Complaints

I haven't got enough space










I haven't got enough time.








The heart attack I was having on Thanksgiving Day was actually heartburn. I suppose I shouldn't grumble about that.









And: Something which should be so very easy (html tables and alignment for easy-on-the-eye spacing -- compatible across browsers would be nice) has turned out to be a royal pain in the arse. The time crunch has forced me to use carriage returns as a band-aid to my spacing wounds. Boo. Hiss. I'm ashamed.

No Royal Wave

As it transpires, the corner of Kingsway and Great Queen Street is quite an eventful corner.

The day after Flesh&Blood dirtied the asphalt of Kingsway*, I stood at the very corner where it had all begun. The same last hours of a typical workday awaited me. I clutched the very same gourmet coffee order that I had sing-songed on the previous day:

“Triple grande, skinny, extra-hot, wet latte please.”

Twat.

Wallowing in morbidity, I let myself re-live the sound of Flesh&Blood’s thud. I felt a tremor of trepidation and looked to the left before lifting my foot to begin my way across the busy street. From the direction of The Strand I saw something special: silent, blue-flashing lights. Big, sleek, black automobiles speeding towards me.

Aha! Some Very Important Personages approach!

Then past me.

The lead car (from which the blue lights flashed) was making the way for a sleeker, more luxurious main car, in the back seat of which resided two Most Very Important Personages: His Most Patient Highness, the Waiting-To-Be-King Prince Charles and his blushing escort, Camilla. In the flesh and blood.

Me and the first in line to the English throne separated by some 8 feet, some metal, some 35 miles per hour, and the equine-featured lady: his bride.

I always felt I was destined for greatness.

* If it weren’t for the very good health of the Queen, this might be a very apt street name.

Doing Nothing

The man standing next to me is Flesh&Blood. I don't give him or his vulnerability a second thought. Or so I think. It is only after the incident that I realise I must have unconsciously registered some impressions of the man: nervous, impatient for the stoplight to change -- like me, I imagine, he's in a hurry to return to work -- his suit is stodgy, drab, and slovenly worn; I think he is a computer science professor, and he has almost-adult-aged children at home.

Before the incident, slovenly-dressed Flesh&Blood stands next to me on the corner of Kingsway. Together, we wait for the light to change. I clutch my just-purchased triple, grande, skinny, extra-hot, wet latte*. The cup warms my hands even through the protective sleeve. The aroma of strong espresso promises a hint of pleasure during the last hours of work. I'm itchy to get back, don't want to be missed. Before the light changes there is a lull in the traffic on our side of the street. I put my foot down first. He seems to follow my lead. Together we head to the pedestrian median where we'll stand and wait for either a lull in traffic going the opposite way or for the light to finally force the traffic to come to a halt. Then, and only then, like Frogger we'll continue our journey.

But: Mr. Flesh&Blood doesn't pause at the pedestrian median with me. He thinks he has some kind of turbo boost. He thinks he's going to make it all they way.

I become all thought and no action.

I see him attempting the impossible. My brain screams, "WAIT!!!!!!!!! Sir!!!!! What are you doing?!!!"

My mouth, however, is struck dumb. In my mind's eye my arm stretches out and grabs Mr. Flesh&Blood by the dishevelled collar. In reality, I hold my coffee closer to my chest. I see the white van approaching, slowing, but not fast enough.

My eyes squinch closed. I shake my head: no, no, no, no, no, no, no ... it's not going to happen ...

But, it is a case of wishful thinking. While my eyes are busy protecting me from the reality of Flesh&Blood impacting with oncoming-vehicle, my ears tell the truth. The thud is sickening. Flesh&Blood is seeping onto the asphalt. I don't move. I hear the shocked exhalations of other pedestrians. Others react. They go to the aid of Flesh&Blood. The van driver emerges. A circle congregates around the man who has been knocked to the pavement. I do not. I don't want to stare. I want to un-see this stomach churning sight.

I'm not sure what sickens me more: the actual battering of Flesh&Blood or my reaction - or rather lack thereof.

