Bombs. What can you say. Two of my Italian students were late (they’re always late) and I bollocked them, ignoring their usual lame excuses about the tube. Fifteen minutes later our Director calls everyone into the student lounge and tries to explain to a hundred foreign students that there has been a number of bombs, people have died, there is no transport anywhere and we should all remain calm. Their English level ranges from very good to non-existent.
We watch TV. Very subdued. Two Japanese girls giggle a lot to each other and I’m sure it’s just a nervous reaction but it’s totally fucking inappropriate and I shoot them a death glare. They look like they don’t understand what’s wrong with me (These are advanced students- they can understand the TV so they know exactly what’s going on). Five minutes later they’re giggling again because someone said people might have to walk home and apparently that’s really funny. Want to strangle them. (Note: the two other Japanese students in the class seem to understand the seriousness of what’s happened.)
Go home and watch news channel all afternoon. At 5pm I decide to go to the gym. All the cafes and shops in town are closed so staff can get home, it feels like a ghost town. In Frith Street I bump into Rupert Everett.
'Hi,' I say.
'Hi.'
We both seem spacey.
'It’s all a bit fucked up, isn’t it?'
'Yeah,' he says.
‘I’m going to the gym. I need to exercise.'
'It’s closed. I’ve just been.'
I hadn’t thought of that.
'Oh. OK.'
We say goodbye. I don't ask if he wants to pretend to be my boyfriend so I can get a book deal.
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