This is so typical! I started talking to that guy in the smoking area outside that Oxford bar/club/thingy, and when I went back in the others had magically disappeared.
Phone battery-less, friends-less and key-less, I somehow managed to walk back to the house, hoping someone would be there to open. Well, no.
Freezing and with no way to contact them, I decided my only option left was to walk back to the bar and ask help to my new "friend". He was very helpful indeed. He brought me back to his flat which was part of a student house, and introduced me to his even cuter friend who gave away his bed for me.
All in all, I was lucky, I didn't have to sleep on a curtain folded in two as a matress, which was the original plan at the house of my-friends-who-ditched-me... And Stella got the curtain all for herself!
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Tuesday, 30 October 2007
Unexpected encounters
This is excatly the kind of thing which sometimes makes me think I'm the unluckiest person in the world.
On our road trip, Stella and I decided to stop by Oxford, to say hi to a few student-friends and secondarily save a few pounds by squatting their sofa instead of paying for a B&B.
Totally blending in the student lifestyle, Stella was still asleep under the radiator this morning (there was a bit of smoking going on last night...). So I decided to go for a walk and some sightseeing before she'd wake up.
I was struggling with my lighter somewhere behing the new theatre when I felt a hand on my shoulder... "Heya! What a surprise!!"
The one man on earth I hold such a grudge against.
My last employer.
The one who had been promising me a promotion for six months, and eventually had my contract cancelled when I expressly said no to sleeping with him, ruining my professional life by the same occasion....
I managed to make small talk without ripping his eyeballs out of his disgusting face, which required a lot of control. But then you never know who you're going to bump into again, litteraly.
As soon as the torture was over, I ran to the first coffee I could find, screamed "Is there a bathroom in there?" at the top of my lungs, and brought last night's chinese back up.
Why why why WHY WHY did I have to bump into the man, miles away from London?
I'm afraid this whole episode made me over-emotional, I almost cried out of recognition when the Sainsbury's lady ask for my ID to let me buy a new lighter.
But I'm cheering myself up now, sat next to a rugby field, watching fit students running around. And there's an internet connexion pretty much everywhere in this town!!
We might as well stay in Oxford at least until Thursday morning; we're invited to the student union's Hallowe'en party tomorrow night... Loads of fresh bloody meet in perspective...
On our road trip, Stella and I decided to stop by Oxford, to say hi to a few student-friends and secondarily save a few pounds by squatting their sofa instead of paying for a B&B.
Totally blending in the student lifestyle, Stella was still asleep under the radiator this morning (there was a bit of smoking going on last night...). So I decided to go for a walk and some sightseeing before she'd wake up.
I was struggling with my lighter somewhere behing the new theatre when I felt a hand on my shoulder... "Heya! What a surprise!!"
The one man on earth I hold such a grudge against.
My last employer.
The one who had been promising me a promotion for six months, and eventually had my contract cancelled when I expressly said no to sleeping with him, ruining my professional life by the same occasion....
I managed to make small talk without ripping his eyeballs out of his disgusting face, which required a lot of control. But then you never know who you're going to bump into again, litteraly.
As soon as the torture was over, I ran to the first coffee I could find, screamed "Is there a bathroom in there?" at the top of my lungs, and brought last night's chinese back up.
Why why why WHY WHY did I have to bump into the man, miles away from London?
I'm afraid this whole episode made me over-emotional, I almost cried out of recognition when the Sainsbury's lady ask for my ID to let me buy a new lighter.
But I'm cheering myself up now, sat next to a rugby field, watching fit students running around. And there's an internet connexion pretty much everywhere in this town!!
We might as well stay in Oxford at least until Thursday morning; we're invited to the student union's Hallowe'en party tomorrow night... Loads of fresh bloody meet in perspective...
Monday, 29 October 2007
Ex-mess
After a long conversation with Pink-Wig-Girl on the phone last night, I had kind of worked out who was who from Friday night... Only to forget it all about an hour later, when the house got invaded by way too many accointances and exactly as many bottles of wine.
What was the occasion? I can't exactly remember, something probably Halloween-related. At around 11pm, we very-wisely realised it was way too early to pass out in the living room. So I made everyone coffee, (with a shot of Malibu in each, my own -very dull- idea), and, armed with an extra-supply of Red Bulls, we headed out.
Needless to say the rest of the night is a blur.
I reviewed my inbox this morning, and it appears we went to Sosho, in Old Street, one of the rare straight places open until 6am on Monday mornings.
