It might be three in the morning, or at least that's what my computer says. I'm really not sure, but Lindsey just asked, "How is it 3am? How does this keep happening?"
The group of Englishmen who paid our cab and our tab tonight, one of them has to be up at 4:45am; one of them, his father is the CEO of Coors who lives in Denver and he was very pleased when I said that he must be proud of his father as opposed to being jealous, which is a British thing, I guess, "to want something for nothing," his words; and the third, with the fauxhawk, the teacher, he and I were holding onto each other at the end of the night, but just because it feels nice to hold onto someone at the end of the night.
I was in Portobello today, at Honest Jon's buying records, based on the bar boss' recommendation, listening to 45s I wouldn't hear anywhere else, the only girl in a boys' club, apparently (I garnered a bit of respect for my selection), and it started raining when I ducked into an alley where there happened to be the Rock and Roll Public Library, Mick Jones' joint.
And that's how this whole trip has been, a neverending sentence with just a few too many commas.
The boy emailed me to say he didn't want to contact me earlier. I emailed back to tell him the other girls were having more fun because I was missing him too much. He hasn't emailed back yet.
I don't care, because one guy said, "You're the quiet one; you're the one I want to get to know," and another said, "I didn't want to say anything, but I think you're too cool to be singing with these girls", and at some point, someone took us to see Paddington bear.