One Day

Bye, guys.

It's three years.

Three years together.

The lads.

Me and you?

We'll see each other again.

Really?

They're not going,

are they?

Group hug!

See you, ladies!

See you later.

Group hug.

Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa!

Tilly?

Callum!

Tilly, come on.

It's time to go home.

Come on.

Callum!

Ow!

You know,

we've never actually met.

Actually, we have.

Several times.

Have we?

You gatecrashed my birthday party,

called me Julie,

and spilled red wine

down my top.

Ouch.

Well, I'm sorry

about that.

No, not at all.

You were delightful.

Was I?

No. No, you weren't.

Look, if you're

not Julie, then...

I'm Emma.

Emma.

Emma Morley.

Emma Morley.

Listen, I'll walk you home.

So this is me.

Shh!

Welcome home.

So debate is fine,

but anyone can talk...

Just sometimes,

action's what's needed.

To change the world.

I completely agree.

So what are you gonna be when you're,

I don't know, 40?

Forty?

Can I say famous?

Horribly rich?

Terrible.

You're so terribly posh.

Where are you going?

I'm just gonna

go brush my teeth.

You know,

booze and fags and...

I don't mind.

I do.

Listen, won't be a minute.

No playing with yourself

while I'm gone.

What?

All right, concentrate.

Concentrate.

Do not cock this up!

Oh, you're going?

Well, it's getting light out,

so I thought I could just...

You should go

if you want to go.

It's very poignant.

Very bittersweet.

Really I just thought you

might wanna get some sleep.

I don't have to go.

No, no, go.

I'm not bothered.

Sneak off.

I wasn't sneaking off.

Jump out the window

for all I care.

It's five floors up, mind.

Look, I'll stay.

All right?

I'll stay.

Come on.

Sorry, I'm no good at this.

It's just whenever

I go to bed with someone,

I always end up

either laughing or weeping,

and it could be nice to go

for something in between.

Look, that's fine.

That's fine. Maybe we

could just be friends.

Okay. Friends.

Of course, you know it's Saint Swithin's

Day today, don't you?

What is?

Well, today. Saint Swithin's Day,

the 15th of July.

How do you know that?

Well, he was buried in

Winchester Cathedral,

which is where

I went to school.

Well, la-dee-da.

La-dee-da.

You know, there's a poem.

"If on Saint Swithin's Day,

it doth rain

"something, something,

something remain."

Dexter, that's beautiful.

Shut up.

Let's get some sleep.

But, Dex.

Em?

If it doesn't rain...

Mmm-hmm?

...do you want to do something?

Me and you?

Mmm-hmm.

Are you all right?

Lift, lift.

Okay, well,

I'm coming up.

Couldn't you have just hired

someone to move this stuff?

No.

Look, I would have paid.

All right, lift from your end.

You've obviously never done

a day's work in your life.

Look, seriously, Em,

my plane leaves in four hours.

All right, well, all the more

reason why you should lift.

God's sake.

Look, I'm doing you a favor.

And I am so, so grateful.

Stop whinging.

I bet this bed could

tell some stories.

Yeah, short stories.

Horror stories.

Welcome to London.

Well, lift it.

I think I'm gonna

be very happy here.

What is that smell?

Onions.

Onions and disappointment.

Right.

No, it's not that bad.

It's nothing that a

lick of paint

and a nuclear warhead can't fix.

I've got my typewriter.

I've got my books. I'm in London.

I think it's going to be all right.

I might actually

get things done.

You know, you might

actually meet someone.

Dexter, please.

A nice guy.

Sensitive, wears a cardigan.

I told you I'm not interested

in any of that.

Matching glasses,

matching opinions.

I'm actually glad

you're going to India.

Good, 'cause I'm leaving.

I've got to catch my flight.

Already?

Yeah, I'm sorry.

Well, go on then.

Find yourself.

Keep sending me those letters.

Long ones.

I will.

And have fun, Em.

Of course.

You know, it is allowed.

You know, I've got a feeling

that this time next year

you're going to take

London by storm.

What is the difference between...

A tortilla is either corn or wheat.

But a corn tortilla folded

and filled is a taco,

whereas a filled wheat

tortilla is a burrito.

Deep fry a burrito,

it's a chimichanga.

Toast a tortilla, it's a tostada.

Roll it, it's an enchilada.

Is there any chance

you could repeat that?

Hello. I'm Ian.

Ian Whitehead.

The new boy.

Welcome to the graveyard

of ambition.

The kitchen.

All right, mate.

What these guys can't

do with a microwave,

and a deep-fat fryer.

Hey, you!

Your basic Tex-Mex food groups.

Cheese on top of chicken

under guacamole

on top of beans

under rice on top of beef.

Word of warning,

avoid the jumbo prawns.

It's like Russian Roulette.

One in six will kill you.

So what's your stroke?

Sorry, my what?

Waiter/actor,

waiter/model, waiter/writer?

Well, I'm a comedian.

We could use a comedian. We all

like to laugh. I know I used to.

Well, I'm just

starting out really.

Working on my

"unique comedy stylings."

Not jokes so much, more sort of wry,

little observations.

Ay caramba!

I've got this whole bit

at the moment

about the difference

between men and women.

How blokes, when they see a

girl they fancy, they get all...

Toilets. Staff toilets.

Oh.

Sorry. You were saying?

No, no. I'm doing an open mic tonight

if you were interested.

At The House of Laffs,

spelled L-A-F-F-S.

It's not a date or anything.

You've probably got a

boyfriend anyway, have you?

Ian, I'd love to come,

but after work,

I like to head home,

comfort eat, weep.

So what about you, Emma?

What's your stroke?

What do you really do?

Uh, this. This is what I do.

Still, it's not forever, is it?

My room still smells. Tilly's sending

me mad. The flat's a dump.

I keep finding teeth

marks in the cheese

and her big gray bras

soaking in the sink.

Look, I'm sure it's

not a complete disaster.

London's swallowed me up.

I thought I'd make a difference,

but no one knows I'm here.

Listen, listen. Nothing truly

good was ever easy.

who said that?

You did.

Did I? That's annoying.

I'm sorry for moaning. I just...

I really wanted to hear...

How's teaching?

How's Paris?

It's good, Em.

You know, truly, really fulfilling.

well, don't sleep with

any of your students.

It's unethical and predictable.

It's good advice, Em.

Thank you.

But I've got to go

and have lunch with Mum.

well, apologize again, will you?

I didn't mean to

call your dad a fascist.

A bourgeois fascist.

Say sorry and, Dexter...

My money's running out.

Em?

Can you hear me?

Dex? Dex?

I miss you.

Forty-five minutes late.

Yeah, well, I got waylaid.

And where were

you last night?

Language school disco.

Was it fun?

No, it was hell.

Tell me, who's been writing you

all those long letters?

That is none of your business.

Was it that girl

who came to stay?

Yeah. Well, Emma and I

are just good friends.

How much holiday

do you need?

I'm not on holiday.

I'm teaching English.

Dexter.

Isn't that Alain Delon?

What?

Oh, no. It's your father.

Picking his corns.

Stop it.

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