Becoming a really brilliant actor wasn't the only highlight of Sunday. In fact, Sunday turned out to be a brilliant day. One of those days full of special moments that should be treasured forever. One single moment of Sunday will live on in my heart forever. I just know it. I will cling on to to that memory until the day I die. Because I'm just that sort of a complete bastard.
Who knows, maybe you're that sort of complete bastard that laughs at crying children too? You are? Great!
But I'm ahead of myself. After the rehearsal, during which I was the best actor, my fellow Thespians all begged me to go drinking with them (in a very quiet, almost completely silent way) but I could not. As much as I would have loved to sit with my new friends in a bar loudly quoting famous lines from Shakespeare films, I had another appointment. Believe it or not, I went for a drink with my entire street.
Sounds crazy but it worked. There are only 20 houses in my little street so it wasn't an impossible task (and a couple of people didn't turn up, but only a couple) but normally that sort of thing would terrify the life out of me. I might end up sitting beside Mr. Racist-Nut or dear old Mrs. Queerhate for the entire evening, which would be lovely but imagine if we didn't get on? Embarrassamundo. The great thing is that I can (fairly) confidently say that I have gone to the pub with my street and how many people can say that? Not many. And how many would like to say it? OK, none. But I was really glad I went because I met Terry.
Terry is a man I've met many times in a slight raise of the eyebrows and a half-smile instead of saying hello sort of way. This time we sat together and talked. I could have sat next to and talked to anyone in my street (except dear old Mrs. Queerhate who had a large son sitting at both sides of her) but I sat next to Terry. It turns out Terry is a writer. He writes sci-fi, amongst other things, and has big opinions about Russell T. Davies. He also is a huge comedy fan that pretty much hates all comedy. In fact, he hates everything on TV. It goes without saying that Terry and I got on like a house on fire. All warm and angry with people in us screaming to get out. What excellent company he turned out to be. The fact that he is a football fan didn't even upset me. And why should it? After all, OK he likes football, but to this day he is still the youngest ever world Subuetteo champion. Fucking hell, that's cool.
Meeting Terry was great but as magical as that moment was it was nothing to the sight I saw at London Bridge train station while on my way to the drinking with The Street thing. Just tell me that you wouldn't have laughed if you'd been there....
I saw a little girl crying so hard. She was inconsolable. Her face was buried in her Mother's belly while she was comforted. Her Mum looked like she had been trying to stop her daughter crying for a very long time. The crying just would not stop and it just seemed to get louder. This little child was in a turmoil that no one could understand. No one was feeling the pain that she was going through. No one had and no one will. She was alone with just her tears and screams for company. Mum obviously felt useless.
"You're good, Darling", said Mum. "You know you're good. Why would Bill say that you were good if you weren't good. Some of these people don't know what they're talking about but Bill is a very clever man. He said you were the best because he thinks you're good. You really are, darling. You're very, very good".
Although still crying, the little girl slowly pulled her face away from her Mum's belly and looked up for more reassurance.
It was then that I saw the little girl was wearing a silver, sparkly hairband. On the hair band was a large, rectangular sticker with the number 50803 on it. Next to that number was the Britain's Got Talent logo.
Stupid fucking parents.