P is for princess

1. I spent the weekend with my special lady friend. On Saturday, we stumbled in late at night after a perfectly delightful dinner of dramatically overcooked pasta at my friend Odd’s, and a drink and a half in a nearby watering hole with the gays. Then, conjuring up a cab, she took me home and put me to bed in crisp cotton sheets, under the blanket of large, cuddly cats.

2. On Sunday morning when I opened my eyes to a new dawn, she was wearing navy blue tracksuit bottoms.
Baggy, oversized, navy tracksuit bottoms. Men’s. With zips. Then she pulled them up almost to her armpits.

3. Of course, she did it on purpose. Finding mirth in my horrified expression. Blogpeople, I believe I was being tested.

4. I think I might have passed when I immediately slipped into her 100% nylon Brazil football shirt. I drew the line at wearing it for breakfast, mostly because footballnylon gives me a rash and yellow isn’t my colour.
I hope she isn’t holding that against me.

Huddle

1. 5pm: I’m standing, cold, waiting for a bus, any bus will do, why did I pick this ridiculously optimistic jacket this morning? I have an end-of-the-week headache. There is a small cluster of very lively pensioners at the bus stop. It’s cold, I huddle closer, maybe they won’t notice and welcome me into the group, perhaps even talk to me? I like old people, because I can be polite to them and smile and they won’t think I’m a mental patient. In the shop window nearby, a sign proclaims ‘Cold cans’. Yes, I’m thinking, this is exactly what I’m having right now. Finally the 275 takes me home, where J is listening to Britney Spears and playing with a kitten. I look out for scribbled hearts, but he must have known I was coming. ‘Don’t you want to take barbiturates for your head? ‘ he asks. I hope he means paracetamol. Or perhaps he wants to kill me.

2. 7pm: it’s warm and I’m wearing fuzzy socks. Where do normal people find the energy to go out on Friday nights?

I do hope to make up for the sobriety of my youth

1. People of blogland, you do look good for January, that limp, fizzleless month. I admire you. But enough about you, let’s talk about me. Yesterday was Wednesday, so I wanted to quit my job. By 6pm I was so tired with work I couldn’t spell wensday wenesday wfuckit anymore.

2. (What do you do you get such a lovely complexion, blogfolks?) Every Wednesday I want to quit. In fact every Wednesday I want to throw things, and run out and never come back again. Wednesdays are all kinds of crap. Thursdays ease off a little.

3. Today as things were easing off, an old man in a purple jumper asked me which bus I was waiting for, then immediately added: I’m not trying to chat you up, I wouldn’t want to cross your partner. Is he the jealous type?’ I cocked an eyebrow and felt mildly insulted that it wasn’t me he was afraid to cross. Not only can I not quit, but I don’t even seem to look remotely intimidating. Still it gives me an idea for when I’m retired and old. I can stand in bus stations and chat up unsuspecting youngsters. And wear purple, and spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, yes.

Tender

Blogfolks, hello. You’re looking well. Today marks the 9th month my Special Lady Friend and myself started this…. this thing we’ve got going, and it’s good. So last night she came over, and distracted me from my Spanish homework (and I was learning how to say ‘ two guys gatecrashed a party, got pissed, started a fight, we had to call the police and the next morning they nursed a hangover in the local jail’.)
Then we had rare steak with wholegrain mustard, peppery green salad, and a bottle of Californian Merlot. I’m still working on getting her to cook naked with just an apron, but I shouldn’t have shared with her my burning oil/nakedness experience of a few months ago.

Vernaculaire and dairy products

1. I think your cat’s got the ‘ump, my Special lady friend says.
Yes. Pancho has got the hump, I concur.

There is a blank. The blank morphs into a pregnant silence.

It’s not the same with the ‘h’, is it, she remarks.
I was thinking the exact same thing. Thing is, if I say ‘ump’, people assume it’s a French accent. I just can’t win, can I.
Oh.

2. Blogfolks, I was going to tell you about this man I saw last night, who placed his half-eaten yoghurt on the railing next to me, went into and out of a shop, grabbed it back and finished eating it– in the middle of Victoria station; I mean, has he not heard of spiked yoghurt? But now it doesn’t sound so riveting. So, no. Thank you for stopping by.

Just like home!

1. People of Blogland, I was out on the town last night, and it was just like being in Paris! Really, it was: I was patronizing a cosy candle-lit gay establishment in the company of a lovely friend (all my friends are lovely, though) when I saw outside a gang of hooded youfs gathering, lining up and seemingly up to something dodgy, or stupid, or both. They were looking at the windows of said establishment, but apparently decided against starting a siege and started throwing stones at passing women instead, before moving on. It felt just like home!

