this is my ticket

I get in, throw down my bag, eat a banana and ten minutes later find a slice of it, perfectly formed, still waiting on my desk to be eaten. I love that. You think it's over, but it's really, really not.

Fun recently has been writing essays til my fingers bleed, mastering my first and last magic trick, getting a bump on the head that yes I'm going to mention on my blog because I love sympathy and going on a jaunt to London to interview this band.

*****

Arrive at Tottenham Court Road tube, take the wrong exit, wander up the nearest street making hopeful noises. We're interviewing them at the Metro in... 3 minutes. Right.

Est calls their tour manager while I approach some helpful looking strangers, huddled in a doorway with a cart marked 'cool gospel'.

"Alright guys, don't suppose you could tell me where the Metro club is?"

"Umm."

"No."

"Uh..? No. Don't... reckon. Sorry, love."

"Cheers anyway..."

"Uh, actually love..." The brightest of the three cottons on to something and points upwards to the sign above their doorway. Metro Nightclub and Venue.

Huh.

Before I can point this out to Est, she's gotten directions to the other Metro nightclub, the one we're actually supposed to be at, so I decide not to feel too stupid about, you know, that.

The band are from Aberdeen, which makes me like them instantly, and their tour manager is quite a dashing fellow called Scott Forrest, which makes me like them even more. We're worried that they're going to be arsey, but they're not. They're very friendly and each of them shakes hands with both of us.

There's nowhere quiet for us to go so, after my suggestion of sitting on crates in the alley is unanimously squished, we go to sit in Sloane Square, bundled up across two benches.

It's not every day a girl gets offered a seat by a Scottish bloke whose actually in a real band. A real band!

My function in this venture is to start conversation by mentioning that my family are from Aberdeen and generally be eye-candy, while Est handles the interview like a pro. We both fulfil our roles admirably, with the added bonus of getting kisses from the tour manager as we leave.

Will we stay for the gig? Nah, sorry darlings, we've got places to be. Keep 'em keen. We'll be in touch, see you soon!

Fantastic. The mp3 recorder worked and everything.

Having kept our cool for almost forty minutes in such esteemed Northern company, disappearing out of sight around a corner leaves us in absolute hysterical chuckles.

At which point a man in an official looking fluorescent jacket stops us and informs us that we've been under surveillance and are suspected of loitering with intent to give to the poor.

Say what? Have some money, have all our money because we're so ecstatic about not making tits of ourselves and getting sugar from Mr Forrest and we're also quite pleased that we're not actually in trouble.

Thank goodness for that mate, we thought it was about the drugs!

I learn that Pret a Manger do damn nice sandwiches, that The Needles are lovely blokes, that I am in fact capable of working an mp3 dictaphone and that scampering the length of Waterloo twice just for Krispy Kremes is so, so worth it.

Did I mention that today was wonderful?