She sits on a sofa facing me, wearing an expectant expression. Ten minutes later, her smile is frozen – she can’t escape
It’s a cold Sunday morning and I’m walking down an alley alongside the Tube tracks, fingers laced round a coffee from the place next to the station. Three quarters of the way down I stop at an anonymous blue door in a brick archway and knock. There is no answer. I push at the door. Nothing happens.
One of my favourite parts of being in a band is the rigorously enforced idleness: even if you’re a dawn-greeting, workaholic musician, the guy in charge of unlocking the rehearsal rooms is never going to turn up before 11am. I am permitted to consider myself ambitious for arriving at 10.45.
