I Give Thanks

In the spirit of the recently passed holiday, I give thanks to a woman who was on the Central Line heading west from Liverpool Street Station.

She was a mature woman with flecks of grey in her dark brown hair and a professional lady's suit suitable for The City or Canary Wharf yet still soft and feminine.

I thanked her, 2 times.

Once, just after she looked up at me, saw the panic in my face as I lost my balance on the slowing train, and grabbed me by my wrist to keep me from tumbling backwards.

"Thank you!"

Once again, a few minutes later, just before I got off the train at Holborn to transfer to the Piccadilly Line, I caught her eye and thanked her again. I was quietly overwhelmed and surprised by the unexpected intimacy found in a stranger's outstretched hand.

The Geezer's words echoed in my head as I looked at the weekend tube closures posted at my station.

"Travelling around London at the weekend is no fun."*

I needed to be at Paddington for a 9:43 train. The information board informed me that the District Line would be closed between High Street Kensington and Edgeware Road.

Pants!

I'd not built any contingency into my plan. My heart started to race. Worse case scenarios started playing out in my head; all the while, I acted like the woman of action some people at work like to think I am. I went immediately to the cashpoint where I withdrew enough funds to get me to Paddington in style. I walked up to Fulham Road and waited at the bus stop. My plan was to take the first bus towards Kensington, where I know the taxi rank is generally well populated. If I'm lucky, I thought, a taxi will pass before a bus comes. I'm not normally confident about getting a taxi on Fulham Road on the weekends. On this Saturday, luck was with me.

The cabbie set me down outside Paddington at quarter past nine.

Loads of time!

I wrestled with the temptation to get a Krispy Kreme chocolate donut with cream in the centre. To many, this is a disgusting donut. In truth, the idea of it is always more appealing than the real thing (which often leaves me feeling sick and depressed and angry with my weak weak self). I had the temptation by the upper hand. Instead of a Krispy Kreme, I bought a postcard of London.

On the train, I filled in the postcard. I let my mom know that I was on a train to Cardiff. That I had resisted the urge to eat a Krispy Kreme donut (I thought she might be surprised that they are available in the UK). That I was on my way to my first ever rugby game, and although it was a job-related obligation, I was kinda looking forward to being social with a group of guys watching another group of guys lock horns on a pitch.

I watched the game, charmed our clients to the best of my ability, and ignored testosterone and alcohol inspired comments intended to be subtle about letting me know that my breasts are of interest.

*His 19 November post.

Navel Nail Gazing

I think about what to write and then look at the dry skin at the edge of my fingernails. The sad state of my fingernails serves as a suitable distraction from my barren brain. As I look at my fingernails and examine my cuticles, I partially think that today is a perfect day for a DIY manicure; the other side of my brain recognises that my interest in my fingernails is a ploy to sidetrack me from my creative endeavours.

Creative endeavours? Who are you kidding?

I straighten the fingers of my right hand and again glance at the poorly shaped, speckled nails. White blemishes indicate I'm not properly nourished. I congratulate myself for remembering to buy some multivitamins and to actually take them. Today it is 5 days in a row of multivitamin intake. I wonder how long it will take the multivitamins to make a difference in the appearance of my fingernails.

I didn't set out to dwell on my fingernails or my vitamins.

I miss my camera. I think to myself that I should buy one.

This week is Thanksgiving, and you'll probably want to take photos anyway.

However, I am realistic. I know that when I get caught up in the day to day concerns that go along with my job, I will likely forget my desire for a new camera; even if I do remember, I'll probably not drag myself away from my desk to the hustle bustle of the not so far away Tottenham Court Road, where cameras are plentiful.

I wonder how much it will cost me. I wonder if I'll follow through this time. I miss my camera.

