Friday, September 19, 2003
I've just arrived home after a couple of Stellas shared with a long-standing mate. Although we see each other probably no more than once a year, he's someone I'm extremely fond of. Real friendship isn't about quantity of time spent together: it's all about quality.
During our conversation, he remarked that a bunch of passing acquaintances from way back hadn't seen, or even heard of, me in yonks. This had then given rise to an ever-growing rumour in certain circles that I was, in fact, dead.
It's an odd thing, being dead. At first, you're touched by their concern, until you realise your supposed demise is but one more thing for them to bitch about next time they're on Old Compton Street. Ooh, but what did you expect? I mean, puh-leeeeazzze, the way she carried on sometimes. Did you hear about the time when she… ?
And then you consider turning up in disguise, and artfully turning the conversation around to yourself, and seeing whether they speak ill, or well, of the dead. Yeah, gutted, course I am. Nice bloke, and all that. Bought me a drink once. Probably trying to get off with me. Dream on! Now, f**k him. Got any pills? Who? Oh, some rancid middle-aged queen, that's all.
Or, of course, you could take the Perrin path, and start your life afresh, seeking out new vistas and experiences. And now, ladeez und gentlemen, I give you the triple-Oscar winning, multi-Grammy achieving, and the toast of the Tonys, the Mysterious Stranger who has set Broadway and Hollywood alight! Tonight and Forever, People of the Universe, I give you - the Boy From Nowhere!
Humph. Hard luck, my dears, I'm still alive and kicking. And there's one thing I want to know from all those people who thought I was dead: If they cared about me so much, then where were the f**king flowers?