Stuart took me to dinner. This was an auspicious event as I seldom get any one on one time with him other than when we are sleeping. Stuart needs to have an entourage about which is often fun, but it can also be exhausting to constantly be sharing your time with others.

We were going to go to a tapas place in our hood, but they are closed on Mondays. We wandered down the street and found an Indian that looked nice (and it was, we will certainly be going back).

There were a couple of men two tables away that were using their loud outside voice even though they were inside in a tiny Indian.

“Didja see Casino Royale.?”

“Yeah.”

“Whadja think of it?”

I immediately got the sense that the person asking the question would base their opinion depending on how his mate responded.

“I liked it. I mean it’s a different character really. It was starting to become a caricature.”

“Yeah,”

“Like when Sean Connery was doing it. Cartoon.“

Stuart leaned across our table. “I’m going to go over there.”

“Please don’t.”

“Sean Connery was doing double 0 seven thirty years ago.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to go over there.”

“Please don’t.”

“If they mention David Niven, I’m going over there.”

“I would rather you didn’t, but I understand.”

A half hour later the loud talkers had moved on to politics.

American politics.

“So 1988 there was Bush. Then Clinton. Then Bush, now there might be a Clinton again. There could be twenty years of a Clinton or a Bush.”
“It’s like Maggie Thatcher.”

Stuart leaned over our the table, “Don’t go over there.”

Loud talker babbled on. “They’re going to try and get Arnie in. Pass a law so he can run.”

I mumble, “It will never happen.”

There was fear in Stuart’s eyes. “Thomas! Don’t go over there!”

We didn’t go over there. Marshall McLuhan wasn’t available to tell them that they were idiots.

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So you know how I said that we would be seeing The Police in September?

Stuart first realized that something was amiss when he looked at the concert dates on the official Police Website and they didn’t have a date for Cologne while the company that we bought the tickets from (Tickett Out) did. Slightly worrying as Stuart has already booked and paid for the flights and the hotel.

Our fears were amplified after reading reviews for the company on Blagger.

They were confirmed when you try to call the company and the message basically says, “We’re out of business, don’t bother leaving a message.” When you go to their Website now you are redirected to a Insolvency Notice.

Fuckers.

Stuart filed a complaint with his credit card company so hopefully we will get the cash back.

So bad news. No Police.

Good news is I hear that Cologne is lovely.

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This morning, around 9:07 if you were at Lisle and Wardour Street, you would have seen a woman take a serious face first tumble on the sidewalk. (Hint. The klutz was me.)

I’m no stranger to tripping through life.

Late April 2000 I was on a two-week holiday with my then boyfriend and his parents in New York City. We were staying at his Uncle’s house in Pelham Bay, a tony neighborhood in the Bronx.

Little ole me went to Yankee Stadium, The Met, The World Trade Center. I had the best cup of coffee on the planet that I ordered from a guy in a truck on the street. I ate Sabrett dirty water hot dogs and chocolate egg creams.

I fell in love with New York City and I had barely seen anything.

One day toward the end of the first week we met up with a Uni friend of mine that had just moved to Queens. The plan was to go to MOMA. Only problem was when we got there, the curators were striking. Being good liberals that we are we couldn’t cross a picket line. We broke out the travel book and decided to go to Greenwich Village. I was wearing these boots with a chunky heal that were all the rage at the time. They had the benefit of being stylish and comfortable.

Walking down the sidewalk, I managed to catch a patch of uneven sidewalk, lost my balance and fell.

I heard my ankle snap even before I hit the ground.

I guess it isn’t a trip to NYC without a visit to St. Vincent’s.

The next few months were not a lot of fun, although the vicodin did make my job much more enjoyable.

Last night Stuart and I met up with Jen, Richard and Matt for a drink and tapas. Jen’s knee is giving her some problems and we talked about how London would not be a fun place to get around in if you weren’t mobile. People run over folks on crutches and maybe two stations on the underground have wheelchair access.

I think I was tempting the gods.

This morning walking to work I looked right then left before I crossed the street and I managed to catch a bit of sidewalk and I fell, flailing, grasping to hold on to air. I wasn’t even wearing ridiculous shoes—they were very sensible Mary Jane wedges.

As I fell, I thought, “No, this can’t be happening.”

Well. That’s a lie. I think it was more like, “No motherfucker, No!”
There wasn’t a snap this time, but there was a pop. And it was my right ankle rather than my left.

I lay there stunned. I struggled to stand up. A few iPoder Londoners stepped over me. (slight exaggeration.) One gentleman, (Polish, I think) asked me if I was ok. I smiled through tears, “Yes, yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”

I shuffled off and the ankle seemed ok. A touch stiff, but I was fine. I felt myself limping around the office slightly but I thought I dodged a bullet.

