By five I had two lives and one carry-on. My mother believed in hand luggage and spectacle; I believed in packing a ball before socks. We were a traveling act: singer, diplomat, small chairman with opinions. Soccer was my hobby the way tea is Britain's—everywhere, always, even in places where it clearly shouldn't fit.
I pretended to complain—"Dragged across continents like a particularly handsome suitcase"—but I loved it. In my first life I'd met stars through glass. In this one I was being handed to them by a woman whose smile delivered domestic and international box office.
The System kept score like a bored accountant who secretly likes me.
> FP: 92.9 → 95.4
sources: Val Ann & Son Arrive in New York; airport candids (hats: no)
The Recruitment Eye remained disciplined: focus to use; green = safe to engage. It didn't make prophecies; it made my attention behave. Very useful when the room contains ego, cables, and a chandelier threatening to audition.
---
Rule 1: Airports Are Auditions
JFK greeted us with announcements and suspicion. A porter pushed a trolley like he was applying for citizenship. Photographers tried to hide behind newspapers (incorrectly). Mother waved in a way that fed them and starved them simultaneously. I practiced the expression that says yes, I am the little prince; no, I will not endorse your hat.
A woman in sunglasses and a trench coat paused near us at baggage claim, radiating competence. The Eye put a gentle green wash over her—not loud, not golden, just safe.
"Julie," my mother said, lowering her own sunglasses.
"Val," said Julie Andrews, accent so crisp it could butter toast. She peered at me. "And who is this gentleman?"
"Alex," I said. "I stir tea clockwise unless democracy demands otherwise."
She laughed the way good bells sound. The Eye held her. Safe to know, safe to copy, safe to owe a favor in twenty years. We exchanged promises to visit a rehearsal. She offered me a hum of "Do-Re-Mi." I countered with "Tea-Tea-Tea." Democracy demanded nothing.
> FP: 95.4 → 97.1
source: Val & Julie's Terminal Duet (twenty-second rumor)
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Rule 2: Soundstages Are Jungles; Follow the Green
Pinewood smelled like sawdust and ambition. You know you're near a Hitchcock film when the silence has a plot twist. We visited a set where the lighting plots looked like they'd been drafted by a nervous angel. He appeared quietly; large, precise, black suit, expression like he'd misplaced a cathedral and would find it again shortly.
"Mr. Hitchcock," my mother said, gracious and amused.
"Ah," said Alfred. His gaze weighed me; I weighed back. (Small but dense; powerful eyebrows.)
"Any advice for a young gentleman in a dangerous world?" my mother teased.
Hitchcock's eyes drifted to me. I focused; a ladder nearby refused to fade; a cable did; a quiet path around the camera dolly stayed. I took it, tugging Mother with me. Seconds later a grip swung that ladder exactly where we'd stood. Not doom—just a thwack—and a clip for the blooper reel that would never be invented.
Alfred smiled, pleased that the room had behaved interestingly. "Pay attention," he said, which is the only writing class that matters.
> FP: 97.1 → 98.9
source: Pinewood whisper: Little Prince sidesteps calamity like it owed him money
We watched a shot. Hitchcock did not direct so much as place fate carefully on a shelf and ask it to wait. The Eye didn't gild him; it kept me out of the way of expensive things. Useful.
---
Rule 3: Tea Is Governance (Hollywood Edition)
Los Angeles greeted us with heat and white teeth. The studio canteen served salads that knew too many agents. A corner table contained Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, smoking a duet.
"Miss Andrade," Frank said, lighting a charm and not the cigarette. "The town brightens."
"Only because it thinks it can see itself in me," my mother replied, stealing his chair without asking. I stood solemnly between them like a treaty.
"Kid," Dean said, "what do you drink?"
"Tea," I said. "Strong. Leaves that remember pain."
Dean howled. Frank patted my shoulder with a hand that had touched both microphones and trouble.
I focused—habit, not hunger. The Eye kept both men clear enough to know: safe to be charming; do not become a pet; never owe more than a story. I paid in one line: "My first word was tea."
Frank closed his eyes in mock prayer. "Good boy."
