Both our breakfast AND the weather are rather disappointing in Newcastle. For me these are minor matters as I am a human dustbin who is willing simply to put on more layers. Actually, I usually describe myself as a mountain goat: if you think of the physical resilience, love of high places and inability to dress correctly for a cocktail party of a mountain goat, basically that's me.
For Bartelt, however, this is a pretty devastating turn of events and, as I leave the hostel with Bartelt staring mournfully down into his terrible coffee, "Why is it so bitter? Why is it so grey?", I am concerned that it might just do for him. But I have to go as I have an interview for BBC Radio Newcastle.
I'm in possession of a map, which I have printed off, and although it's a bit chilly, and I have yet again not packed the right clothes for this unpredictable spring, I relish the brisk walk to get warm and generally enjoy myself. However, things are rather losing their sparkle as I arrive at BBC Newcastle, or rather what my map tells me is BBC Newcatle. It's not. It's some kind of 24-hour bowling alley/slot machine/casino emporium. Aargh. Panic is very rarely of any use at all and so I try to make it unwelcome in my psyche. My mantra is suddenly that the interview is a pre-record, the interview is a pre-record. But still, being late is not okay.
I go in. The guy is pretty darn bemused when I ask where the BBC is. He goes through quite a bit of local history, of the buildings mainly (I'M LATE, I'M LATE' I'M LATE), wondering whether it was the radio or the TV which used to be 'round the corner. I'm guessing the radio, I say, as I'm about to be late for a radio interview. Are there cabs nearby? Would he like me to call one for him? Oh yes, that'd be great. Thank you. As he dials and chats I look at the empty bowling lanes in their black and neons pink and blue. It's only just gone ten in the morning but this seems to be the kind of place where time zones merge and you can forget yourself. My main escape in life is sleep, at which I am a world champion. I win sleep-offs hands down. I could go back to sleep now, just here, on the floor.... Oh, God, a rush of panic, I'm late. I'm late, dammit.
Last night had been the usual wifi-mare, unable to get online at the cinema, and with it not working properly in our very new hostel. Teething problems. Well, teething problems for all the internet UK over, it turns out – so far everywhere we have stayed I have specifically chosen because there is free wifi, and it has, indeed, been free. And patchy, faulty or non-existent: “Ah, yes, the wifi.... we've been having a few troubles.” And the cafes, pubs and libraries we go into seem to have all the same issues, on top of that the Bolton library giving my stick a virus.
The radio people are super-nice about my being late and the interview is fun. I think I'm getting alright at these. In fact, many of these interviewers just want me to talk... I was almost certainly born for this. I wander, in a leisurely fashion, back into town, coming down off the adrenalin of the earlier stress. The clouds are scudding, the wind is blowing and I have some time to myself. Bartelt is a lovely human being, but I only now realise that I am used to a great deal of time on my own and we are very, very rarely out of each other's company. I get to be alone on stage, but that doesn't really count.
I find a cafe with wifi that works and treat myself to..... a weird tea out of the bottom of my handbag. Aargh. SECULENT!!!!!!! I want a tea or a coffee or maybe a GIN, but none of these is allowed, under my self-imposed rules. Every time I have to resist the urge I am supposed to remind myself how lucky I am in so many ways, the metaphor for these ways being the ease with which I can have the hot drink of my choice at virtually any time, day or night. I am disappointed that I am such a graceless, self-centred, greedmonster who treats tea and coffee, and a lot more besides, as if they are a human right.
I sit in the cafe in the sun and text Bartelt. He's nearby. He's coming to join me. It's a good thing that when I see him it's nice: this tour would be hell were I not so incredibly fond of and grateful to him.
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