I’m angry.

‘If you have pictures of the bus’ top being ripped apart, do send them to us’, says BBC2.
‘Let’s hear the tales of survivors’, they say.
‘A couple is reunited after the blast’

They don’t need to tell us how to feel.
They don’t need to tell us if we should cry.
And they shouldn’t ask for pictures of the wounded and the dead and people running away with blood on their face.
It’s obscene, more obscene than donkey porn.

That’s pretty much all I’ve got to say for myself this morning, except that my friends are all in one piece and I better call my mom. Then bawl, or something.

Cherry bomb Part One

1. Because it’s cold, I’ve had to have three desserts tonight. Look out for headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers: ‘Girl explodes. Cherries suspected.’

2. Saturday night's storm was only a little one. I blame the gay day and the gay beer and the infinitely cute lesbians in kilts, which distracted me and affected my vigilance. On Sunday, we made up over a bottle of mineral water, and tried to define the terms of our non-relationship relationship; then we went to our respective abodes, perhaps to confirm, solemnly, the fact that it’s not just about shagging.

3. It’s not just about shagging, you know.

4. But it’s not a relationship.

5. I wonder if she’s got a kilt…

Cherry Bomb Part Two
or 'TMI, sometimes'

- B, I say, I’m going to have explosive diarrhoea. 1 kilo of cherries.
- Nice. Thanks for sharing. Who said romance was dead?
- Romance IS dead. It was acquired in a hostile takeover by Disney and Hallmark, homogenised and sold off piece by piece.
- Such cynicisms in someone so young, it’s heartbreaking.. I need a card to make me feel better. A personalised one.
- Oh, honey, I’ll make you one, to go with the apron I’m going to knit for you, remember?
- Just make sure it has a pocket, so I can carry the card with me always… and stop it now, you’re scaring me.
- Hey, you’re the one talking about romance.. I don’t want romance.. therefore I share information about my ‘splosive ass. It’s a preventive measure.
- Commitment phobe.. and there’s me, going through the yellow pages.. .remov.. can’t spell U-heals…joke!
- HAUls. U-Hauls. Page 56. I got it book marked.
- Where is my inhaler? Crash cart, anyone?
- But seriously.. winter wedding maybe? You’d look so good in black against a back drop of snow.. and we could have little flower girls dressed as fairies.. or maybe big flower boys dressed as fairies.
- Oh no. eek.
- Hey, you were the one in a wedding dress on Saturday.
- This is an automated message service. Freda isn’t available at the moment; she’s rounding up the chickens and goats for sacrifice. 23.30 Friday. Don’t be late. Anyway, I’m sorry… Do I know you? Where did you get this number? Stop hassling me.

Clouded

Yesterday, people of Blogland, was pink Saturday, which I had forgotten all about; that says rather a lot about my wish/inability to belong. Pink Saturday is when the million gays put on either their leather outfit, sailor’s suit and stick feathers either onto their head or up their arse, march for a while, then proceed to get drunk gaily together on Soho square -which is roughly the size of a Jacob’s cracker- til nightfall, then go to gay parties. There are two other pink Saturdays this summer in London, which confuses people. The march, which is free; then there is the Big Gay Out, which isn’t; then there is the Soho pride, which is a big mess but apparently the most fun of them all. So now you know.
Did I mention I had forgotten all about it?
I was busy sampling different kinds of absinthe around London Bridge with a tall blonde, then our minds obviously clouded, we said in perfect unison ‘pah, there won’t be anyone in Soho, they’re all in Hyde park for the live 8 thingy. Let’s buy some beer and have a quiet drink on Soho square, a bit like tramps’. No wonder that absinthe thing is notorious for making people crazy. Soon we were surrounded by leather outfits, sailors’ suits and all kinds of feathers; we stayed and watched and drank.
Then it turned out that there were past dates and friends and acquaintances on the Jacob’s cracker, as well as my lover in a wedding dress and some of her friends, and we all met up and I got gaily drunk and started talking to everybody and then it was nightfall and my tall blonde friend was hungry and since this was supposed her day she and I left to go in search of sustenance, and now my lover is extremely pissed off with me and I don’t know what to do.

