*

I blame myself.

There was an ad in a local magazine asking people to either adopt a greyhound or help take them out on walks.

Stuart loves greyhounds so I showed it to him. One of the pictures is a Santa’s Little Helper look alike with huge brown eyes.

Stuart looked at it. “Ohhh!”

“Maybe we could volunteer to walk them.”

“Ohhh!”

“They have a Wimbledon branch.”

“Ohhhhhhh.”

“Sweetie?”

“But then we would want to take one home.”

“We can’t take one home. We can’t have pets and we don’t have a garden.”

I wish we could adopt a dog. I miss having a fuzzy. What was great about my cats was you could leave them alone all day, go out for dinner and they’re okay as long as they have food and water and a clean litter box. Sure they may not be happy with you that you weren’t there worshiping them, but they will be ok.

Dogs, you can’t leave alone in a flat for 12-15 hours unless you like everything chewed up and smelling of poo. Not unless you have a garden.

Yesterday Stuart decided we were going to adopt a greyhound.

“Honey our lease.”

“Leave that to me.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I think you are just going to bring a dog in here when we aren’t supposed to have one.”

“Pffft.”

“And we don’t have a garden.”

“We’ll hire a dog walker.”

I did a quick bit of research and I found a walker in our area that charges ten quid an hour. Times that by five working days and you are talking about fifty quid a week.

All day long Stuart was making plans about the dog. I started to be a bit caught up in it and did some research online and looked at dog personals. But I just knew it would end badly.

“Honey, we would never be able to meet after work for dinner. We’d have to come home first to let the dog out. I think we should wait until of lease is up and then move into a flat with a garden. If you are willing to get a dog walker than you should be willing to pay an extra 200 pounds toward rent.”

“Okay. . .”

He looked like a little boy and I felt like a mean mom.

*This is a picture of Charlie. This is the doggie that I fell in love with looking at the pictures.

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There are certain things for which I am thankful. Like, I have never, not once done the mackarena. See? I don’t even know how to spell it! That is how little I know it.

I am thankful that I now have a DVR once again so I can fast forward and rewind Ugly Betty to my little hearts content. (Can I just say- how fabulous was that series finale? Dad stuck in Mexico with bad things brewing, Betty’s almost boyfriend has to put the brakes on because his just broke up with her girlfriend is up the spout but wait! She has been having an affair with Betty’s Dentist so maybe it isn’t the love of her life’s baby who of course is doing the right thing and moving back with the conniving bitch to Tucson. Alexis rushes an ODing Daniel to the hospital in her/his (she has had a sex change you see) Father’s car.. They are travelling down a long windy road which is strange since the magazine is in Manhattan, but you think that maybe they are going to run into their mother who is making a prison break on a dark road very similar to the road that they are travelling on, but No! All is not well because THEY REALISE THAT THE BRAKES HAVE BEEN CUT! – See, the thing is, Alexis paid a hit man to kill her /his father. He/She didn’t know how, didn’t know when, (Can I just say, not a smart time to borrow Daddy’s Porsche). CUE BIG CAR CRASH. Are they alive or dead bloody but still attractive shot, which is a miracle of physics given how fast they were going on the WINDY ROAD WHEN THEY REALISED THE BRAKES WHERE CUT! The receptionist discovers she is the daughter of the murdered Fay Summers. . . not to mention the shooting of Santos. I got a bit teary, I don’t mind telling you, although that might have been the 2nd glass of wine hitting my blood stream. It was just too much along with the junior high acting scenes of ‘West Side Story’ (Okay how fucking cute is Mark Indelicato?)

The third thing I am thankful for.

No matter how sloppy I may look.

No matter how schlumpy.

I will always remember to wear pants/trousers.

I’m funny that way.

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I know I have been a bit quiet lately. Sometimes I get annoyed with myself when I find myself writing, I did this and then I did that posts as if I was 16 and this was my journal. It also becomes difficult when you want to write about something but it doesn’t feel right because of the eyeballs that see this. I often wish I had an anonymous blog to blab whatever I want- but that smacks of onanism. (That’s a fancy way of saying jerking off.)

