Stuart and I went to the Camden Green Fair this afternoon and had a lovely time walking around.

There was a huge herb stall and I circled it three times controlling myself from buying every single variety of basil on the planet as I already have two on my kitchen sill. (There was African blue basil that was especially gorgeous). I really feel the pain of not having a garden when I look at herbs. I didn’t have any cash on me but Stuart offered to buy me a plant so I settled on rosemary since that is one of my most common purchases.

Stuart bought himself a succulent at anther stall and garlic. The garlic surprised me, with it being an outdoors plant but also Stuart is more interested in aesthetics with plants than with using them. For example, he won’t let me near his aloe.

We wandered over to the next stall where they were giving away pear tree saplings. Stuart took two.

“Honey, we don’t have a garden.”

“I’m going to put it in my office.”

“But it’s a pear TREE. It should be outside.”

“I’ll get a container. All it needs is sun and water.”

“Okay honey.” I’ve learned that there is no reasoning with Stuart when he gets an idea about something. He’s like a raccoon stuck in a trap with its paw wrapped tightly around something shiny. If it let go, it would be free.

“Now all you need is a partridge,” I smirked.

“Waa?”

“To go with your pear tree.”

When we got home we put the rosemary and the garlic on the sill.

“And don’t you go near my garlic!” Stuart turned the plant protectively.

“You do realise that at some point we’ll need to dig up the garlic.”

“What are you talking about?”

I held one of my garlic bulbs against the base of the plant. “This is in the dirt and at some point you’ll need to pull it up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Garlic is a bulb. It grows in the dirt. Like onions.”

“You mean. . .” Stuart turned and looked at the garlic plant. “The garlic doesn’t grow up top?”

“No honey.”

“I thought it would be a little garlic tree with it growing off of. . . the. . .umm. . . leaves.”

“No honey. I’m sorry.”

“I got stitched up.”

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Thursday night I wasn’t in the mood to go straight home, so I roped Al into going for just one. We left the pub at nine. All very civilized. I remember having three glasses of red. Al however said that there were four. Given what transpired next, I am inclined to believe him.

Three or four- That’s a lot of vino, but I can usually handle that. Not saying it’s a good idea- just that I can handle it. I usually however pace myself – especially when drinking wine. I will drink water between the glasses. Spread it out over six-eight hours. I also usually have food in my stomach.

But not Thursday. I drank four (large) glasses of red- basically a bottle if not more on maybe 350-500 calories. In three hours.

I woke up at 6 in the morning in bed. Naked. Luckily it was my bed and Stuart was lying next to me. I flipped the events of the evening Rolodex in my head.

Left the pub. Okay. Laying here in bed. Okay.

Left the pub. Bed.

Pub. Bed.

I was missing everything in between. This has never happened to me before.

Stuart had put a large glass of water and ibuprophen on the dresser for me so I took a couple even though I felt okay and drank half the water.

Stuart stirred and peeked his head over the duvet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You were lashed.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember anything after leaving the pub.”

“You came home at 9:30 singing the French national anthem.”

“I was singing The Marseillaise?”

“See. I didn’t even know it was called that.”

“But I don’t know the words to The Marseillaise.”

“Well, they’re in your head somewhere.”

“I think I’ve watched Casablanca a few too many times.”

“I tried to make you go to bed but you refused. I tricked you by saying you would be more comfortable in your dressing gown.”

Something was coming back. “You undressed me?”

“Yes. And you weren’t very accommodating. You kept rolling around. Then you screamed, ‘Stop hitting me!’ Then you giggled.

“That’s funny.”

“I’m sure our neighbours thought so. Do you remember talking to your mum?”

“I talked to my mom?”

“Yeah, something happened with you sister. She had to have a second surgery. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. She’d called and left a message and you called back.”

“I called back?”

“At 12:30. You were sitting up talking really loudly and woke me up and I had to send you out of the room. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

I can’t believe I can’t remember either. It’s rather scary. I did some quick research on the topic this morning and I found a really great article by Aaron White, PhD. Basically alcohol messes with your brain hitting the record button.

Alcohol primarily disrupts the ability to form new long-term memories; it causes less disruption of recall of previously established long-term memories or of the ability to keep new information active in short-term memory for a few seconds or more. At low doses, the impairments produced by alcohol are often subtle, though they are detectable in controlled conditions. As the amount of alcohol consumed increases, so does the magnitude of the memory impairments. Large quantities of alcohol, particularly if consumed rapidly, can produce a blackout, an interval of time for which the intoxicated person cannot recall key details of events, or even entire events. En bloc blackouts are stretches of time for which the person has no memory whatsoever. Fragmentary blackouts are episodes for which the drinker’s memory is spotty, with “islands” of memory providing some insight into what transpired, and for which more recall is usually possible if the drinker is cued by others. Blackouts are much more common among social drinkers than previously assumed and should be viewed as a potential consequence of acute intoxication regardless of age or whether one is clinically dependent upon alcohol.