Perhaps I should have forgotten all about pink Saturday properly, and none of this would have happened.
I suspect that today, people of blogland, will be Morose Sunday, and will chiefly be spent in bed with the cat.

That’s pretty much all I’ve got to say for myself.

Let me count the times

Sometimes things just blurt out, I can’t seem to help it – or want to:
- This morning in my meeting I was daydreaming about having a threesome with you and another woman. It’s not a question, or a proposal, just saying how I spend my working hours, you know. Daydreaming.
- Nothing wrong with threesomes.. she replies, cryptic.
It’s not a proposal. Honest.
I smile.
- Four is problematic, though, she adds. Even numbers never work, people pair off..
- Four??? What do you mean, four?? I gasp.
- Yes, four. What?
- You harlot!!
- Yes; anyway, it never works. 5 is.. different. But I’m not a harlot!
- That ain’t right.. oh no.
- What ain’t right? That I’ve slept with more than 3 people at the same time? It wasn’t a regular thing!! Only done it once or twice or something..
- No, what ain’t right is that I haven’t. Anyway, doesn’t that qualify as an orgy?
- I don’t know what the qualifying number is for an orgy, but if you think 5 is then it more than that probably is.
- I like to put my labels on things. So, shall we take this one there home then?
- I think she’s straight, you know.
- Pah. Straight girls are like noodles anyway: straight until you get them wet.
- True.

Just a fantasy, of course. We’re not harlots, you know.

I never thought that one day I would break into a sweat in a museum.

This afternoon, J and I went to see this at the V&A, because it sounded good; and it wasn’t really that good, apart from the room right at the end before they cunningly ensnare you into the shop-trap and try to sell you crap, like in all museums. I don’t know about you, but when I walk into an exhibition, I put on my serious, almost respectful, I’m-expecting-to-be-enlightened mood.. I think I even squint a bit. But today, in the last room right before the shop full of crap, we could play. Do you know those big; big bouncy balls with tits to hold onto, the ones you sit on and bounce, bounce, bounce? And bounce some more, til you laugh so hard you fall off? So J and I bounced, bounced, bounced through the exhibition, and no-one even stopped us. J fell off.

The rest of the exhibition was rather crap, but we also had a mean game of ping-pong and tickled each other with feathers. We left rather sweaty and dishevelled, especially me, because J doesn’t really have any hair to dishevel.

That’s pretty much all I have to say for myself today.

Wimblewhat? Or Theory #567: lesbians and sports

So, do you like tennis? she asks.
No, I say. Most spectator sports bore the shit out of me. Wait, that’s not quite correct. All spectator sports bore the shit out of me.
Have you ever played tennis?
Yes; too much running and grunting. Not ladylike. Being a creature of airy grace, I much prefer badminton.
Oh. I played tennis for years. Yes it is a game of running but I don’t recall ever grunting. I have a disturbing memory of playing badminton with my family as a young girl. My dad fell over trying to get the shuttlecock and in the tumble one of his balls squidged out of his shorts. I have been traumatised ever since and can no longer play or watch the sport.
Oh, the trauma!!
Yes. I think this is why I’m a dyke.

I think there should be a warning on the shuttlecocks tube thing. ‘Playing this game might result in childhood trauma.’ Or more to the point ‘ Warning: Playing this game when not wearing tight enough underpants might affect your daughter’s sexuality.’

I can’t decide if that means sports is bad or you or not.

Gargantuan, still

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1) Oh, Richard K Juarez. Darling Richard K Juarez, with the beautifully multi ethnic name, virtual embodiment of the cultural melting pot that is modern America, Richard! Thank you for your offer, Richard. Mind you, in those emails it's always 'Elizabeth Alonzo', 'Louise Lu Chang', never the other way round. No Consuelo Rogers-Smithers. Or Juan Jose McLeod. Some kind of social graduation through your first name. If I ever have a son I'll call him Pedro. But I digress, Richard. Do you mind if I call you Richard?