Friday night Stuart was due to came back from a few days in Madrid for work. He said that he would be home about 11. I went to the pub with work mates and it was a fun evening except for the two times I was trapped speaking to a couple of people who think a conversation is someone else listening to them drone on. I left at 10 so I would be home when Stuart arrived. The first sign that the evening held bad things in store was my oyster (tube pass) going missing from my pocket. What sucks is I had just bought my weekly fare that morning. Kiss £27.50 by-by.

I got home and waited for Stuart. And waited. And waited. He wasn’t answering his phone. Finally at 1 he called and asked me to meet him outside. That he had a gift for me.

I was. . . angry. . .

1. He was two hours late
2. He was drunk
3. He wasn’t dead as an excuse- although I would be killing him soon.

I went downstairs and there he was holding a traffic cone with a flashing light on top.

“Thomas Cole! I’ve brought you a gift!”

“You’ve brought me a traffic cone with a flashing light on top.”

“A bollard Thomas. I’ve brought you a bollard.”

“Why did you bring me a bollard Stuart.”

“Because it’s a gift! Come here so I can take a picture of you next to it.”

It was at this point I think that I hissed that he was fucking insane and what would the neighbours think and what if he caused an accident with the flashing light traffic cone, sorry I mean bollard, going missing and did he see what time it was and where the flying fuck had he been? I turned and went back inside.

I heard him follow me and go into the living room.

I steamed.

After a few minutes I went downstairs and he was passed out on the sofa. I decided to leave him there.

I really needed to just get away for the weekend. I would find a cheap Ryan air flight somewhere, anywhere and get the hell out of dodge for a few days.

I opened up our little mini safe where we keep our passports and pulled mine and–

Stuart’s passport was there too.

But Stuart had just come back from Madrid. His passport should be with him.

I got his mobile, and flicked through his text messages.

You know what I am going to say next. It’s the oldest story in the book.

I’m not sure what I am going to do. I’ve been staying the last few days with a friend. I don’t know if I am going to go back to America. Do I talk to work to see if they will sponsor me? Do I stick it out until November, get my visa and then leave him. . . I don’t know.

It’s kinda crap timing being April Fools Day and all.

Yes. . . April Fools Day!

Did I get you?

The entire story above is a lie. Well, except for the part where I went to the pub and lost my oyster.

And Stuart going to Madrid- yes, he really did go. . . I think.

And the part where he stole a traffic cone with a flashing light and told me it was my gift and made me take a picture next to it. That really did happen, but it was a few weeks ago.

If you walk down our street, you will see it outside our flat.

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Waiting to get on the Southbound Northern line train at Waterloo. People stream out of the train. There is a group of us poised to push onto the train the moment no one else is getting off so that we can either get a seat or find a spot between the seats to stand in where we won’t be crowded too much by icky, nasty strangers.

A woman steps up to the doorway, but doesn’t step onto the platform. She blinks. She looks confused.

We wait for her to move. “Step onto the platform or move,” we think.

We wait.

and

wait.

We wait a very long time.

Five seconds at least.

An Englishwoman in front of me says. “Er, Ex-cuse me. . .” right when I bellow, “ON OR OFF!” I sounded every inch an obnoxious American.
She scuttles onto the platform and we get on the train finding seats, which in the middle of rush hour is lucky, then again the train was only going to Kennington, which was not lucky.

I know I should feel guilty for yelling at the woman, but I don’t. I have zero patience for people who decide to fiddle with the luggage the moment they get to the bottom of a crowded stairwell without moving to the side or people that decide to do their taxes at the ATM when there is a gineourmous queue and I can now add to the list for people that stand in the door of a train during rush hour not knowing if they want to leave or not.

I usually don’t let the urban bitch out however. The New Yorky, “HEY! I’M WALK’N HERE!” vibe cause, well. It just isn’t very nice. But it does have its place.

It certainly worked a bit better than the Limey, “Er, excuse me. I say, do you think, perhaps, it might be possible for you to move out the way, perchance?”

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Is it wrong that I am a little annoyed that I can’t go to one of my favorite sushi restaurants around work because it is closed due to the investigation by Scotland Yard into the death of Alexander V. Litvinenko?

Yeah. It probably is. . .

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