I woke up on this, my first day, of a nine-day stretch away from the confines of work, with one thought…I hate my Other Housemate’s boyfriend!
She is a sweet and conscientious student, whom I simply call The Other One because we don’t socialise together. We have, however, had some intellectual and fun conversations in the kitchen and she makes lovely homemade hummus. HE is an arrogant twat with a sizeable, and therefore, unavoidable mole on the side of his face; plus an even more sizeable ‘up your own arse because you go to Cambridge’ attitude. I happen to know someone who was accepted to Cambridge once; and if we’re using him as a benchmark for potential Cambridge Calibre, then all you really have to be is slightly socially retarded, yet possess a extraordinary talent for music and the arts. So Eff you and your mole, and stop waking me up at this UNGODLY HOUR on a Saturday with your appalling music and your post-run groans. TWAT.
Rant over, it’s a sunny day and, if Harold Camping - genuine Reverend/Insane Person – is to be believed, it’s our last day on Earth. I’m not sure I buy into the rantings of someone who has put actual money into posting his prophecies all over the Internet, after all, The Mayans don’t do that. I guess all I can really be thankful for is that The End appears to be holding off until about 6pm so I have just enough time to catch the last day of Margaret Harrison’s ‘I Am A Fantasy’ exhibition at the Payne Shurvell Gallery. I feel very distinguished and cultured as I type that. I also just heard a very strange noise outside my window and, fearing it may be the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, wound up my blind to face my doom. It was a lawnmower.
I am slightly concerned about my mental health at the moment (I know, when am I not concerned about my mental health?!) Just prior to my rude awakening thanks to The Mole, I had roused myself with a sudden fear that I didn’t know where my nail file was. I had no need for such an implement at this time, but a snapshot of the file’s packet lying on my bedroom floor sent me into something of a panic about where the beloved Miss Manicure was. Methinks I have been reading too much Jon Richardson that I am now developing my own OCD. Or perhaps, like Mummy Musing often hints at, it is something that has always been there. Either way this, much like a lot of other things in my life, needs to be stopped in its tracks, before we cut to more sleepless nights about the state of my cutlery drawer/scrap paper tray/insert randomness here.
And now onto more pressing matters, like Stand Up For The Week and how I literally felt that I had been standing up for the whole week during filming.
Lovemenot and I were on the tube to Mornington Crescent; Lovemenot was the usual vision of laid-back, Joplin-lovechild beauty she always is. I had opted for a quirky look in the form of a vintage tea-dress with mustard tights and chunky tan platforms in a bid to impress my new crush, topped off with a wing-ed eye and a nude lip. I had also opted for allowing myself two hours to get ready – just in case. Several moments of queuing later and we were given green wristbands which, as it turns out, means nothing more than you get to fight your way to a half-decent space about 2 minutes before people with white wristbands. Once inside, we nestled into a spot on the first balcony behind a bunch of Whitehall-groupies (one was potentially EVEN shorter than me so we thought we could probably take them on).
The filming itself took about three hours. Kevin Bridges as compere was incredible, Jack Whitehall was phenomenal and the special guess Dave Fulton was outstanding as he joked about general miserable English attitudes. Being an American he can do this and it doesn’t sound either boring or offensive. There were breaks in which everyone was too scared to buy a drink or take a trip to the Little Girls/Boys Room for fear of losing their places. Then Fate stepped in, in the form of a small lady in front of us, who was leaving just in between Andi and Jon’s sets. I didn’t even consider why she wouldn’t want to stay for J-Rich’s stamp on Sport for the week, I simply slipped into prime location at the front of the balcony and tried to rest my feet, which were killing from the heels I had stupidly chosen to wear. A girl has to suffer for fashion, and the suffering was not in vain as lovely J-Rich took to the stage with his awkward nervous twitches and general hilarity. He was concise, rehearsed, hysterical and unbelievably sexy – in short the heels and the wait and the wristbands were all worth it.
I would, however, like to thank the two larger-than-life idiots who had unfortunately positioned themselves next to myself and Lovemenot, only for an argument to ensue halfway through Andi Osho’s set, about one taking the other’s place. Not only that, they then decided to try and get me involved in refereeing due to my being carelessly pushed during this scramble – don’t start with me, I’m just here for the Stand-Up Totty and the laughs. Still, I didn’t appreciate missing most of Andi’s act due to some whining American’s bitter words with someone who might have been Kevin Bridges’ Dad. For the record, the furtive two hours of getting ready paid off, as proven on playback on the night SUFTW was aired. Cue a screen shot of myself and Lovemenot laughing heartily at Jon’s Ashley Cole jokes. Oh how happy I was leaning precariously over that balcony. And I’m still sure he looked up. Several times.
