Last night: Quentin Tarantino, sitting in a hairdressers waiting for his appointment. I was asleep in the bed in the waiting room, (fully clothed, though), and when I wake up there he is. He asks me what I do, I mumble something about being a writer and being interested in writing scripts, the hairdresser comes in to ask him through into the salon, and I errupt in a flurry of fury because I've been waiting three hours, most of which I've slept through, and why should he get in before me.
Right. Well. Good to have got that little tidbit documented, don't you think?
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