Tonight, I amazed myself with a spectacular display of mulish refusal to give up or ask for help. I may have surpassed even the best stereotypical examples of males-don't-ask-for-directions. I spent an hour wandering around, adjacent to, across from, close to, encircling, but never reaching Carnaby Street. I had a map in my handbag, but wouldn't take it out and look at it. I passed hundreds of people, but wouldn't ask for directions. I was determined to find my flatmates bar on my so-called 'good sense of direction." Well, I've been humbled. I have a mediocre sense of direction. Maybe. I did eventually succeed - I found Picadilly Circus and started over from there. But only after I'd worn blisters into my toes and turned a five minute walk into a 50 minutes walk. The best part is that my flatmate had gone home for the night when I finally arrived, so the search was for nothing, I had to head to the tube station and go home!
The beginning of my evening was a book launch for the winner of a photography competition TV show. The last episode airs Sunday night, and there's a chance I'm in it, they interviewed me briefly so Lulu could have some exposure in the program (since we did the book). Kinda cool - although I am really nervous about how I'll look/sound/come across. One thing to be on TV and stress about how your face looks, another to have a broadcasted record of your statements on the company! My vanity and my job standing could be simultaneously bruised!
I'm exhausted - the stress of this project, and the rest of work in general, is catching up to me.
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From what I remember of our trip to London oh so many years ago, you'd need to have the world's best sense of direction to get around without a map there. I think we got lost (with maps and everything!) more times there than we ever have in any other city.
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