Zero

I was a little nervous about the tickets. I had called weeks ago to book, but their systems were acting up, and they couldn't take my payment details. They asked me if they could call me back when their systems were up and running again. I said 'sure' but then I got stuck on a conference call and missed their call back. They left a message, though. In the message they said they had my name on the list and I could pay and pick up the tickets the evening of the show.

It's this type of circumstance that exposes my inner paranoid, for, despite the reassuring message, I was a little nervous about the tickets.

Will they really be there? Maybe they'll take me off the list if they don't hear back from me. What will we do if there's been a cock up?

There was no cock up at all.

CBF and I met at Holborn station. We ambled through the Friday evening throngs. Up Great Queen Street, down Long Acre Road, past the crowds milling outside the Covent Garden tube station. We turned up that road where Stringellows is. It was dark and seemed closed. Probably too early in the evening for flesh. We found the little street that is Tower Street where the theatre was meant to be. Up at the mini-roundabout where Upper Saint Martin Lane and Monmouth Street converge with 2 or 3 other of Covent Garden's small thoroughfares, we noticed the Christimas decoractions: giant angels overhead, straddling the streets. We didn't complain that it's too early for Christmas decorations. They fit the mood. We were 1/2 way down Tower Street with Shaftsebury fast approaching (which, according to Google maps, if we got to, we would have gone too far). 3 guys puffed on fags outside a quintessential West End Stage Door, the kind of entry/exit way that fills me with nervous excitement.

Maybe I'll see someone famous!

We walked by the fag smoking boys, but when we didn't immediately see our theatre, we circled back. Where I am a coward and easily intimidated, Petunia is brave and dauntless.

They might be famous; they work in The Theatre. We can't just go and ask them.

CBF (who in these type of scenarios can't be described as plucky because she is naturally graceful in her confidence, and plucky doesn't have the requisite connotation of grace to describe Petunia's fearlessness, her element of pluck) had strolled over to the boys whilst she rolled her own fag and asked about the whereabouts of our destination. I only regained the composure I had lost at the prospect of talking to theatre-types (almost famous types!) as she thanked the boys for their directions, and we turned to go*.

My name was on the list. The venue was funky and seemed to cater to the experimental, the cutting edge. It was my first foray into non-musical theatre in London ...

Shame on you!

and it was intense.

It was uncomfortable and nerve-wracking and loud and sometimes hard to understand. It was, I think, intentionally, all of these things. It was thought provoking and emotionally evoking. It was intense.

Most striking, CBF and I agreed, was the outstanding quality of the acting. Good job to you, and your fellow performers.

I recommend it highly. Be prepared to be uncomfortable. Our discomfort, afterall, is nothing compared to theirs.

*Possibly I should see someone about the inane extent of my starstruckedness. Surely, this is not natural. Certainly, it is not cool.

Waiting for Post

I am expecting some post that has not yet come.

As I am expecting the post, it must be important. One only waits for important mail. All that other crap that comes unexpectedly through the letterbox is just that: crap.

There are three important things for which I wait.

1. I recently purchased a present for myself. This present came from PC World where the man who was doing the selling sold me insurance for something like £3/month. I only agreed to it because he offered me some inexplicable discount if I took the insurance and explained that I could cancel it just as soon as I got home. I agreed to the insurance just to shut him up and speed up the sale. I am an astute business person. I recognised the man who sold me the insurance secretly hoped I would forget to call and cancel the insurance. He would be disappointed. I called and cancelled my protect-your-new-toy-from-everything-including-cancer insurance. The man on the other end of the phone seemed annoyed with my untimely cancellation of my extra-sized insurance policy. So annoyed, he sounded, that I wanted confirmation that the policy had indeed been cancelled. He rattled off what he said was the confirmation code; I suspect he made the code up. I suspect he didn't really cancel my insurance. I'm still waiting for the letter that is meant to come in the post to tell me that he did his job as I asked him too.

