Girls Abscond Fearfully

CBF and I were afraid from the start. As we travelled across town on rail replacement bus services, we lost ourselves in imagined versions of what was yet to come. Occasionally, one of us would rib the other with an elbow to point out something notable along the bus route from Clapham Junction to Vauxhall.

"Check out that outfit!"

"Ooolala!"

"Have you ever eaten at that burger joint?"

"That's not a burger joint; it's a surgery!" Peels of laughter at my expense.

"The 's' and the 'y' were blocked! I only saw 'urger'!"

Both of us giggled and ignored the fear that pervaded our trip.

CBF's most recent living arrangement hadn't worked out. Inconsideration had led to a frosty chill, which led to heated words and slammed doors and fists shaken, which can be quite intimidating when the fists belong to a near two metre (very tall), 110 kilo (very heavy) bearded bear of a man. On the bus to CBF's soon to be ex-residence, we hoped, prayed, and crossed ourselves that he wouldn't be home when we got there to pack up the rest of CBF's things.

Our incantations - or dumb luck - seemed to have done the trick. His car wasn't in the parking lot. When CBF pushed open the door to the flat, the lights, the television, the computer were all off. We jumped into action. CBF stuffed the remainder of her clothes into a duffel bag whilst I emptied the bathroom of all feminine toiletries. The only words that passed between us were to confirm any outstanding logistical decisions associated with CBF's moving out.

"I should clean out the fridge. There's a soup in there I made ages ago."

"Fuck that. He's been eating your food for months. He can just as well clean the fridge out himself."

Much of my bravado behind taking this stand was fuelled by the fear that he would come home mid-fridge cleaning.

To be clear: our fear did not stem primarily from a perceived physical threat; rather, we dreaded the inevitable scene that would surely play out if he came home whilst we absconded with the remainder of CBF's items. It would be weird, uncomfortable, awkward.

Finished. Phew. Scott free!

We went to the kerb to wait for the Addison Lee driver who would pick us up to take us home. CBF rolled herself a cigarette while I danced a jig to keep warm.

Almost there. Almost there.

"Where's that damn taxi?" CBF's lips quivered.

A dark van with the tell-tale minicab sticker pulled around the corner.

Home Free!

The flatmate idled just behind the minicab.

"Shit, shit, shit shit!" CBF mumbled as she grabbed suitcase after suitcase and loaded it into the minicab.

The flatmate glared at us as he pulled around the taxi. We'd narrowly missed the awkward conversation, now we wanted to get the hell out of there. When we gave the minicab driver our destination he looked puzzled. For a moment he didn't say anything. When he did speak, it was the cold, honest, hard truth.

"Wrong cab. Get out."

Torn Apart

Sometimes you start something, and get newly energised and excited. That's how it was with me and the pig. I imagined myself traipsing around London with Pig in tow. I would take photos of the pig in Trafalgar Square, in Hyde Park, in the National Portrait Gallery and both Tates and the different Inns. I can't say the Smoke was getting tired, but the pig gave it even more promise. I imagined myself breaking my natural reserve, talking to strangers, and taking their pictures with the pig. I was going to be a charming, quirky girl about London with a plastic pig and an snapshot taking camera. I had it all planned.

Sometimes reality gets in the way of imagined new beginnings.

It really wouldn't do to carry around 1/2 a pig.

Cirque

My Man, The Pig, CBF, and I went to see the trained humans twirl, roll, glide. The Pig was particularly excited by the prospect of performing humans.

Meanwhile I wondered, yet again, what was meant by the question of how many holes to fill this hall?

They must have been stoned.

I just don't get my mind around the question.







Erstwhile, the pig posed, and I clicked whilst CBF distracted My Man so he wouldn't know what I was up to. If he caught on, he would never take me out in public again.

Pig* Likes Kate

The floppy-haired man in the park rubs his belly and informs me that his wife is a member of BAFTA. "So we get to see all the films, you know."

And what? They left you hungry?

I wonder how it is that some men can publicly caress their disproportionately large bellies, as if they take a certain pride in their paunches.

I'd seen him from across the park.

Shit. Not the floppy-haired man.

I popped behind some laurel bushes, but Dog bounded straight for him.

No! God damn it, Dog.

Dog is particularly fond of the floppy-haired man's dog and even the floppy-haired man himself, who, to his credit, is warm and cheerful and affectionate with Butters.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again, what an ambassador for her breed. She's made me like Rottweilers again."

If he would end it right there, it would be great. But floppy-haired man is a non-stop authoritative talker. About everything. Mugabe's destruction of Zimbabwe. Diamonds in Kimberly. The price of tea in China. And who this year is most deserving of a BAFTA nod.

*Where is the little pig?!

I Love the Snow

“The driving conditions are not ideal.” The minicab driver makes this observation at 4:15 in the morning.

We roll our way through London’s snow-covered back streets. When we hit the main thoroughfare, the driver accelerates. Here the snow has either been ploughed or swept away by previous travellers. We can travel at almost normal speeds.

The afternoon before, I hadn’t take the weather warnings seriously. Predictions of snow in The Smoke always seem exaggerated, if not just wrong.

I spent most of yesterday evening in the kitchen. I didn’t see the weather from the small brickwall-facing window. It wasn’t until the dog fell into a fit of barking, calling me to the reception that I began to pay attention. Dog barked up towards the skylights, feathercoated with ice-slush-snow.

“CBF! Come look!”

CBF joined me from the kitchen.

“Oh wow.”

I repeat her words the next morning. It seems London can have a real and proper snow.

I wish my camera weren't buried at the bottom of my bag. I wish I could ask the minicab driver to stop for a moment. A old-style bicycle, the kind you see in Amsterdam, is leaning chained against a fence, snow balanced atop the saddle, the handlebars, the wheels. It’s black and white without any special setting.

I love this.