come on it's only spit. Spit's actually fine, isn't it? I wouldn't mind if I got spat on, definitely not. At worst, it's weird... In the bar, Gemma, Hannah and Heather were discussing David R's proposal to move Shunt out of the London Bridge Vaults, and into a sewage farm. In Woolwich. David's twins are now two years old, and apparently really into poo.

And on Wednesday I took the Central Line east a third time, to White City and perhaps the starriest writer's meeting I have yet attended. The excellent Toby Davies came up with yet another idea for a sketch involving Gary Rhodes (he has now, for some reason, written three), Gareth Edwards, our producer, raised the possibility of borrowing a CGI dinosaur from another sketch show (from a sketch written by my sister, in fact), David M queried the practicalities of borrowing something that doesn't actually have a physical aspect, and Jesse Armstrong cleared up what it was that Miss Meikle and I could smell so strongly in Kensington Gardens on Monday: Linden trees. And not what we'd thought.

And on Friday, Miss Meikle graduated. And everyone in her house graduated. And everyone on the steps of King's also graduated, where I was sitting in my tea break getting the news on my little cream phone which can't take photos which is why I haven't posted any. Friday was just one great big Graduatey-In as far as I could... hang on... I'm just going to pause Adam and Joe... can't hear myself think... it's important this... Right, that's better. Ahem...

CONGRATULATIONS, DOCTOR MEIKLE! And I don't know what training you had in marsupials, but if you do end up in Australia DON'T SEW ANYTHING UP WITHOUT CHECKING! And congratulations also to everyone in your now vacant digs in Potters' Bar. Have you had to take this down from the wall?

Have you had to wipe this from the whiteboard?

And I wonder who'll move in. And I wonder where you'll go. And I wonder why I photographed any of that. Phoo... I'm teary. That's new... But good , actually. I didn't shed any tears for the Noys Lambent lady, but I'll happily shed tears for you, mate, because graduating's a big deal, and anyway I only cry these days when I'm grateful. And you've taught me shit-head. And patience. And you've kept me so bouyant while I've known you. So off you shoot, and thanks for the lift, Miss Meikle – Doctor Meikle. The shout goes out to you, Ruth...