Week 29, 2026: The slow build
Chasing my vitamin D with a big gulp of an Ultra Monster and thinking: that sums up my health quite well. The next time a man in a white coat asks me if I’m taking care of myself, I’ll tell him about that. I chase my vitamin D with energy drinks, doc, why don’t you tell me? He’ll ask about what’s troubling me and I’ll bring up a recent interaction I had with my mother.
Okay, so Conan O’Brien was saying this interesting thing the other day. Oh, do you know who I’m talking about? The ginger comedian, the one who visited the West Bank?
Yes, yes, I know him. The one with the waxy face.
What did she mean by that, doc? When she said Conan O’Brien has a waxy face?
I’ve been drinking Ultra Monsters just to feel something, anything, other than the desire to horizontally lie still for hours. Sometimes I went on runs, other days I had dark chocolate. A chase of happy hormones, ultimately. I felt spoiled about my reaction to the heat until I learned about the fires. Advice not to go outdoors if we can help it. Flatmate wants to keep everything shut so we don’t inhale bad smoke.
On the hottest day this week, possibly this year, Steve and I sat under the AC and talked about sounds and dreams and music production. I had to bring up the interesting thing the man with the waxy face was saying about the Venn-diagramness of music and comedy. That slow build-up, followed by the ecstasy of a beat drop or a punchline. When you get the words right, it’s like music.
I met Jemima a day later at a teahouse. We sat in the area where you have to take off your shoes, right by the window, and I apologized for how crass it was to take her to a teahouse on a boiling hot day. The person who took our order said that it wasn’t so unusual. They had a full house on what might’ve been the hottest day this year. I said that’s fascinating and she replied that’s one word for it. We got hot tea anyway. Drank, talked, laughed, parted ways at the stoplight for our dinner plans. She had date night and I had a voucher for a sandwich.
So, so lethargic on the weekend, still. So lethargic I cannot be polite. I attended an open mic and left at intermission. That’s one of my guilty pleasures, leaving a bad show at intermission, even if I’m sat front-row. I go to the bathroom and wash my hands very slowly. Look for lotion, take a selfie, fix my hair, think really hard and then yeah I definitely wouldn’t enjoy another hour of that. Go back up the stairs and turn right instead of left. Right, through the crowd of people having a Latin American dinner and out into the breeze that has started to rid itself of the smell of fire. At home, I do more happy hormone chasing with fiction and pesto pasta. It's been serving me well not to judge a book by its first 25%.
On Sunday, A is waiting for me at the shoe museum. I'm five minutes late and she's on time, smiling. She had sent me a text a few days prior saying that she wasn’t sure if our last few dates felt like dates. I was lying down when I got that text and it made me spring up. I read it a few times, my eyes running over the superlative compliment and checking if any of the other words made me feel sad or bad. They didn't. I agreed with her completely and we made plans for Sunday.
Now it was Sunday and she was standing there, smiling, ready to look at shoes with me. I was worried about what the vibe would be like but it was all the nicer, with the low-pressure feeling of initial dates and the knowing ease of recent ones. We did all four floors in an hour and talked about our favourite desserts at L'Espresso. She showed me the handwritten first draft of that text. Handwritten!
We watched Spain beat Argentina in an Irish pub. Upon entry, the handsome guy with (at least) six facial piercings asked if we had a reservation. The three of us eyed the only remaining table. It was an unreserved table for two. That’s lucky, he said.
One Guinness Zero, one cider, one sweet potato fries to share. It’s a delight to experience the world with her. Looking at shoes, watching football, talking at the park until it's too late for dinner. Nice not to overthink what spending eight hours together means. We’re lucky.