> FP: 98.9 → 101.6
source: canteen gossip; headline seed Rat Pack Adopts a Prince (for Lunch Only)
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Rule 4: Backstage is School if You Shut Up and Watch
West End rehearsal, 11 a.m.; a piano grinding excellence out of air. A young woman marked choreo with the focus of a safecracker. "You'll like her," Julie had promised. We did.
"Miss MacLaine," my mother said.
"Hiya," said Shirley, ponytail, grin, control. She did a sequence that looked like running, falling in love, and paying taxes—simultaneously. I applauded seriously. She bowed to my solemnity.
"Pointers?" she asked me, half-joke.
"Feel the floor," I said. "Respect the pause."
Her eyebrows said who raised him; her smile said you're hired. We watched an hour. The Eye put steady green on the pause—that moment before the turn when the room breathes. I filed it with lull before the pass and silence before the punchline.
> FP: 101.6 → 103.1
source: rehearsal rumor; Val's boy worships timing becomes a note directors like to quote
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Rule 5: Nashville is a Promise Wearing Boots
A detour south: radio show, charity thing, a stage with boards that knew gospel from gossip. Backstage smelled like hairspray deciding to be immortal. A teenager in a dress her aunt had improved stood center and sang the ceiling into confession.
"Dolly," my mother said after, warmly.
"Ms. Andrade," said Dolly Parton, hair already practicing for legend, voice already there. She saw me, not the myth. "And who's this handsome biscuit?"
"Alex," I said. "I'm collecting songs and biscuits. I will exchange either."
She laughed like a banjo that had learned manners. The Eye put a rich, calm green across her—safe, good, correct to know for the rest of forever.
"Any advice, little mister?" she teased, as people do when they expect a joke.
"Write it down," I said. "The line you think you'll remember, you won't."
She stopped, as if memory had entered the room. "That's the truest thing I heard today."
My mother looked at me over Dolly's shoulder with that expression that says I know you know the future; don't be weird. I saluted with a biscuit.
> FP: 103.1 → 106.8
source: local column Teen Angel Meets Tiny Prince; station manager said, "That boy takes notes like a deacon"
We stayed until the stagehands turned the lights off so the night could sleep. Dolly pressed a paper bag into my hands—fudge—and a promise: Come back when you can stay longer. I planned to stay decades.
---
Rule 6: Keep Kicking, Even in Tuxedo Shoes
Between cities, I kept the hobby unsentimental. In hotel corridors: wall-passes. In embassy gardens: gates made of potted plants (return them as found; Whitby will know). On palace lawns—when invited, never otherwise—I ran Find the Space while Hiroshi perfected hovering with dignity.
Back in London, the mews league upgraded itself. Alan Hudson returned from a summer growth spurt with new passing angles and unshakable hair. Peter Osgood learned to smile while pretending not to. Rod Stewart arrived with a harmonica and the declaration that he could also be a goalkeeper; we told him no.
I arrived one afternoon with a ball I shouldn't have been able to afford. I hadn't. A note from Bobby Moore—"For the kids. On loan. Return with stories."—sat in the laces. We named it Bobby and refused to scuff it except on purpose.
We ran a Passport Cup: teams named for places we'd visited or would. Nashville beat Belgravia on penalties after Rod insisted penalty saves are jazz. Pinewood drew Palladium in a match refereed by Mr. Doyle's sighs. I made three passes that were miracles of moderation; Hudson called me rude; I said it was love.
> FP: 106.8 → 109.9
source: Little Prince's Passport Cup; the shed gained a laminated map and a new kettle (donated by "a grateful cinematographer")
The Eye stayed clean. When I focused, the pass worth attempting refused to fade. If a drill wanted vanity more than craft, it greyed itself. Green did not mean genius; it meant do this now; the room will reward it.
---
Rule 7: Agents Smell Like Lemon and Panic
Agents approach children the way cats approach cream: confident, performative, convinced the bowl wants to be empty. A woman with a portfolio and a smile that apologized for nothing cornered us after a West End matinee.
"We could discuss representation," she told my mother, eyes flicking to me like I was a stage prop that might learn lines.
I focused. Nothing. Not red. Not warning. Just waste. The Eye declined to color her; I declined to be colored by her.
