I feel like I haven’t spoken to an American in so long that tonight when I was talking to Dan at the Mayday show, my mouth was going crazy turning in on itself to mirror his accent. Very Eliza Doolittle with the marbles in her mouth, and I was afraid he was going to ask if I was already drunk before the gig started.

There’s nothing like a little indie rock flavour, and there’s really nothing like a little indie rock flavour from Omaha, Nebraska—in London. The bands were in the basement, of course, at Borderline, where the torn, silver remains of party crackers were strewn on the floor, and a line of fairy lights twisted itself across the stage, over and around the sparkle-red drum kit. There was a girl with a trumpet, and a drummer who sang along to everything. They ran out of songs before their set was over, so they played the Flaming Lips, warm and cool at the same time so my skin prickled all over as I leaned on the wall in the back.

It was raining an invisible rain when I left, so light you could only feel the hundred fairy kisses on your face.

Tomorrow I have to be up very early to catch a plane heading east, but right now I just want to stay up and listen to the rain on the skylight.