*3 shots of espresso in a large non-fat latte. Extra-hot so it lasts at my desk. Wet because some baristas confuse lattes with cappuccinos. I don't want to be high maintenance, but I am; especially if I'm paying £2+ for a coffee; I want it the way I want it.

Tools

There are some activities that require skills that neither My Man nor I have. It's true: we are not fantastic at absolutely everything, hard as it may be to believe. Specifically, any activity that requires a degree of "handiness" will certainly trip us up. Comfortable with this self-knowledge, we reach into our wallets and hire a professional any time a tool might be needed.

The casual reader may be thinking, 'Yeah, right, nice excuse for being lazy. Bourgeois slacker.'

Really, it has nothing to do with being lazy. Nor a slacker. There are plenty of activities that My Man and I really hate doing, but nonetheless we do quite well. Things like work and going to the gym and flossing. We do all those things. All by ourselves. And quite well. Just ask our dentist.

In the realm of hammers and nails, screws, wrenches, winches and drills, we are wholly uncomfortable. From time to time I do tighten the screw that holds our bathroom door knob in place. On those occasions, I delight myself with a certain sense of accomplishment associated with DIY*. Anything more complicated than a loose screw: we call for help.

Some help is more proficient than others, as we are learning today.

I hide myself away with the Internet and pretend to be invisible while the manly sounds of "handiness" resonate around me. My Man paces back and forth. The professionals are under the mistaken impression that My Man has been designated to oversee the work in progress. He's doing his best to oblige, but I know he wants to disappear into the Internet too. For a brief moment, I feel badly that a sexist regime has thrust this role upon the unwilling man of the house. But then I google 'sexist regime', and the plight of women in Afghanistan distracts me from the current discomfort at home.

"KERPLUNK!"

Oh, boy. That didn't sound good.

I sink myself deeper into the Internet. Despite trying to be invisible, the Mista finds me. He has a vein in his forehead. It is bulging. I worry about the history of heart attacks in his family. His jaw is set.

"They don't know what the fuck they are doing." He mutters.

It's a shame that neither do we.

*DIY = Do It Yourself. Do they use this abbreviation in the States? I don't remember it before my life in London.

Foxes, Fireflies and Up and Down Buses

This morning I saw a fox.

I haven’t experienced this particular type of thrill since 1973 when I learned to catch fireflies, which I kept in a glass jar next to my bed in lieu of a nightlight. Despite the fact that I had cut breathing holes into the glass jar’s aluminium cover, the fireflies were dead in the morning. Short-lived little bastards.

The fox scampered down my street. He was, he perceived, followed by a cyclist; whilst I, he perceived, threatened him from the front. He looked at me. He looked over his shoulder at the cyclist. He looked guilty and jittery as he scampered onto a side street to avoid the cyclist and me.

I didn’t try to catch the fox. I wasn’t going to stuff him into a glass jar with breathing holes pierced into the aluminium lid. I've learned that lesson.

But, my breath did pause for the briefest instant, suspended by Nature’s unexpected appearance in the city, just as it had when I was a kid when I saw my first firefly.

After seeing the fox and feeling smug for getting up at such an ungodly hour, I boarded the No. 14. I took my customary seat and pulled out my little journal where I make notes for embryonic Very Important Posts. This one was going to be about a fox in the wee hours of the morning. It was going to be very clever. But, then, at a stop light (where generally I do my best work), the bus raised itself a few inches. Then lowered itself. Then raised itself and lowered itself, again.

The light turned green. I swayed and swerved. My pen swayed and swerved, making the task of documenting my encounter with the fox not as pleasurable as it should have been.

Another red light, and I anticipated the respite from swaying and swerving that I needed in order to be able to properly pay tribute to Nature. But, no! Again up and down, up and down, up and down throughout our entire stay at the red light. A green light: more swaying and swerving. A red light: more up and down, raising and lowering of the bus. Green, red, sway, swerve, up, down all the way to Picadilly where I was fed up, and the fox nearly forgotten.

What do you reckon this morning's No. 211 driver was doing anyway?

