days when I ain't spotty

I am feeling a bit sorry for the person who found this blog by searching 'January 2008 reasons to be cheerful'. I know that feeling. I have been there done that.

It would be too obvious to suggest getting an ukulele (though...)

Might I suggest cooking something for yourself from a recipe: perhaps a nice healthy soup, or if that isn't your idea of cheering yourself up (I am strangely cheered by health food, particularly after a week of debauched living such as we have mostly all just had) something with a lot of saturated fat in it. Cheese straws, for instance (more fat than flour!).

Further to the soup/cheese straws I suggest spending at least an hour on the phone to someone nice.

Failing all the above, I find a bloody good cry works wonders, or at least aids restful sleep.

PS I have no idea why I suddenly started posting, either, but suspect that the holiday may be the key. Here's hoping for a better term than the last one. That would indeed be a reason for cheer.

tea for two

Little Friend Susan and I walk down Great Russell Street. We are supposed to be going to the pub, but I am gasping for a cup of tea.

'I am gasping for a cup of tea' I say. 'Can we go and get one before the pub?'
'Sure' she says, 'Though I'm not sure any of the cafes will be open. They shut at about 5'. She is right. All the bright, warm cafes that I noticed on the way to meet her are pulling in their chairs, wrapping cling film around their mexican chicken sandwich fillings and turning off their Heartfm. 'How very foolish' I say.
'It's your culture' says LFS with a wry smile. She is not from 'round here, and banters occasionally with me about things in the UK which she considers to be silly.
'You can't blame me' I say, 'I was only born into the culture. I didn't set it up.'
'I think that you are complicit, though' she says.
'Oh dear, ought I to have been standing outside cafes protesting their foolish opening hours with a placard?' I wonder aloud. We leave it at that, as I have clearly (and unusually) won the argument.

We have been walking around looking for cash machines and cafes for about half an hour. All the cafes have shut. 'We'll just have to go to a pub' she says. I agree, and fortuitously we are standing at the door of The Plough, a very fine establishment (as it turns out). 'I don't mind if you drink tea' says LFS as we push through the heavy door.

'Don't be silly, it's six o'clock!' I say. You can't drink tea after six o'clock - you have to drink beer! It's virtually the law!'

Ah.

nice young men who sell antiques

Saturday: I have chores to do. I really must do something with the wardrobe monstrosity if I'm ever to sleep in my own bedroom again, and those Christmas cards aren't making themselves.

I'm standing on the Northern Line, on the way to meet Little Friend Susan for a coffee. Everyone looks fascinating, probably because I'm wearing my headphones and can't hear what they're saying. I'm also suffering a terrible urge to look people in the eye and smile. I am waiting for this to get me into trouble.

Two dead people get onto the train. They have faces of furry wet clay, lips closed and dry, eyes pale and blank. Their skin tone has been painted on in blotches of white, pink, yellow. He is hooded in grey, her hair is scraped back from her face; her only definition two smudged rings around her eyes. They stand wordlessly lowering the temperature of the carriage. Two stops later they rush off and we all drop our shoulders again.

I meet LFS and we go to Exmouth Market, where I eat a lamington almost the size of my head. Two hours later I am sitting drunk and giggling in her plastic-shrouded loft, my timetable comprehensively derailed. When I am finally released she and her husband wrap me in spare jumpers and push me back out into the early evening to wobble home in my bubble.

knickers to you: two

I receive a text from Phildar:

'I forgot to put on my knickers today. And it's quite nice.'

I pause briefly to wonder whether she actually meant to send this text to me, how on earth she has managed to forget to put on something which goes on first, and then consider my response:

'Slattern!'

When I see her later at dancing I enquire about the state of her underwear. I am relieved to learn that should she have an unfortunate incident involving public transport, then her family will not be shamed. And then, sort of by accident*, I mention the knicker incident to Dancing Boy; just as they are about to dance together. He is inordinately flustered, and actually blushes. He might have even fluffed his first-move-hatchback-comb-crab-combination**, which is unknown.

