9 Woodside Park Road, London, England N12 8RT. It’s a flat, a long hallway, really, with a door every two feet. I walk up and down the hallway, a model with low self-esteem on a runway without an audience. I understand Eliza Doolittle more than ever: “what’s to become of me?” I ask aloud, but not in a cockney accent, acknowledging my own dialect limitations, and respecting my neighbors. The houses are so close together, someone could hear – although probably not, because each one is surrounded by enough shrubberies and flowers and trees and vines to muffle a live heavy metal band.
I ask, but there’s no answer. It will come soon. It must be stuck in traffic. Or on holiday. Or in a queue.
This all started because I’m going to see Pygmalion tomorrow afternoon at the Old Vic. That’s all. Except that it’s not. I’m just fine and then I’m just far from it. I’m better at this now than I have been, I know that, but it can’t happen anymore. It’s a choice – I can be grateful or have great expectations. One means contentment, the other resentment. I’m starting to sound like a slam poet and a preacher in one. I don’t have the strength for either.