In contrast to last year, I woke up on time this morning and managed to get to Kings Cross before the train left. It was really sad saying goodbye to Jon. I'm sure he wanted to cry too but he was wearing his gang colours (JB Builders hoodie) and probably couldn't show fear.
The train left from Kings Cross platform 0. I could write an entire blog about how ridiculous this idea is. I can't really think of a reason why they wouldn't just rename all the platforms except that loads of stationery had been printed up saying "up to platform 10".
For the last few days, my Twitter and Facebook feeds have been filled with comics saying, "Hey, who's on the 11.00 out of KX, looks like it's the party train." No one seemed to be on mine or if they were, they were equally as quiet about it.
I sat in the window seat next to a miserable woman who was reading the Metro as if it were an in-depth novel. I said to her, "if my headphones are loud, let me know and I'll turn them down." She looked at me as if I had actually said, "I'm going to listen to my music really fucking loud and if you don't like it then you can poke your Cafe Nero card up your wrong'n." I was then too scared to go to the toilet, this woman did not like being disturbed. She touched my arm a few times as hers overhung the armrest; in my mind, she probably tutted when that happened. It took her the duration of her journey from KX to Newcastle to eat a pastry. Every time she got up, I took a few puffs on my Dandy-from-the-future electric cigarette (tm @benleto) - man, I felt smug. Fuck you the system.
There was a massive queue for a taxi at Waverley Station. One taxi turned up at a point and saw that the next person in line was in a wheelchair. The cab drove off. In the US, there's a running joke/fact that black men can't get cabs; the same seems to apply to the disabled in Scotland. Eventually, someone turned up and they wheeled the poor guy into the back to the cab using a series of fold-away ramps. That cab driver wore gloves to do this. Cab driver + gloves = murderer. I hope the wheelchair guy and his wife are ok.
The flat is massive and jolly. At first, this afternoon, I felt lonely. I rang Jon from the garden and tried not to cry as I told him how I was feeling. I don't want to be the isolating crying flatmate girl. I left the flat and walked into the centre for a meeting with MJ. Here's a street sign of where the meeting is:
Tagline: Formerly "Knob-rot Street"
After hanging out with Mark for a while, we went to my first gig which was as a guest MC for Late Night Snippets which started at 23.45. The room was a bit hot and I was MC'ing. I didn't fancy being the MC for my first Edinburgh gig but hey ho. There were three drunk girls on the front row who, pretty much, rescued the evening by being so responsive. It's difficult to know what to do when the front row is great and everyone else is shit. It seems the easy thing to do is banter with them and hope the rest of the crowd go with it. They did at times. Not others. I managed two jokes, one that only the comics seemed to laugh at but my armbands jokes got a nice warm reception from everyone. Richard Todd closed, it's been such a privilege to watch him grow over the last six months (grow in his comedy, he is very tall but he's been that tall for as long as I've know him).
Tagline: I've been described as "no-frills", how about "no face". Eh? Eh? It's my aim to get a photo of my face before the end of the festival. Or maybe I should just be the mysterious alien/Daft Punk video comedy girl.
I walked home, safe in the knowledge that the rainproof jacket I bought the other day also doubles as a rape-deterrent, no-ones going to want to have sex with me in that. It's also noisier than a rape alarm with its shushyness. £85 to protect my clothing and my virginity - who am I kidding? The jacket won't protect my jeans.
Q Where does Sean Connery gamble?