5.14 pm. Quentin Tarantino just walked into Soho House. I am surprised, he is wearing belly bottom jeans, they are cut to open in the back. Nobody here would ever wear them. Quentin is sitting down for a drink and is reading his script to himself. I am fascinated by his trainers, the size of a ship. He is reading more of his script to himself and then he orders another drink. Something orange. Bell Bottom jeans, neon orange drinks, nothing tasteful. I am happy Quentin Tarantino doesn’t think of taste. At all. He is laughing to loud and now as he is sitting in front of an actress, he is nervous, moving his head up and down like an agitated dachshund. Thank god. He is not cool. He does not know what to do. He puts his glasses on, then off, then on. Thank god he is not cool. Thank god for Quentin. I am staying here to watch the uncoolness unfold.