OLD FACE, FAMILIAR REQUEST
Yesterday, I was putting up the backdrop for a comedy evening I've inherited from Trinity Infinity, the Plutonian prince, who denounced his inheritance, in favour of making mirth on Earth. It takes place at the Duchess of Cambridge pub, London W6. If any of you are on Earth, you are welcome to come visit the place, it's a lovely pub, with friendly staff, and a rather good comedy evening in the making, thanks to a lot of hard work from a lot of people. It's called Duch Ado About Nothing, and is hosted, for want of a better word, by Benjamin of Turnham Green, which is me...
It's a strange thing, but I was on my way back from the printer's with the new backdrop in a tube, when a husky, yet friendly voice called my name. I stopped, looked back, and it was none other than ruined New Age consultant, Harmony Dryden. I say 'ruined', because I knew her as the owner of an antick boutique, where many a drape and plenty a joss-stick could be found, and a fire-hazard sign wouldn't have gone amiss - but you can't get them in the right font.
It's an awful truth. I met her before my own addictions begun, and knew very little that she too was on the edge of that very same precipice. Because I disappeared, so did she, and many from my life. I barely recognised her. Her face seemed hung on the skull, like slack clay, gravity-slaved, jowls enough to store a score, or more. 'It's Harmony,' she said, 'remember me?'
Yes, I did, although what I remembered was not this person, had not these eyes, bagged and scant of hope, those puffy cheeks, tight, red, sinuous mouth. 'Hi,' I said, both pleased and appalled to see her, and I didn't know which to privilege.
'You alright, love?' she asked. 'You look well.' And I wanted to say the same. But she saved me the quandary.
'I dipped my toe in a bit too deep,' as you can see,' she said, eyes staring into the darkness of the corner-shop door.
'Yeah, it can be a bit of a bottomless whirlpool,' I uselessly said.
'You're telling me. Love, you don't have a couple of quid on you, do you?'
In a kind of mild social shock, like a novelty mannequin, I thrust a conscientious and efficient hand into the pocket of my too-loose jeans. My fingers found a two-pound coin, which, with technical precision, Guardian shot for anyone looking, friend responding to friend for the unphotographable space between. 'Ah, it's good to see you though,' Harmony crooned, almost like the old voice I recalled, but now in a different key, lower, throatier, minor.
'Nice to see you too,' I said. I may as well have said 'carry on killing yourself, you've a few years yet.'
Then, gesturing in the general direction of somewhere that looked like a destination, I said I hope our paths cross again.
And that's all I know of Harmony Dryden, to date.
Dipping toes, whirlpools - very aquatic, addiction.
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And, as usual here's one of my tunes...it's a youtube link...Tales Of Harmony Dryden
Thank you for dropping by.
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