2. We have a leak. A leak that requires shutting off the water into the flat from the main under the pavement just outside our property line. The plumber tried to shut off the water, but the valve on the street is broken. He told me to call the water board*. He told me exactly what to tell the lady on the phone. He told me she would contradict what I would tell her so he had me recite my request until I had it just right. Does he personally know that beyatch at the water board? How did he know what she would say? How did he know that I would need practice countering her contradiction? Could he have guessed that even with practice, I would not have the spine to stand up to the steely-fisted woman at the water board. She told me she had logged my request for a repair. She told me that it could take as long as 3 months. Thank God our leak is just a drip. She told me a confirmation letter was in the mail.

3. Did the Home Office receive our applications? That answer too lies somewhere in the post.

*I didn't know 'Water Board' was synonymous with 'Thames Water' so I spent a good deal of time looking for my local water board.

¡Obamanos!*

The Finance Guy was stirring sugar into his coffee when I joined him in the kitchenette area of our office.

"Hey FG. How are you?"**

"I'm a wee tired."***

"Were you up watching the results, FG?" I teasingly ask The FG, because the FG is a serious and practical sort (as are most financially minded folk) and I don't consider it practical to stay awake to watch results which were statistically likely. I would be surprised if that the FG's interest in the outcome had kept him awake past his bedtime.

"I did for a bit. Then turned on the T.V. first thing this morning ...."

He then went on to express his relief at the result. For a full five minutes the normally reticent FG swelled with words about American redemption.

He ended it off with, "You can now hold your head up high. (You) Americans have proven yourselves more sophisticated and intellectual than the past 8 years would have shown."

I nod my head in agreement, but internally I laugh at the irony.

I too turned on the T.V. first thing in the morning: what appeared to be a typical American 'frat boy' - slightly chubby, white, baseball-cap-on-head. He's leaning into a microphone to answer a question.

"Obama, baby! Obama!" His cheer accompanied by some kind of clenched fist salute in the air.

At least the man in the White House will be more sophisticated.


*A new verb in Spanish. Obamar. To Obama. Obamo, obamas, obama, obamos, obáis, obaman. I obama. You obama. They obama. We obamao. You (plural) obama. They obama. To be subject to obama-mania. Hence, let's obama!

**I have noticed this of Americans: we often substitute 'hello' with 'hey' or 'hey there'. I mean, I do; and I'm representative, right? Why do I do that? Am I trying to be informal and folksy and down-homey? There is some merit it not over-analysing oneself. Please shut up.

***Example of poetic licence. The FG did not actually undercut his tuckered-out state with the modifier "wee". He is an Irishman. Irishman say 'wee' -- don't they? Shit, what if it's the Scots who say "wee". God damn it. Why do I have such a wee (crap) ear for accents and dialogue? Be bold. Take a stand. Irishmen say "wee".

Disqualified

I went to the pub today.

My Man, CBF, and I found a table large enough for 5 adults and a baby. This was a good find especially since we were expecting two more adults and a baby. The 2 adults and baby also brought a dog. They were disappointed that Dog was not in tow*

The dog mostly stayed under our table. She did stray over to the next table where she lay her snout and sniffed at the leftovers left over.

The baby drank milk from a bottle served alternately from Mummy and Daddy. She was a pleasant child. No tantrums, no bawling, no crying. Perhaps a bit squirmy. Mummy and Daddy watched over her with the nonchalance of new parents who aren't intimidated by their inexperience. She didn't quite vomit, more than upchucked on her pretty purple top when she had had her fill of lactose.

The table placed our order. Two Sunday roasts, a fish and chips, an Eggs Benedict, and an Eggs Florentine.

The roasts came out first.

"What's that?" I pointed to a bread-y / pastry / roll-like object on each plate.

Mummy, Daddy, My Man, and CBF looked at me in disbelief.

It was then agreed that the Life in the UK test is a load of bollocks, and that I don't deserve a British passport if I don't know what Yorkshire Pudding is.

*Dog is recovering well from an operation, which requires she avoid the kind of excitement found in pubs.