At lunch, things took a bad turn. I kept whining, “It’s really starting to hurt.” When it was time to go, my slight limp and become a full on hobble.

By the end of the day, it took everything in me to just to not put head down on my desk and sob.

I called a cab and went home.

It was mortifying limping to the lift. (Am I becoming English?)

Stuart picked me up some paracetamol with codeine and a pizza which made life a lot more better.

So good news. I didn’t break my ankle. Bad news. I have a rather nasty sprain that is having me hobble around the house like an old lady. . .

I think I will need to quit my Lindy Hop classes.

Damn my klutzy ass.

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A friend of ours is experiencing domestic strife and will be sleeping on our sofa until they find new living arrangements. This got me thinking about my past domestic and singleton nightmares and how good it is that I don’t live on planet evil idiots anymore.

While there are times when I know Stuart could happily strangle me and when I could beat him with a stick, I am so happy that he is my fella. . .

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It’s over now. Thank God.

I think that Valentine’s Day is an evil, evil thing.

I remember when I was little it meant staying up for ages to write out cards for everyone in your class (even for the boy that ate paste that you didn’t like who you will end up dating 18 years later and when you break up with him– out of curiosity – only out of curiosity mind you– you will still read his horoscope and his blog and when you see women looking cozy with him on his uploaded flickr pics you will cackle to yourself and think ‘just wait until they realize he is evil’ but then part of you wonders if the evil one is you—I mean they look so cute cuddling on the beach—but then you remember there were pictures like that that he had taken with you and it’s not that you want him back- Jesus- fuck- god no- You just want every female on the planet to know that even though you don’t want him anywhere near you and even though he has a Rainman ability to talk about music and movies, he hasn’t taken his medication for a long, long LONG time which means he will be a freak to your friends and drink all of your good booze and pass out and snore really loudly—after. . . a-hem. . .

I’ll get me coat,

Another boyfriend who was a friend for a very long time – who I recently cut off when he stopped acting like a friend ought to—when we were together became rather verbally violent (five- six years ago or so) when I opened his V-day present and didn’t achieve a pre-determined level of ooooooooooo suuuuuuperrrrrrrrrrr awessssommmmmmmeeeee (insert orgasmic expletive here)

The gift was—

A silicon dildo.

A PURPLE silicon dildo.

Yeahhh. What every girl wants. Not that I was complaining exactly.

So wa’ ‘appened.

I open a present, Big Purple Dick Inside A Box.

I laughed.

If I may ask, what would you do if you opened a box and found a big purple dick inside?

I’m just saying.

Even if you wanted a big purple Justin Timberlake- (keep in mind he was still just a Mouseketeer) dick in a box you would probably giggle. . .

Anyhoo, I laughed– but since he and I had been having problems—him being psychotic and all, my giggling at the purple (his favourite colour) member didn’t go over well.

At work in America, V-Day was always about chicks getting big stupid arrangements of flowers from big stupid idiot boyfriends/husbands/girlfriends/themselves that left the big stupid idiot chicks that didn’t receive the big stupid idiot arrangement feeling like they were lacking something—like they missed the class on how to give head or something. Even when I was one of the big stupid idiot chicks that got the big stupid idiot arrangement, I felt like a big stupid fake half (most) the time. . . but maybe that’s just because I wished my boyfriend would be hit by a bus.

Luckily there wasn’t that problem in my department today. Not one stupid arrangement.

Maybe it’s an English thing.

Oh yes. Sorry. Errum. No. We don’t go for big stupid arrangements of flowers that indicates some level of general feeling. No. No. We would much rather. . . well. We’ll talk later in the cab when we don’t think anyone is listening- but yes. It is VERY naughty indeed. . . Oh yes, you bad, bad, naughty dirty girl. . .

Sorry. I’m spiralling.

Valentines Day was something that that my dad would always try to do something a little special. A box of chocolate. A card. It made me a touch grumpy for a while as a young adult when I realized that dad was a fuck fit and that most men – in fact everyone actually was a fuck wit. . .
I was a ball at parties.

Stuart doesn’t ‘ do’ V-Day. At first this bothered me. Now I think it is fantastic. I would so much rather have a man in my life that buys me a book on a random Saturday because he knows I would like it verses candy, dinner, new panties (well actually I can do with some more pants) etc.

I must admit I couldn’t help myself and I had a plant sent to him today. The best part is Mr. Anti-gift loved it.

So V-Day, I’ve hated it for ages- but today was nice. I woke up cuddled against Stuart. I had drinks and a meal with him and some of his work mates. As soon as I spell check this I will be ending the day cuddled next to that annoying pain in the ass.

I think it might be the best Valentines’ Day ever. . .

