In one hundred and four days I will be forty years old.
Tonight, I am standing in a hall in north London with my arm around someone, pretending to be happy.
Meanwhile, across town in Kilburnâ€¦ is the one I really want to be with, again.
On stage the band appear effortlessly cool.
You can tell their parents had taste.
How come theyâ€™re so confident?
Why donâ€™t they feel awkward?
When I was that age I was ridiculously awkward.
Maybe I was awkwardly ridiculous.
Either way, it seems all thatâ€™s changed in the last twenty-odd years is that my sweatshirts are more expensive.
Not that Iâ€™m shallow.
Itâ€™s a nice sweatshirt, feel the quality.
So I stand here watching the beautiful quartet.
Like I say, theyâ€™re good.
But my mind is five miles away.
How come itâ€™s taken me this long to regret not saying yes?
To trying to make two into three?
I would give anything right now to be stuck at home watching Match of the Day in between feeds. Surrounded by mayhem.
But here I am. A drink away from incoherent.
Tapping my foot out of time and clapping for too long after each song.
No one else can tell though.