"We're represented by naps," my mother said sweetly. "And by Whitby."
"Who is Whitby?" the agent asked, making the mistake of her quarter.
"Justice," Whitby answered, stepping forward like a curtain call.
The agent retreated with dignity. The System filed Avoided Administrator of Chaos under small victories.
> FP: 109.9 → 111.0
source: theatre gossip; phrase represented by naps entered two greenrooms and a marriage
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Rule 8: Say Yes to the Right Cameo and No to the Wrong Hat
Another cameo—blink and you'll miss it—in a British caper. I crossed a museum gallery in short trousers, solemn as jurisprudence, while my mother improvised a smile that mysteriously paid three scholarships. The director asked for a cap; I refused in the universal language of four-year-olds; he laughed and said, "Quite right."
Between takes, Sophia Loren drifted in like the Mediterranean had put on heels. She and my mother performed the ancient rite of compliment theft (you're stunning—no, you're stunning—stop it at once—never). Sophia crouched to my eye line.
"You like football?" she asked, accent melting the marble.
"Very much," I said. "I'm learning to pass the way chefs season."
"Then you will be Italian enough," she declared, and kissed my forehead with continental authority.
> FP: 111.0 → 113.8
source: Two Goddesses, One Small Judge; sports weekly clipped Italian enough for later myth-making
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Rule 9: Dad's Work is a Net; Learn to Mend
In between spotlights, embassies. A reception where the cheese knew four languages; a corridor where the air smelled like treaties. A draft letter on a side table used a phrase that would have re-injured an old relationship. I focused; the sentence greyed; a kinder line refused to fade.
Hiroshi noticed me notice. He reads rooms and sons in the same language. He nodded once, changed the line, and saved a week of phone calls. Later he lifted me like a secret and said, "Thank you." Love is a bow and a dumpling.
> Life-Impact: +0.2 (cumulative +1.2 since the mews)
FP: 113.8 → 115.9
---
Rule 10: Keep the Hobby a Hobby Until It Isn't
The shop window still mocked: Soccer 101 — 500 FP. We'd get there—the slow way, the right way—after another year of oranges and mud and games disguised as training. I kept inventing small drills no one could object to: Whitby's Hat Rondo (advanced edition), Shadows (mark the person, not the ball), Piano (pass only when the chord resolves—thank you, Shirley).
Mrs. Kerr's Saturday sessions remained occasional and excellent; she praised the brave and corrected the clever. Mr. Doyle kept drawing triangles and pretending not to care; his notebook fattened like a well-fed cat. Hudson's passes got rude in a way I envy; Osgood discovered elegance; Rod discovered that goalkeeping is jazz and so is missing on purpose.
At night, the System whispered its dry report:
[Touring-Year Summary]
FP: 92.9 → 116.3
Life-Impact: +0.2 (diplomatic edits; safe shepherding)
Eye: Lv.3 (focus faster, faint context, green only)
Stats: STR 0.78 → 0.86 · DEX 0.66 → 0.72 · CON 0.84 → 0.90 · INT 1.00 (skull remains a bottleneck) · WIS 0.68 → 0.72 · CHA: "export-controlled + cleats + tux"
Titles:
— Carry-On Captain (pack light, meet heavyweights)
— Timing Student (respects the pause; +1% pass accuracy when the room holds its breath)
"Any recommendations?" I asked it.
> Advisory: compound. avoid hats. write it down.
"Understood," I said, adding a Dolly rule to my internal playbook: write it down, even the line you think you'll remember. Especially that one.
We flew home at dawn, the city yawning for us. My mother slept against the window in the way of people who have given the world a show and are letting it applaud in the dark. Hiroshi wrote a note to someone important and then tore it up because the second draft would be kinder. I dribbled a ball the size of an orange under the airplane blanket until Whitby confiscated both, which is how monarchy ends.
I focused once, habit, gratitude, a small superstition. The cabin softened; my two planets stayed bright; the orange-ball kept refusing to fade. Green said go—to sleep, to the shed, to the mews, to the next set where someone would call me "sir" as a joke and not know it was a prophecy.
I slept like a child whose hobby is the future.
And outside, without asking, the numbers climbed like ivy up a studio wall.