But it’s over now.

Thank God.

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I’m not normally one for getting excited about bands reforming after many years of hating each other. I controlled myself from seeing The Eagles, mostly because the ticket prices were so dear and I was very broke even though I love them and Don Henley.

But the news that The Police were getting back together did fill me with glee. What can I say. . . I’m a child of the 80’s and I do love Sting. Saw him in 1999 in LA and he was fantastic. Also one of my friends Margee had a celebrity run in with him and said he was very nice. And he does Yoga. . .

However even hearing that they were back together, I just assumed that I wouldn’t be seeing them.

Cut To:

Stuart has bought tickets and booked our flights and hotel to see them in Cologne in September! So we get to see one of our favourite bands and have a little mini trip to a beautiful city. . .

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Stuart says that I owe the 10 of you that read this an apology because my entries for the last week were rubbish and I haven’t discussed a few things that happened.

I have also been a bad Thomas about uploading pictures. I haven’t uploaded flicks onto flickr since Christmas. . . What I do feel bloguilt about is failing to mention the weekend before last - going up The Monument and our treck out to Hampton Court. . .

so this is a me playing catch-up.

Christmas

Little Emily

She may be one of the cutest babies ever. . .

I love this picture of Fizz. . .

She looks like the Egyptian God Anubis with her big ears when they are straight up. Here her subtext is, “What the hell, man. . .”

Rock Lobster

I guess I forgot to mention when I blogged about a work dinner from a month ago that we played with our food.

I mentioned our trip up to see Ollie. . . but here are some pictures.

The Monument

Stu refused to walk up it because he is afraid of heights but the sweet thing is it was his idea to take me to see it. What is The Monument you ask? It commemorates the Great Fire of 1666 and if you walk up the 311 steps

you get some amazing views of the city.

And then a week ago Saturday we went to Hampton Court. It was Stuart’s idea to take me because he thought I would like it.

I didn’t like it at all.

I loved it.

How could you not?

My favourite part was the kitchens.

This area worked sort of like a gas hob. You would add or take away coal as needed for the level of heat you required. Down below there were two areas- one where the ash would fall and the other stored the coal that you would add.

This is where they would roast meat.

The Gardens didn’t suck either. These pictures do not give to justice at all. . .

And then it snowed last week. . . I was working at home that day so I didn’t have to get up in the morning but Stuart took photos for me.

And then I took a flick when I woke up.

Friday we went to a Battersea bar for birthday drinks for Richard’s girlfriend which was lovely.
Sadly I don’t have photographic evidence but I looked kinda cute. I had also brought the girls out which might be why at one point when I went to the loo, a guy grabbed my arm and slurred, “Sexy!”

I chose to be amused and flattered rather than offended.

That evening, I also met this sweet doggie.

People being free to bring their dogs into pubs may be one of my favourite things about this country.

So there we are. I’m caught up.

Mostly.

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Sitting in the living room watching bad TV (why am I watching Big Brother? I can feel my brain sloshing around in my skull when I watch this pap.)

Stu went to bed early since he was up beyond late working last night.

I’m avoiding cleaning the kitchen.

I decide to face it. I walk into the kichen to see–

that Stuart has done the dishes for me. . .

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I stepped out of The Langley, a club in Covent Garden. I looked left. I look right. Which way was the tube? I am one of those people who thinks which ever direction I am facing is north. I decide to go right.

I stumble onto Leicester Square almost like I know what I am doing.

It never fails to amaze me how complicated London streets can be. For someone used to the western US grid city, it is rubix cube on acid.

The tube in the late evening has a totally different vibe from the rest of the day. 99% of the people range from slightly buzzed to totally off of their tits. There is a hum in the air from the chatter of drunks chatting with their mates. When you’re sober on the tube at night you feel a bit separate yet superior all at the same time.

I had been a little worried about being tempted to drink at a work dinner and then drinks after for a birthday boy and girl, but I stayed on the water. Two bottles of sparkling H2O at dinner. It goes without saying, I broke my seal and went to the bathroom at least fifteen times during the evening.

I hopped on the train, plopped into a seat and opened up my book and found the dog-eared page.

At Waterloo a man and his mate got on the train and sat down next to me. I felt the guy sitting directly on my right glance at me so I looked up and smiled. I’m not sure why I did this. The only people I smile at on the tube are babies and even the babies sometimes give me a look that says, “Well that’s a bit forward of you isn’t it? Mum! Did you see that strange woman smile at me?”

“Don’t worry darling.” The mother coos, “It’s just a nasty American.”

“Dear God!” The baby blinks in Morris code.

At work, my desk is right by the kitchen so nearly everyone walks by my desk at least five times a day. I have a bad habit of looking up and smiling as they pass.