2. Prior to that, I went shopping in the most expensive furniture and decoration shop in the galaxy, Heal’s on Tottenham court road; I was painfully reminded of my inferior financial and economic status. I did, however, find a belated Christmas present for my Special Lady Friend. I wonder if it’d have made a good weapon should the potential riot described in 1. above had actually unfurled. I think it might have done.

3. Last night I was trying to convince Abi (who is, although a tall blonde, very lovely) of the many merits of inviting her own SLF over to her place and cook her dinner.

Good wine? Check.
Decent glasses? Check.
Candles? Check.
Music? Check.
A succession of home-cooked, light yet mouthwatering dishes? Check.
A playful dessert? Check.
100% Egyptian cotton bed sheets? Check.

So the following section is dedicated to Abi. Thank you for stopping by, blogfolks.

MENU
1. Green lettuce with walnut and blue cheese (Stilton is fine). Drizzle walnut oil if you have some. Balsamic vinegar won’t work.
2. Today’s suggestion is to combine the hearty mushroom risotto with rare steak. You’ll need an onion, some dry white wine and mushrooms. I recommend Gallo’s risotto rice. A full-bodied red wine with steak, definitely.
3. Poached pears with homemade chocolate sauce (melt over a low heat, add vanilla and cinnamon), sprinkled with grilled almonds and a scoop of good vanilla ice cream. I’ll practice this afternoon and get back to you with details.
PS: Aprons are sexy.

All quiet on the front, I think

1. Blogfolks, tonight I broke up with my mobile phone company. Like for any other break up, I had pangs of what-ifs, I was submerged by feelings of guilt and regret. I wonder if the kind man at Orange thought I was actually sobbing; I didn’t explain that the squeals I was uttering were caused by a frantic kitten trying to climb up my leg for attention.

2. The frantic kitten has entered the pre-teenage phase, and I’m so relieved J is coming back from Up North tonight! I have a kitten-induced sleep debt to pay, and I shan’t be able to do that without his cat-entertaining skills. (He reckons that he finds it easier to do what the cat wants right when the cat wants to do it.)

3. I don’t know what else to say, people of blogland. I’ve promptly forgotten about my Resolutions, except for the fibre one. I’m being quietly happy, and a large part of that I owe to my Special lady friend. Are you getting cavities yet? Thank you for stopping by.

Oh no

#1. No more cheap wine, cheap socks or cheap shampoo. Life is too short for cheap shampoo. Or cheap wine. Or cheap socks.

#2. Paint the bathroom walls. It’s been Violent Blue for far too long. Life is too short for Violent Blue.

#3. Eat more fibre. Fibres. Life is too short for chronic constipation.

#4. Decide of a quota of clichés I can utter per day. Stick to it.

#5. Keep listening to other people even though they’re exceeded their daily quota of clichés. Keep practicing that pa.. pa.. patience thing.

#6. Keep the needles and thread out of Francis’ reach. Francis does not need to floss.

Oils

1.People of Blogland, I’ve come back from Home with a sufficiently renewed sense of horror and a suitcase full of life basics: paperbacks, new socks and a bottle of Gewurztraminer Vendanges tardives.
I also carried, carefully wrapped, a painting.

2. Blogfolks, did I mention that my mother is a painter? Not professional, no, but she’s good. (I have tales of naked hippie communes/painting courses I had to tag along to as a child. Some other time.)

3. Excuse me, Miss. Does this item belong to you? The Custom security man asked as I was boarding the Eurostar.
Yes….?
Was it a gift or a purchase? Would you mind unwrapping it?I laughed.
No, it’s not a precious work of art freshly nicked out of the Louvre, which I’d try to sneak out of the country.. actually you’ll clearly see it’s pretty much got to be mine.
Oh, I see, you modelled for it, he smiled.
Well, yeah. And this is my grandmother, and this is her kitchen.
4. My mother was positively chuffed.

5. Look, blogfolks, this blog is two (2) years old now! Happy birthday, blog. Oh, and, the best new year’s eve to you all. Mine looks promising. Special Lady friend, amazing food, and, well, yes.

Yes, I do spend Christmas with my mother

1. So.
I think this year we ignored Christmas with even more than our usual helping of oomph.
No tree, no cards, no family, no turkey.
I sat by the fire with a book and sipped some fuckingtastic wine.
Then in bed by 11pm on Christmas eve.

2. But!
Around 3am, some rustling-tumbling-scratching woke me up.
Mmm. Closed door. Still, it looked like a ‘the cat brought in a mouse’ situation. I jumped out of bed, put on my riot gear (a tshirt) and investigated. One by one, I lifted every piece of furniture for the cat to pounce. The mouse was found, delicately seized between sharp teeth, and released for more fun and games. I gave up around 4am, left the situation, and slept on the sofa.

3. As I type, we have no idea of the whereabouts of my nocturnal christmas present. it could be anywhere. I dare not sleep.

4. Merry bleeding Christmas to me.