DAYLIGHT FADING

nine | tell me the story of how you ended up here

              | nine: tell me the story of how you ended up here |

                                                        or

                                | hospital beds: cold war kids |

I finally get a text from Jez a week after my performance at St. Valentines. It’s predictably blunt without the shyness that normally accompanies the first text someone sends, especially to someone they don’t know well.

Given that she’s announced her intention to arrive later today, I quickly pop down to the grocery shop and I’m pleased to discover there is some bacon in. Whilst I’ve essentially been living as a pescatarian on fish and vegetables, I’ve found there are two weak spots in my new diet – steak and bacon. I mean, honestly, what beats a good bacon butty?

Just to amuse myself, I check my Twitter whilst I casually pirouette around my house with my guitar, Waterloo To Anywhere in my ears. Once again, there are plenty of people ranting about Angel, most of them just funny, quite a few mildly offensive and a couple that are just really taking the whole thing way too far. Which, in itself, is also pretty funny.

Apparently, I am a goat-faced whore. I don’t quite know where people come up with these things.

It’s the old account of Lacey D’Angelo that surprises me. I expected to find a ton of hate mail with people calling for my blood. Sure, there are a few people who obviously dislike me, some others noting that they’re ‘not sure’ on the new tone of my voice – basically, the way my vocal cords sound like they’ve been sandpapered by chain smoking.

Actually, that’s an exaggeration. Yes, my voice does have a rasp. But it’s quite subtle. It’s not like I sound as if I’m emulating Tom Waits.

And of course, there is the one person who has to reveal where I’ve been hiding out for the past month and ruin all of my hard work in one sentence. I mean, it is nice to be told that my performance as St. Valentines was amazing, but it also tells Adam that I am in Eastfields.

That means he will probably kill me, because this is where his mother lives.

I begin to wonder if I’m a masochist as I find myself on Chaos Theory’s Twitter feed for the first time since I made my decision to come to Eastfields, only to be stopped by the very first post. I keep blinking at it in surprise, wondering exactly how someone managed to convince them to release all of that footage.

There is going to be a documentary on Chaos Theory at 8 on BBC One. And it will be full of Chris’s videoing which means that it will go right back to the start. He developed this insane obsession with capturing the people around him’s lives on camera at about age twelve and I was no exception.

I don’t know why I promise myself that I’ll watch it, given that I’ll know everything already. I’ve seen every interview, every magazine article and every show I could get to, albeit in hair dye and contacts.

After I scroll down through the crowds of teenagers screaming about how awesome all of their shows are and several links to live videos, I finally find a link to a video that has me smiling. An interview with Moira Young who unexpectedly had to deal with two doses of fuck-it attitude in a night.

I click on it, wondering if this will be the interview where Adam gets tired of spewing poison out every time someone mentions my name. It won’t be but you’ve got to have hope, I guess. I know Chris and Seb won’t rise to my defence and I don’t blame them. Just because they don’t hate me doesn’t mean they’ll tear their band apart to give me a bit more of a positive image.