(What are the rules for acknowledging people in the office? If you have already said hello and smiled once or twice, should you ignore them for the rest of the day?)

Anyway, I smiled at the guy. Not a big smile. One of those quick corner lift, then my nose back in the book dealios.

I could feel him looking over sussing out what I was reading while he chatted with his mate. Then the most shocking of things happened. He spoke to me. That’s what happens when the English drink. They find themselves capable of having conversations with strangers.

“Is Elephant a good short story?” (The book was called, ‘Elephant and Other Stories’).

“Yeah, it is actually.” I flip the book over and show him. “Raymond Carver.”

“What’s it about? Sorry to bother you!”

“No, no! That’s fine. Umm. . . it’s about this guy that is being bled dry for money by his ex wife, his mum, his brother, his kids. He has no life because of it.”

“Raymond Carver. What kind of stuff does he write about? I love short stories.”

“Oh wow. It’s. It’s a lot of slice of life stuff. Men and women breaking up. Getting together even though they probably shouldn’t. Misunderstanding each other. Disappointment. Check him out. He’s really great.”

“I love short stories. Do you know Gabriel Garcia Marquez?”

My eyes light up. I love Marquez. “Yeah! I love Marquez. Love In The Time of Cholera–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, One Hundred Years of Solitude, they’re great, they’re amazing but his. . . Hey! You’re an American!”

He didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. Not like, ‘Wow! An American is talking about books!’ It was just an observation. He could have just as easily said, “Hey! You’re wearing a red scarf!”

“. . .But his short stories. His short stories. It is just– He creates this entire world that just grabs me. Pulls me in. In such a short. . . time.” He smiled then seemed at a loss of what to say next. “But I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s always nice to find people who love books.”

I wasn’t quite sure what else to say. It was obvious that he wasn’t on the pull, he was just chatting about books. At least I don’t think he was. I smiled and went back to my story and he gossiped with his mate. When he got up at Stockwell he said, “It was nice talking you. Enjoy your book. Sorry if I disturbed.”

“No, not at all. It was nice to talk to you.”

He got off the train.

Walking along my street later there was a daft song bird twittering away as if it were dawn. You could hear it trilling all the way down the street. I thought it was lovely. I’m sure the people in the flats nearby had a different opinion but the birds song sounded like a happy little smile.

I washed my face and was in the middle of brushing my teeth when Stuart came home. Let’s just say that he would have been among the majority of folks on public transportation in regards to his blood alcohol count.

I peeked over the top of the stairs. “Hi.”

He jumped up like a cat sprayed with a spray bottle. “WHuuuuAHHHHHaaHH!”

He collected himself. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t notice. Did you hear that bird near the school?”

Stuart flapped his arms as he walked up the stairs. “Crazy bird is going to wake up tomorrow and realize- FUCK! It’s winter! What am I doing?”

He stood at the top of the stairs waving his arms like Big Bird. I laughed. He put his arms down and grabbed me in a bear hug.

“Ah, Thomas Cole. I like it when you smile.”

“I smile all the time.”

“No you don’t. Not really.”

We brushed our teeth and went to bed. Behind the wind you could hear the nightingale.

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I’m staying at home alone tonight to ring in 2007 (Don’t worry! I’m fine- Stuart is fine.) I have had a few invitations, but this has been my plan for about a month now.

New Years Eve 1995 I also spent alone, although not by choice. I was terribly sick, so I hid in my scary Seattle studio apartment that I shared with ten million cockroaches and sang the blues in a big way. I thought I was still in love with my ex, I was broke, I hadn’t been doing any writing. . . and here I was stuck in my apartment with the lurgy. Grade A not fun.

I didn’t feel it was possible that cold lonely night, but 1996 turned out to be a good year for me. I earned a bit more money (A whopping $25,000 which felt like a fortune), my friendships with people in Seattle deepened, I started to date a terribly sexy boy who all my gay boyfriends had a crush on, (which was very,very good for my ego) I lost weight, moved into a one bedroom apartment in my building that I only shared with my cat and no bugs, and in ‘97 I got into the American Film Institute and moved to LA. . . I was getting my shit together. Sort of. –I don’t think I will ever have my shit completely put together.

There is no way that I could have known that eleven years later I would be where I am at now. . . There are some things I definitely would have done differently. . . I haven’t done enough writing, I’ve hooked up with some of the biggest wank stains on the planet, and I practiced general fiscal irresponsibility. . .but all of those mistakes (or should I say, poor choices) led me here. . . and I am very happy to be here sharing my life and negotiating bed space with Stuart.

So Happy New Year everyone! A special kiss to Stu– Oh, and please don’t get arrested tonight.

I hope that everyone is happy and safe. . .

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

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