He was cast as the guy who gets picked up and thrown out of the poker game to set the scene before the main characters arrive. Out of Real London and into real London, a discarded prop, at this party, chatting to me.

like magnets

the site i am dreaming

i have read not even 1 book

and the fake qualifier

its good short few pages

abrar?

send your tumblr

god "possessing" artists "possessing" people

your feed looks like my tumblr

whats your name?

lol

yeah people dont get it they assume its ahnaf

feel you

i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine

isaac newton

yeah

or never left

what do you think my name is

ahnaf is it worth reading all those books

we need to be deconstructing our identities

isaac

that looks like my instagram account

i dont understand magnetisation

and the fake qualifier

what do you mean

I'm getting bored and he can tell, so he shifts the topic towards me. He tells me he'd spotted me chatting to a girl earlier, a black girl, and asks what I thought of her, if I liked her. I mimed affirmatively.

The old failed actor genuinely believed this girl was of a lesser race. He believed she shouldn't be talking with me, shouldn't be here at this party, shouldn't be here in this country. He wanted a white England. I didn't really challenge him on it. Sometimes I justify it with thoughts like I was drunk, or baffled, or it isn't an argument I'll win, or he can't hear me anyway, or whatever. I didn't argue with him. I just cut off his rant and left with a pathetic "In a bit."

We look out over the river to a block of luxury flats built on the site of some old docks. It would be nice to live right there. Yes. The conversation drifts to the pleasantness of warm lighting and whether anyone needs a smart home. I interrupt her to make a joke about the French Raj as he runs up the causeway. We stand there laughing. The fireworks go off behind him.