There is one benefit of me not eating enough and going to bed without dinner. I was a pound and half lighter Thursday morning than I was on Wednesday. Maybe there is something with the whole starvation thing. (of course I am kidding. And anyone that knows me knows that would not be possible for me to ever do)

I told Al that I had a black-out.

He was surprised. “You must have been drunk!”

That made me feel mildly better that while my record button had been taped over, at least I was functional. . . to someone who had had four pints.

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. Great. I’m hungry because I haven’ had breakfast, but other than that fine. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Are you kidding? That’s great. They should take your blood and study it. Do tests on you to find the secret to no more hangovers.”

While I don’t generally get hangovers, I really don’t fancy another memory gap.

Although, it would be rather fabulous, if deep inside me, are the words to The Marseillaise.

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Stuart came home from being on the lash with Richard.

“We almost got in a fight with. . . I don’t want to say this, but. . . with lesbian skateboarders.”

“What? How?”

“And then they started making fun of me for being straight.”

“That doesn’t make sense. How did you almost get in a fight with some skateboarders?”

“LESBIAN skateboarders.”

“Lesbian skateboarders.”

“Richard was taking photographs of them. And they were all aaggghhhh. And then I was trying to keep the peace.”

“But why did they say anything about your being straight? Did you say anything about their being lesbians?”

“There might have said something said. Yes.”

“Oh God.”

“I just said, look, my friend really likes the way that you’re skating and he doesn’t have any pictures of Lesbian skateboarders.”

“Oh God.”

“I was trying to be nice!”

* Reference to the classic Seinfield episode “The Outing.”

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I’m washing the dishes before the cleaner comes. Stuart comes up behind me and watches me for a moment.

“What are you doing?”

“My nails.”

“Back when my dad, before he got a sense of humour. I would wind him up. He’d be doing something and I would come in and talk to him then I would ask what he was doing. He’d be washing the car and he’d go all agggghhhh.” Stuart waves his hands in the air a la Kermit the Frog.

“It winds me up too.”

“Does it?” There is a glint of pleased in Stuart’s eye.

“It’s obnoxious.”

“You’re just fast approaching the age where you also don’t have a sense of humour.”

“I do have a sense of humour. You’re just not funny.”

“I’m being silly Thomas. You know silly. I know you can be silly. When we first met you were silly.” Stuart went into the bathroom. I heard the shower start.

A few minutes later, I finish the dishes. The shower stops and after a moment I go into the bathroom. Stuart is standing in front of the sink with a towel wrapped around himself holding a can of diet coke. He drinks a lot of diet coke.

We stare at each other. “What are you doing?” I say.

“You know, I’m glad you asked that because I was just standing here wondering the same thing.”

We smile at each other.

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Al put together a book of pictures of Ross and all of us in a notebook for us to sign so he can take away with him to New York and remember us always.

This is one of the pictures of me.

Nicole said: btw. That picture of me- I wish you had photo shopped it slightly. . . my tits look terrible. . .
Alistair said: which one?
Nicole said: Which one? There’s more than one where my tits look terrible? The one with the red scarf.
Alistair said: well I just stuck all the photos we had in. there are some terrible ones of all of us.
Nicole said: It’s different when tits are involved.

He didn’t reply.

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Stuart: Why do you think I’m a bad person?

Nicole: I don’t think you’re a bad person.

Stuart: You think that I’m just out to antagonize you. . . And that’s not strictly true. . .

Nicole laughs, looks for her note book and scribbles something down.

Stuart: Why are you laughing? No. . . don’t write that down! I hate when you– why is that funny? You’re going to blog this aren’t you?

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STUART: What are you doing for dinner?

NICOLE: Might run to the store. I fancy lamb. You?

STUART: Going to make my salad. Would you like some?

NICOLE: Um. I don’t know. What is your salad?

STUART: Beetroot, hard-boiled eggs, grated cheese. Mild cheddar. Cheaper the better, salad cream and crisps. Using frazzles tonight. . . Why are you looking at me like that?

NICOLE: How did you learn to make this meal? Was it passed down in your family for generations or is it something you came up on your own?

STUART: My salad is nice. Don’t knock it. What are you doing?

NICOLE: Texting Al your ‘salad’ recipe and that I think it is a good cause to divorce you.

STUART: Giving away my salad secrets!

NICOLE: Yes Stuart. I am. In fact Gordon Ramsey may very well steal it and put it on the menu at Claridges.

STUART: Where?

NICOLE: Never mind.

STUART: You know I can cook. I know you say I can’t but I can. I got an A in Home Economics I’ll have you know. I know how to make fish fingers and chips. . .What are you doing? You’re writing this down???

NICOLE: What else can you make Stuart?