My Man

I was at a loss: I didn't t know what to call the guy who lives with me.

I had thought I'd call him "The Other Half" or "The OH" for short.

I wavered between that and "My Other Half" or "My OH".

Then I had - or rather, thought I had - a Eureka moment.

I will use “The OH” or “My OH” depending on how affectionate I happen to feel toward the guy who lives with me at the particular moment when I am composing my Very Important Posts. It will be a subtle distinction. Eureka!

So that's how the guy who lives we me started off: The Other Half. My OH.

But then I read a list of hated things on the site of a much admired, talented young writer. Said Talent hates the term "Other Half" as much as she hates "Significant Other". (So, if I am going to let Said Talent's pet peeves influence what I call the guy who lives with me "SO" is out too). By the by, Said Talent also hates lol … and I use lol a lot. I use lol a lot because I laugh out loud a lot. I laugh A LOT. Out loud. I’m certain that at times I am annoying with my laughter. On occasion I have to resort to self-clamping – by which I mean covering my very own mouth with my very own hand in order to muffle my hearty peels of laughter. And I also really like lol because I used to work with a guy who didn’t know what it stood for and for months he thought I was sending him ‘lots of love’. I love that. That makes me laugh out loud. Lol. Lol. Lol. See, lol is a very useful abbreviation. Maybe not for a scrooge (which Said Talent can NOT be accused of being …. I think she’s just highly discriminating), but certainly lol is useful in my day-in and day-out life. Or, at least that part of my day-in and day-out life when I am sending instant or text messages.

But back to the guy who lives with me. What do I call this guy?

He's my best friend. BF could do .... if it didn't sound cheesey.

The great Jonny B has already procured the LTLP. Greavsie invented Barbarella for the gal that lives with him. Could I call the guy, 'Ken'?

The guy who lives with me often acts as my financial advisor, so should I call him FA?

Sometimes he's a pain in the ass. PITA's got a good ring, but it wouldn't really be fair since he's generally not really a pain in the ass.

Hmmm. What do you do when you don't know what to call the guy who lives with you? What do you call him?

[Update: a really cool blogger suggested a really cool name. It was a lot better than 'My Man' but distinctive enough to be google-able, so My Man had to go into the witness protection programme with me.]

Intimo

CBF commented on my first post.

CBF isn't CBF's real name, but you probably surmised that, being the astute readership that you must be. CBF's real name is Czech Best Friend, which she hates, understandably. Her parents, a couple of hippies living under the communist regime in Prague, owned an English teenage acronym dictionary. CBF is for Czech Best Friend.

I'm off track. Sorry about that.

CBF asked if there wasn't something more I wanted to share with you lot -- about my personal hygiene regimen.

And, yes, there is.

At first I thought it would be too intimate to talk about Intimo*. A lady doesn't reveal her secrets. CBF reminded me of the fact that I don't often ever pride myself on my ladylike qualities. For example, I curse. I don't paint my fingernails. Sometimes I will paint my toenails. I drink pints. I definitely burp. Sometimes ... on rare occasion ... I ... fart.

There, I've mentioned the unmentionable; now sharing Intimo doesn't seem so foreboding.

I suspect there were ulterior motives behind CBF's question.

she and I have harboured great ambitions: we have often talked about becoming Intimo moguls. You see, Intimo is not readily available in The Smoke**, and we think we've found our opportunity. London's is a market ripe for products catering to personal cleanliness. If there is any doubt, take a nice whiff the next time you are in The Tube. Then you'll know I'm right.

Regarding CBF's ulterior motives, I suspect that she saw this blog as a vehicle through which we could achieve our dream. She might be on to something.

So I will begin taking orders now. Feel free to email me with your requests, and I'll get busy setting up my Intimo PayPal account.

*For those too-astute-for-your-own-good types who happen to mention that Intimo is not Intimo but really Infasil, fuck off. It's fun to say Intimo. In Tea Mo! In Tea Mo! In Tea Mo!