Of course, living in Dalston, there had to be some jibe about the choice of mustard tights, which I feel complimented my ‘Librarian Geek Chic’ outfit, from a suitably drunk/stoned/threatening passer by. So a big thank you to the Tosspiece in McDonalds who took it upon himself to fulfil that oh-so-predictable role with his sniggering, and quite frankly, ugly friend. Why don’t you come back to me when you can find a Pleather Jacket that fits you? Don’t choke on that Quarter Pounder now.
Well aside from my considerable man-bashing, which upon reading back this blog, I have been doing a fair bit of these last few weeks; The L-O-V-E word is still very much hanging in the Summer air.
Lovemenot is still all smitten with the Young Cherub. There have been Cider-fuelled dates in the park, Friday Fright Night dates watching Insidious (which, when translated, apparently means – Unscariest and Frankly Most Laughable Film of 2011) and he’s even made a homemade Lasagne for her. A man of many talents this Young Cherub appears to be – not only can he cook, have decent conversation and make Lovemenot feel a bit lovely; he could also stand in as inspiration at The Louvre for portrait sessions and sculpture classes! Still, this new man has led our Lovemenot to close the chapter with Mr On-Off-On-Again-Off-Again and for that, may we be truly thankful. My little girl is all grown up, one day it will be my turn!
My post would not be complete without a mention of my Oldest and Dearest Goldie moving up to the Big Smoke in the name of all that is the Anti-Theist Tallboy. Having been in a relationship with The One for over a year, she felt it was time to make the move and carve out a new life for herself, with him, in London. Which works for me! Cut to a new job at The Independent and I am hearing tales of trouble in co-habitation paradise…over no less than a duvet! I honestly never thought I would hear the day Goldie beamed about making dinner for her beloved, resent his intrusion of her dance game on the Kinect or query the argument that ensued over who had stolen the ‘whole effing duvet’ after one sleepless night. It really is at times like this I like to spread out like a starfish in my delightful double boudoir, safe in the knowledge that I do not have to have these conversations. Then I remember the nail file and it all comes flooding back that I still have sleepless nights for very different reasons.
In quite surprising news, The Fox is still relatively on the scene. I am yet to retract my statement about his rubbish communication, as it tends to be about four or five days before I hear from him; but I will retract my statement about his mediocre kissing, as this was proven very much wrong on a date night in Hoxton this Tuesday just gone. I sort of half-thought it was all over after the first one due to lack of texting. Then, one Wednesday evening, I was chilling in my room after a hefty dinner of Enchiladas with Stickels and MMH, my phone chimed and The Fox’s name was unashamedly displayed across it. We had a lovely conversation, banter was flying around the flat and Stickels’ attempt at distracting my attention by performing various sexual positions in my room was quite the sight. A date for the following week was set and that was Hoxton last Tuesday. I have learnt over the past year, that whatever you have going on with a man, it’s probably best not to listen to the advice of your gay BFs. This is mostly because they will just suggest sleeping with as many men as is humanly possible so as to appear aloof and uncaring.
I think I am warming to The Fox though. Despite the lack of regular contact and the half-arsed attempt at trying to get me back to his on Tuesday (no it didn’t work), we have a lot of fun when we’re out. The conversation flows, he is very funny, stylish and is nicknamed Simon Le Bon by his friends due to his love of turned-up cuffs on blazers. I’m just trying not to think about it too much, or actually talk about it too much. But I like the fact that he remembers conversations we have had, I like that he is here and in the now and I like that he has upgraded from mediocre kisser to actually quite good kisser. I am not one to speak too soon (anymore) but there may be the slimmest chance that perhaps someone is finally chipping away at the surface of Miss Musing.
So I do hope you all enjoy your Potential Last Day On Earth. Spend it wisely as I will. I am off to view indecent art, consider the procurement of a parasol and potentially a nose piercing and, if it all really is about to end, I have a heartfelt Facebook message drafted and a map of Swindon at the ready.
Mwah x
No comments:
Post a Comment