The band I’m in is playing a gig in Putney, our first of 2015. “I’m going now,” I say on my way out of the door.
“I don’t think I can be bothered to come tonight,” my wife says.
“You can’t come,” I say. “It’s sold out.”
“Anyway, it’s Wolf Hall,” she says.
“Seriously,” I say. “We gave away your ticket, like, a month ago.”
Playing in London increases the risk that the audience will contain people I know, which tends to make me self-conscious and anxious. I’m happier in front of a room of strangers in a faraway town. Privately, I’m hoping my wife’s lack of interest will be mirrored across my social network.
After the soundcheck, I stand at the bar, but no one appears; it’s not open yet. I have to get my hand stamped so I can go out to the main bar, where our audience is milling. There are no familiar faces in my immediate vicinity, but I don’t look too hard. I find a gap and strike an expectant pose in an attempt to get served.
The two men next to me are joined by a friend, who stands behind me. Eventually, a fourth friend joins them, and I am effectively surrounded.
“No, I’ve never seen them,” one says.
“I don’t know anything about their music,” another says.
“I read a review online that said some of them are actually journalists,” the first says.
“A pint of the pale ale, please?” I ask the barman.
“Are you here to see the band?” the barman says, holding up a plastic pint glass.
“Be interesting to see if they’re any good,” the man behind me says.
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
I find the guitarist in the dressing room, tuning up. “I just overheard some people talking,” I say. “They didn’t know anything about us.”
“Huh?” he says.
“I find that heartening,” I say.
I like the idea of strangers turning up out of curiosity, rather than friends coming to see how my midlife crisis is going.
The bassist walks in. “There’s a bloke out there who looks exactly like Morgan Freeman,” he says.
“Yeah,” the guitarist says. “That is Morgan Freeman.”
“What?” I say, alarm creeping into my voice.
The fiddle player comes in. “Hey!” he says. “I just saw God!”
“What the fuck is Morgan Freeman doing in Putney?” I ask.
The guitarist explains: someone out there knows someone who knows Freeman, who finds himself at a loose end in London on a Wednesday evening.
“Does he know it’s Wolf Hall?” I say.
Someone comes to tell us it’s time to go on. By the time we reach the stage, my palms are so sweaty, my finger picks are beginning to slide off.
I’m not sure why I’m so shaken – Morgan Freeman certainly counts as a stranger. But I’m finding it hard to remember any lyrics because I’m so busy concentrating on gazing fixedly into the middle distance, at nothing, while calculating the precise extent to which each subsequent song won’t be Morgan Freeman’s cup of tea.
I wake up my wife the next morning. “Guess who was there last night, even though you’ll never guess. Five guesses.”
“How am I supposed to…”
“Morgan Freeman,” I say.
“No,” she says.
“He’s a huge fan,” I say. “Flew in specially.”
“Morgan Freeman?” she says.
“Actually, he left in the interval,” I say. “I never even saw him.”
“Are you sure it was him?” she says.
“Yes,” I say, although at that moment I realise how much my story relies on hearsay. It barely qualifies as an experience.
“You missed a good Wolf Hall,” she says.
“So did Morgan Freeman,” I say.
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