**It's an Italian product.

The Famous

I am easily starstruck

Unfortunately, I lose my well-practiced veneer of the studied urbanite when I'm anywhere near celebrity. Any celebrity: big or small; A-List, B-List, C-List or X-List; politician; sports figure; star of the silver screen or boob tube floozy.

My Man would tell you that I'm downright uncouth in the presence of greatness such as Sandy from Big Brother, Series 3.

2002.

On this particular brush with greatness, My Man and I are treating my father to a pizza at the Pizza Express on St. Christopher's Place. I know, I know: Pizza Express isn't exemplary London dining. But, my Dad is over from America. What's he know? He's lucky that My Man and I are willing to be seen with him and his white socks and trainers and money-pouch hung around his neck in public. And his luck doesn't stop there: an outing in London and a celebrity siting!

I'm suffering all the symptoms of Celebretititus. My eyes bulge, my neck cranes, I chew on my lower lip. I stammer, 'Dddaaad. Tha tha that guy over there ... ' my nod in the direction of Sandy is not as subtle as I would like. 'He's been on TV.'

Dad twists around in his seat to get a good look, turns around, with a shrug grunts 'Never seen 'em before." then returns to his pizza.

My Man, having been born and bred in NYC is a true urbanite. He shakes his head in humiliation.

I'm certain Dad will be suitably impressed if I fill him in on the level of fame to which Sandy has reached.

'See, Dad, he was on Big Brother. He used to wade around the swimming pool for exercise every morning; he couldn't take it any more so he escaped the house by climbing over the roof.'

Dad looks at me like I wasted his hard earned money on my university education. He just keeps chewing on a slice of his 2nd rate pizza.

A brush with Sandy is but a small test. These days, my aspirations to stay cool in the presence of fame are being sorely tested. Right Said Fred lives in my neighbourhood!

Pepe's

When we drunkenly stumble out from the basement of a Camera Care / Repairs shop at 5 O'Clock in the morning, we know we've had a result: we're NOT old! we've still got it!

The night didn't start off with such high falutin' aspirations:

My Man and I have misplaced ourselves: we're non-ravers in a raver joint in Brixton. And, we're old. The oldest ones with the possible exception of the bald guy in the corner who is, My Man informs me, a drug dealer.

"What? How would you know?" Just the slightest hint of scorn in my voice. Like My Man would really know.

"It's obvious. Look."

A whisper in the bald guy's ear. A laugh that is, seen even from a distance, false. A handshake: money passes, and something else.

Drugs in this kind of establishment? I don't believe it.

Oh, come on. Of course I believe it. Look around. Strobe lights. Imitation smoke -- or is it fog? Girls - for they surely aren't women - do some kind of accelerated, new age Can Can to the pulsating beat dictated by that God on stage, the DJ. Half the girls wear boots made out of Wookie dyed fluorescent pink or blue or green.

What would Chewbacca say?

My Man and I nurse our beers. CBF joins us. We're fish out of water. The three of us are here on purpose. We've come to say good-bye to a wild child who happens to be our friend. The beer fuels us.

We say good-bye to Wild Child and move from Brixton to Clapham. And later from Clapham to Soho where, when Bar Solona closes and our faces shine with disappointment that the night has come to a forced end, someone whispers in our ear, "Go to Pepes. It's open late night." And that's how we found ourselves under a Camera Repair Shop called Pepe's where we discovered the fountain of youth.

Clean

I'm clean. Squeaky.

Hair washed (and conditioned).

Teeth flossed, brushed, and Listerined.

Skin soaped up and loofa'd and scrubbed pink.

Nails trimmed and cuticles pushed back, on all ten fingers and all ten toes.

That dry, hard skin on the heel of my feet: gone. Pumiced into oblivion.

A sudsy wash cloth taken to the back of my neck, to the back of my ears. Against the advice of every older person to every younger person learning about self-maintenance, I've barrelled a Cotton Bud (Q-tip) down into my ear canal.

Other areas - too private to mention - have also received hygienic attention.

Every inch of me has been sanatised. I've been cleaned up and am ready to go.

Funny, with all the fuss, I'll just come back smelling of smoke.