The next day I get another text from her:

'My elastic has gone and I have had to tie a knot in my knickers. It's true.'

It is at this point that I remember the first time I went to the pub with her. I am beginning to sense a theme. I reply:

'I left my phone at home today but am enjoying the underwear soap opera'

Today's episode, sadly, is unpublishable.

*I was unable to resist, what can I say?
** I made that move up.

when the autumn weather turns leaves to flame

Phildar has rung me to ask why I'm not going to the Rivoli. 'Is it a man?' No, it isn't. We get off that subject and consider instead her compulsion to put policemen into jumpers. 'How are they supposed to press the trigger if their little hands are frozen?' she asks. I hold an image of her handing out cable knit jumpers and fingerless mittens to the boys in blue. We pause to contemplate the affect of aging. The pausing mainly involves helpless laughter.

I tell her that I saw a jumperless policeman on Long Acre on Friday Night. He was shouting directions to somoene in a South London accent and looked as though he was out well past his bedtime. I mentioned it to Mole at the time. They're getting younger; they definitely are. Mole was more concerned with the boy's use of language. We'll be writing letters to the broadsheets yet.

tout le temps perdu ne se rattrape plus

I'm sifting through about 700 and something emails, the stuff I never bothered to re-direct when I changed to my gmail account. It's junk and mailing list stuff but every now and again I look through it before I delete to make sure no treasure is slipping through my fingers. There is never any treasure.

Suddenly there's a name I recognise from my deep and distant 19yr old past. A girl I knew. A good friend with whom I have had tenuous contact over the past twenty years. I open it up to find halloos and the usual enquiries about what I'm doing and where I am. I'll have to deal with that and inform the her of the new administration, I think.

Then I notice another sentence. She's had an email from a once mutual friend. He sends his love.

Love?

The funny thing is, I don't really remember the details of the end of our friendship. I believe I walked away because I was feeling hurt, and then never looked back until it was far too late to return. I used to do that. It's very possible that I still do. I remember the friendship, how important he was, and how I have regretted losing touch. How I've looked for him on busses and trains and in crowded places now and again over the years and reminded myself that there is no point in looking for a 20 yr old when we are both aging. How I've wondered what he looks like, what he does. How it's a bit odd coming now, because the new administration has brought so many changes that I find myself examining all of my past relationships (platonic and otherwise) to see if I can find clues in them; so he has been on my mind recently. How I didn't find any clues, only embarrasment and regret.

He sent me love? Of all the things, I never expected that.

re-evaluate along the dotted line

I am having a little moment next to the dancefloor, despite the fact that I've had a great time with my friends, despite the fact that I've had three glasses of wine which I discover under the new administration now means 'pissed', and despite the fact that the last act as well as being very funny had a really, really, really nice arse*.I wish I were dancing, I wish I were at home, I wish I were younger, prettier, thinner, blonder, stupider. Mainly I wish I wasn't bloody single.

Trouble emerges from the loos, and we stand for a while admiring the diverse dance styles and categorising them. 'Desperately overconfident' and 'Good grief, a tank top?**' are the two main categories. My moment passes. We abandon the struggle with our limited self-respect and push our way to the centre of the dancefloor, where we run through a lengthy gamut of openly stupid dance moves. These moves were mainly developed as a result of working on a routine for 'Ugly Bug Ball' last summer with a class of very 'special' 7yr olds, and needless to say we fit in seamlessly. We are drawing admiring glances. Or something.

Using the tried-and-tested method of pointing an elbow forwards at head level and following it we tour the dancefloor. There is a paltry selection of geeks, 18yr olds, and those who may be dancing but who may also be stumbling slightly. As usual, Trouble is propositioned. We make our excuses and leave.



*Oh that arse. I shall be thinking about it for days. I am quite sidetracked now; even through the hangover. Oh my goodness.
** Tank tops are in again. You heard it here first. Don't even think about it if you're over 25. I'm getting one tomorrow. Cable knit.

best foot forward

The Unreliable One returns. It's quite a story: go and see.