I'm sitting in the Genesis Cafe on Blackstock Road, trying to write. A Phil Collins album - possibly a greatest hits package - is blithering out of the speakers at very high volume. Because of this I have to go inwards, block out the outer world. Focus. Must not hear Phil. Must only hear my inner voice and the pulsating sonar of the muse who is currently marooned on a rock in the middle of a vast dark ocean. Now the cafe bloke is making a smoothie and Phil is drowned out by what sounds like an early Cabaret Voltaire track, but is actually a liquidizer. Ah, the calming sound of everyday domestic implements that sound like northern industrial electronica.
But I'm now worried that by blocking out Phil I have somehow allowed him into my subconscious and he will return at a later date. Like in my dreams. Or when I'm trying to think of something to say at a job interview. OK, that last one isn't very likely.
I have to leave now. My mood has changed. 'One More Night' has come on. I can't take it any more. I wonder if this bloke has a license to play Phil Collins like this? Strangely, there are now two other people in here, both French/Belgian women sitting at different tables nattering on their mobile phones. Phil's siren voice must have lured them here. Now they will be stuck with his songs in their head for the rest of the day and they will hate this country and not know why.
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