STUART: I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just go around telling everybody.

NICOLE: What else can you make?

STUART: My casserole is really nice.

PAUSE

STUART: You take a dish and you cook some chicken.

NICOLE: You can cook chicken?

STUART: Yes, I can cook chicken!

NICOLE: How do you cook the chicken?

STUART: I don’t know! So you put the chicken in the bottom of the dish, add a bit of gravy, layer some chunky chips on top, squirt brown sauce all over the whole thing then mix it up with a wooden spoon.

NICOLE: Do you bake it all?

STUART: No. It’s already hot.

NICOLE: What else can you make?

STUART: Spaghetti.

NICOLE: And how do you—

STUART: Basically you just microwave it. What???

NICOLE: I’m intrigued. What else is in your repertoire?

STUART: Glazed chicken.

NICOLE: How did you glaze the chicken?

STUART: I. . . I glazed it with a sauce that I like.

NICOLE: Brown sauce.

STUART: I burned brown sauce on it, yes!

NICOLE: Burned?

STUART: That’s what glazed chicken is isn’t it? Listen, this is food that I like. I know it isn’t what you would do. You should try my potatoes with breadcrumbs.

NICOLE: Potatoes with—

STUART: You take potatoes and—

NICOLE: –cover them in breadcrumbs. Yeah. I got it.

STUART: You can cover chicken or fish in breadcrumbs. Why not potatoes?

NICOLE: You should go on masterchief.

STUART: My favorite thing I ever made was a candle burger.

NICOLE: I’m sorry. A. . . what?

STUART: Candle burger.

NICOLE: I don’t get it.

STUART: You make a burger. Then take a candle and put it in the bun.

PAUSE

NICOLE: Like a birthday cake?

STUART: No, not like a birthday cake! It’s a hamburger.

NICOLE: Sorry. How silly of me.

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“Stuart? What time do we get back Sunday?”

We are going to Rome this weekend. I’d planned on staying in London for the long four-day Easter weekend, but a few weeks ago I came home to find that Stuart had done a drunken Expedia purchase.

“Five.”

“So I won’t have time to make Easter dinner then. Okay. Maybe I’ll do it Monday.”

“Easter dinner?”

“Easter dinner.”

“What do you mean Easter dinner?”

“You know. A meal. On Easter. Where Christians and those that are no longer Christian but still carry on the trappings of Christian celebration get together and eat some form of roast beast.”

“What do you have?”

“I usually make lamb.”

“I’ve never heard of this.”

“You’re kidding. You must be.”

“No.”

“This is a fairly common thing Stuart. A lot of people go home to spend time being tortured by their families.”

“Yeah. No. Never heard of it. Is Al going home?”

“Trying to get out of it. He’s debating between telling them he stepped on a land mine and blew off his leg or food poisoning. I pointed out that the land mine route might not be the best as it would require cutting off his leg at least by Christmas, but he said it was worth it. . . How can you have never heard of Easter dinner? Did you never go home for it?”

“Well, yeah. But just to get my Easter candy.”

* Kinder Surprise is like Cracker Jack. Except different.

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Please note the following is an amalgam of IM, spoken conversation and my imagination.

Nicole: For the Day 2 class I had three Spaniards and three Germans.
Al: That sounds like the start of a joke.
Nicole: It was all really good. Laughed a lot. They were all really funny.
Al: Even the Germans??
Nicole: Especially the Germans.
Al: DON’T MENTION THE WAR
Nicole: I didn’t notice this, but the last woman who did her presentation did. She speaks English with a North American accent because of one her parents. All the people from Spain used PowerPoint and did fun topics like ‘How to make Sangria’. All the Germans used the flip paper and did really dry work topics.
Al: Ah.
Nicole: But the really funny part was when I invited them to give me feedback about the two days, one of the German women said—
AL: ZHIS IS NOT VERY EFFICIENT!
Nicole: Well, actually. Yes.
AL: You’re kidding.
Nicole: No, I had ended the first day at 2 and she thought it would have been a better use of her time if I gone on until 5.
Al: It’s just too easy.
Nicole: The Spaniards weren’t fussed.

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Nicole: You realize that our friendship is based on whinging and beer?
Al: That’s not quite fair.
Nicole: You’re right.
Al: Thank you.
Nicole: There is also chocolate.
Al: XXXXX the slag from XXX is here.
Nicole: How come?
Al: Dunno. Maybe she’s looking to have some more extra marital sex.
Nicole: Timely that the health e-mail about getting tested for Syphilis was just sent out then.
Al: She went to her hotel at lunch and changed clothes.
Nicole: Maybe she’s going out tonight.
Al: She dressed down.
Nicole: Or she spilled soup or sperm on her skirt.
Al: Mark is asking why I’m laughing.
Nicole: I dare you to tell him.
Al: I’m going to let it pass.

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