south west london tales 2

It's gone midnight and we're sitting outside the theatre in the car park after the last show drinking rum and beer. The pretty girl who I've barely spoken to in three months is sitting next to me. She apologises for not really being present during the run. She says it's because her personal life has been getting in the way. She can't help it. It's in her blood. I ask about her parents. She tells me her mother lives in Eritrea and her father's in Paris. He's an actor and a writer and a spoilt child who stamps his feet down the phone. The mother works for the Red Cross. She's a different kettle of fish, but she's in Eritrea. I ask her how old they are. Just making conversation. She doesn't know. She thinks about it. She says her father was born in. She thinks about it. The same year as her mother. Sixty six. On the bus home this information will sink in as some kind of a crossroads, an unforseen detour into the desert just off Marble Arch.

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