…Coulrophobia
I had a virtual fight. Unfortunately not of the Street Fighter kind. I got K.Oed by mac mail.
Mr Right and I had an argument last night, via email. My heart is breaking. Being away from each other so much is difficult. He down there. Me up here, under there, in out in out shake it round about…
It’s hard to share those ins and outs of the day to day. I spend so much of the day talking the last thing I want to do in the evening is gas about it, and so long at whatido that when I finally get through to the other side of the day I can’t talk about it, not about work, not about play, not about doing what I want to do. Saying what I want to say becomes the last thing I have to achieve and the first thing I forget to do. Too many people to see, too little time to see them. Living how I want to live is hard on the people I claim to Love (he says, hence the fact I have had MC Hammer in my head since last night). That was what started it. Not MC Hammer. He said, “Living how I want to live is hard on the people I claim to Love”
He think’s I’m condescending. I’m not. It’s all in his head. He’s just…hummm…I don’t know, jealous? MR isn’t what people would call confident, or sociable. He doesn’t like company (typical writer) except of the people he stakes a claim on. He won’t propose, and I don’t want him to, but he has staked a claim on me, planted a flag between my butt cheeks for me to wave at him as I pass by. HAILTHECONQUORINGHERO. When he’s here, with me, he is my world, every last gorgeous bit of him. Truth is though that I have to be shared. I have to see other people. I might have a burning brand saying ‘property of Mr Right’ on my soul but my work forces me to be pleasant and sociable, flirtatious, to make friends and influence people. I don’t talk about MR with them because I need to seem attainable.
I know I’m the one in the wrong here. I know I am. I’m not a nice person. I should be with him more often. I shouldn’t flirt. I should tell the world I am in love because I am. My beautiful Mr Right, who I love and adore and who …
Love List entry #6) wrote a love note and got PA to deliver it me on Monday in amongst the morning mail. (the PA is interesting, will tell you all about HIM asap.)
So we had a fight. I said things. He said things. I may have mentioned I was toying with the idea of fucking a professional clown…
As far as nails in the coffin of an argument go, admitting to crushes on children’s entertainers who smell of sex and make your knees tremble is sort of a period point. Especially given that it turns out MR has an irrational fear of clowns. Who knew. It’s called Coulrophobia.
And so I made a decision. Love be damned.
I called D&G. Friday, dinner at a prominent London restaurant. Clowning is paying (if all the desperate housewives knew what he was spending his money on). Should be interesting.
…receipt
I am currently parked up in stupidsville in the NORF of England (I’m not suggesting there aren’t Hicksville and Dumbsbury in the SAAF – though I’m a hardened Shandy these days) buying rasberries, dried mango and feta salad (and Cancersticks, it’s been one of those days) from local major super market chain. I pay by credit card because change is scarce and debit card is AWOL. It is an old school AMEXthat requires a signature. Pursemonster Brian points out I’m an idiot for never carrying cash and I agree WITH A SMILE as I hand over the plastic.
But you know what, it brightened my day. Why?
She put an ‘X’ on the receipt to tell me where to sign.
sign here_______________________________
| |
| errrrrrr |
_______________________________________
An
X
That there is three seconds of our lives we’ll never get back. Her writing the X. Me looking at it, looking back and realising that the poor girl may very well have had a lobotomy working such a SHITJOB day in day out.
I want to say “I KNOW WHERE TO SIGN. And look I have opposable THUMBSANDEVERYTHING too.”
But Brian hushes me with a soft pink finger. I close up my purse and smile, signing with pleasantry. It’s not her fault that very well all her customers have the kind of neanderthallic intellect that requires people to point out where to sign on a piece of paper with no where but a big white space to sign on. (it they are stone age enough to turn up with cards which require signatures, like me)
Every X on a piece of paper will herby remind me of that poor till-girl.
I’m starting up a charity. It will hire immigrant workers to put X’s on her receipts for her, thus reducing the pressure on poor till-girls in stupidsville everywhere, increase immigration enough to annoy the Rightwing, and providing a service to the thick.
…toast
Is an excellent dish, English cuisine at its best. English butter, fluffy white bread, the kind of crust that can cut the inside of your cheek, that there is the breakfast of the gods (especially Ganesh, who is a big fan of wheat based dining) and nothing else will beat it.
I’m not one for the bastardization of comfiture, the full throated brain ache of a yeast spread (here in the UK a substance called ‘marmite’ is on offer – imaging if vegemite and Worcestershire Sauce had a bastard child, that’s what it tastes like), even the mouth-watering temptation of buttery pastes made of chocolate or nut products does not appeal. I like it as it comes: warm, crunchy and spread with just enough salted butter.
If you like carbohydrate you can’t go far wrong with a slice of English toast. Or so I thought.
Ever heard the phrase “Craft Services”. That’s what they call the people responsible for providing food here…Never has a name been so poorly given. They neither offer a service nor exhibit anything close to a craft. (I was tempted to put both of those words in apostrophes, but CPF has said it’s a bad habit. “People who bunny-ears in the written word are 100% worse than people who bunny ears in conversation,” she says, “the latter of which should have their eyes skewered by their own facetious fingers.” She has a way with words that one.)
What I understand by the word ‘craft’ (and that’s not facetious, that’s grammar folks) is ; Care, attention and skill. It conjures up images of pot throwers and doll makers, old women knitting and gnarly dudes ‘what know how to whittle’ sitting by the side of the road waving their wares at wary commuters.
And so I offer you a recipe, because apparently catering services are incapable of logical thought this morning.
How to fuck up Toast
1) Buy Shitbread. Shitbread is the kind of bread that you can fold into a small square, you look at it and realize it has the flavor and consistency of one of those spongy cloths people buy to wash up with. Said cloths would probably taste better.
2) Freeze butter. You may also feel the need to place the frozen butter as far away from any warming items as possible, thus ensuring teeth and/or cutlery are rendered useless when trying to spread/cut/eat it.
3) Toast Shitbread and leave to stand. Rendering luke-cold. That kind of warm which lulls you into a false sense of security – “It’s okay, it’ll still be warm after I have paid for it.” – only to find that when served contact with a dish causes some incalculable physical reaction that draws all previous warmth from the bread into the ceramic thing which carries it.
4) Serve. Place in front of a tired and starving Diva who hasn’t had her sex this morning and than charge her £2.50.
5) Watch shit fly.
Missy is not happy today.
Bad breakfasting experience has spoiled her mood.
If D&G walks in right now I may just eat him alive.