2) Thank you for your offer anyway. If you only knew how much I do not need those, you'd wet yourself. No, but really.

3) when I click the link it says ‘how to become the best guy for her’. Ah; Richard, Dickie baby, I don’t think she’d like that much, you know.

4) Following my latest post, however, I was wondering if you had anything for gargantuan appetites? Cheap cake-burning pills? Might need those soon. Or possibly, pills to stop me from behaving disgracefully in public parks on very hot Sunday afternoons? I know there were shrubs and things and that I don’t think anyone saw just for how long I had my hand down her pants, but still. A disgraceful behaviour at my age. But I digress.

5) and anyway, if anyone saw us, they didn’t say a thing.

Ganet

1. Breakfast: tea and toast
Lunch : soggy lettuce, parsnip soup, slice o’ ‘I can’t believe it’s not cardboard’ bread, tap water.

2. On the way to work I was dreaming of fluffy pancakes with maple syrup; then throughout the morning it was crusty baguette with goats cheese, juicy white flesh nectarines, coffee éclairs; then as lunch approached I conjured up images of rare steak with shallot butter and sautéed potatoes washed down with a chilled rosé d’Anjou. The afternoon was devoted to ideas of tomato and olive oil bruschetta, then rhubarb crumble and perfectly ripe strawberries.

3. dinner, goddamnit: every single of those things til I burst, twice, and I don’t even care.


4. I wonder what’s going on, though. I’d like to read this as the very outward sign of my newly-found appetite for life, or something; I can’t think of anything I have to compensate for right now, besides the fact that work underfeeds me..and yes, I ma getting some, so it's not that either.

5. There’s no punch line. I’m too full to think.

Tart

Half an hour after she’s arrived, she hands me this little parcel with cake in it. Like it’s no big deal, in fact she almost looks embarrassed. It’s not just any cake, it’s a pink box with a ribbon around it, from that posh place, Pâtisserie Valérie on old Compton street. The other day I was leering at the chocolate creations in the window. After I’ve done my little dance and squealed like a girl, I grab a spoon. It’s perfect: a light pastry casing with the thinnest layer of chocolate, fluffy cream, huge juicy raspberries. It shuts me up for five minutes.
As if she needed to get me cake to get into my pants…

Purposeless

1) I know. Distinct lack of update. But you see, this is what happened, and I'm not making anything up or anything:

2) I was kidnapped by strangers, thrown into the back of an unmarked white van and driven, bound and gagged and kicking, to an unknown location. 'No! I shouted through the fitly rag covering my mouth, You can't ! I have responsibilities! I have a readership! Of at least 30 people! I can't leave them without an update on the wondrous life of Y! And who will feed the cat? I kicked and thrashed in spite of the bondage white tape binding me. Then one of my kidnappers, breathing a lager and vinegar crisps kind of breath, said that a bunch of fed up readers had in fact paid them good money to kidnap me, tie me up, gag me and throw me into the back of that white van, and that later on I would be sleeping with the fishes, as they say in that movie. Oh, I said quietly. Fine. If I come out of it alive, I promise my blogposts won't expand on the shiny happiness that is my daily existence. Later on I escaped, because I was brought up on Nancy Drew and I'm incredibly resourceful. On that note, I 've always wondered why in the French translation she is called Alice Roy. Mmm? Anyone?

3) I'm so lying. The white van, the lager and vinegar crisps breath, the gag, the kicking, the fishes and the money are all inventions. The bondage tape, on the other hand..

4) I have spent most of the week being bored at work, so bored that I have tried to finish all my sentences with "In accordance with the prophecy." People didn't react, so I considered stapling myself to my desk for excitement. Or stapling someone else to my desk. Or as often as possible, skip rather than walk. Or write in a colleague's planner, in the 10am slot: "See how I look in tights." In my book, if it's not forbidden, it's allowed.
Just bored.

5) last night I dreamt that the French president was dead. Mm. Interesting choice of embodiment for my father/autority figure. What do I do now? Organise elections and find a new one? Suggestions, people of blogland, please.

6) I'm being ridiculously happy.