14th January 1995
Camden Town,
London
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Waking up, I felt like shit. A dull thudding pain pounded at the back of my skull and a slight nauseous feeling stirred in my stomach. My eyelids felt heavy and I was just about ready to roll back over and try to sleep off my hangover.
I heard someone scuffling about in the kitchen, could smell bacon cooking. It took me a moment to realise that George had stayed over, and not that I had a particularly homely burglar.
I blinked a few times, weighing up whether I should stay in bed feeling rubbish or actually get up. My dress from last night was crumpled in a pile on the floor and I hoped that the stylist wouldn't mind. I lay for a moment, closing my eyes to see if sleep would come, but I felt too sick to go back to sleep. I rolled out from under the duvet, stretching out my muscles and rolling my shoulders to ease my stiffness. I wished my liver hadn't decided to betray me with such a bad hangover.
I sniff checked my Sgt. Peppers t-shirt, pulled it on and found a big pair of baggy jeans in the corner. It took me a little more searching to find socks that were roughly the same size, although definitely not the same pattern. My big toe poked at a hole in the fabric and I shuffled into my kitchen.
"Morning! Or afternoon, whatever you prefer," George greeted me as he continued frying some bacon. A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips and he puffed on it, his hands occupied with a fork and wooden spatula that he utilised to flip the slightly over cooked rashers. "We've got to go to the recording studio today, 'pparently there's some big news."
"Oh, right, yeah," I replied tiredly, going into the kitchen cupboard for aspirin. The radio blared cheerily, a happy presenter babbling on about the songs that were playing. I swallowed the aspirin down with a mug of water. It seemed that for once the London weather was clear and sunny, with a chilly January feel. The bright light was streaming through the windows that George must have opened to let the fresh air in. A draft through the window was disturbing little of dust I don't think I realized was there. I'd never noticed until fresh air (albeit cold fresh air) came in, but my flat was awfully musty and ridiculously messy. Compared to George's tidy, homely (still reeking of cigarettes) place, it was almost shameful the state of my home.
"You look tired," George pointed out needlessly, prodding the bacon out the side of the pan and onto some already buttered bread. Ash fell from the end of his cigarette onto the counter and he returned the pan to the hob and brushed it away with his hand.
"I didn't have any of this stuff in," I yawned, confused, stretching my arms out above my head in attempt to ease my stiffness.
"Yeah, I've just been to the shop," George shrugged. "Thought you might be in need of a proper brekkie." He squeezed a dollop of red sauce onto the bacon and pressed both sandwiches shut, handing me one. I smiled at his thoughtfulness, going up on my toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.
George made some bacon butties and we ate them quickly, then I rushed off to get changed and sort myself out. By the time I'd finished having a piping hot shower and drying my hair, throwing on a bit of makeup so I looked a bit less of a victim of long term drug abuse, we were 20 minutes late. George was tapping his foot impatiently when I came back in, but the way he stood, and the slight of a cheeky smile on his lips let me know he wasn't really annoyed.
"Jesus fucking Christ, how long does it take you to get ready?! We're late, stop dicking around!" he scolded lightheartedly. I walked past him, grinning, picked up a jacket and unlatched the door.
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14th January 1995
Finsbury
London
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George was in a good mood when we arrived. The night of hard drinking had affected him in no way, seemingly. Famously hangover-proof, much unlike the rest of the human race. Richie was sat cross-legged on the floor with his bass, bumbling out low ditties, looking up for only a second when we walked in. His brother was sat on a table, sunglasses on beneath his new blond look, rolling a spliff and looking worse for wear. He licked the paper and sealed the joint, then banged on the glass behind him to Mike, the sound guy.