Still according to my inbox, it appears I'm a pathetic drunk-texting junkie. Apparently, last night, I invited about every ex whose number was still in my contacts to join...
...and got various replies going from "Sorry darling, you know I've been living in Berlin for the past 2years" to "Cool hearing from u,sorry cant make it.u know where I can pick up weed?c u soon". Pathetic.
But the worst was still to come.
It came all at the same time (around 3am), in the persons of French Guy, Mark (my last long-term relashionship, that I had to end eight months ago, mainly because he was falling deeper and deeper into hard core drugs, and I didn't want to deal with that kind of mess. Shame, really, he was one of the sweetest guys I had ever met...) and, hilariously enough, the French bloke I had met on the bus back from French Guy's flat. They all showed up in the space of half an hour, right when I was thinking my head was about to explode.
With a "please please please keep them occupied!", I palmed off Bus-French-Boy-Number-Two and his mates to Stella, while trying to deal with the rest of the mess... Our friendship might be slightly compromised...
I introduced Mark to French Guy as "friends". Alone with French Guy, I told him I considered Mark as one of my best mates, but thinking he had a thing for me, wasn't entirely comfortable getting very "touchy" in front of him, "just in case it would jeopardise our friendship". Good Lord...
Alone with Mark, I told him I didn't know what exactly was going on with French Guy, which is actually the truth itself. But, feeling bad, I introduced him to that girl who unsuccessfully tried to sell me pills in the smoking area. Now I feel worse. But he certainly had a good time...
I don't remember much more past that point, appart from hitting the bar far too many times than required. Apparently, French Guy and I came back to my place together. I'm just assuming this from the fact he was in my bed this morning. The good thing about this, is that for the first time in three days, I didn't wake up fully-clothed and with my shoes on...
I'm going to make a fry-up, and start packing, as Stella and I are leaving tonight for a four-days country side break. Exactly what the doctor ordered.
What was the occasion? I can't exactly remember, something probably Halloween-related. At around 11pm, we very-wisely realised it was way too early to pass out in the living room. So I made everyone coffee, (with a shot of Malibu in each, my own -very dull- idea), and, armed with an extra-supply of Red Bulls, we headed out.
Needless to say the rest of the night is a blur.
I reviewed my inbox this morning, and it appears we went to Sosho, in Old Street, one of the rare straight places open until 6am on Monday mornings.
Still according to my inbox, it appears I'm a pathetic drunk-texting junkie. Apparently, last night, I invited about every ex whose number was still in my contacts to join...
...and got various replies going from "Sorry darling, you know I've been living in Berlin for the past 2years" to "Cool hearing from u,sorry cant make it.u know where I can pick up weed?c u soon". Pathetic.
But the worst was still to come.
It came all at the same time (around 3am), in the persons of French Guy, Mark (my last long-term relashionship, that I had to end eight months ago, mainly because he was falling deeper and deeper into hard core drugs, and I didn't want to deal with that kind of mess. Shame, really, he was one of the sweetest guys I had ever met...) and, hilariously enough, the French bloke I had met on the bus back from French Guy's flat. They all showed up in the space of half an hour, right when I was thinking my head was about to explode.
With a "please please please keep them occupied!", I palmed off Bus-French-Boy-Number-Two and his mates to Stella, while trying to deal with the rest of the mess... Our friendship might be slightly compromised...
I introduced Mark to French Guy as "friends". Alone with French Guy, I told him I considered Mark as one of my best mates, but thinking he had a thing for me, wasn't entirely comfortable getting very "touchy" in front of him, "just in case it would jeopardise our friendship". Good Lord...
Alone with Mark, I told him I didn't know what exactly was going on with French Guy, which is actually the truth itself. But, feeling bad, I introduced him to that girl who unsuccessfully tried to sell me pills in the smoking area. Now I feel worse. But he certainly had a good time...
I don't remember much more past that point, appart from hitting the bar far too many times than required. Apparently, French Guy and I came back to my place together. I'm just assuming this from the fact he was in my bed this morning. The good thing about this, is that for the first time in three days, I didn't wake up fully-clothed and with my shoes on...
I'm going to make a fry-up, and start packing, as Stella and I are leaving tonight for a four-days country side break. Exactly what the doctor ordered.
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Who's calling?
After writting the last entry, the hungover kicked in.
The kind which doesn't leave you any choice but take up residence on the sofa, with a cushion rolled around your head in a attempt to stop the bumping noise taking place somewhere in between your ears. What was left of my brain wasn't the only noisy item around either; my phone kept ringing, and I just screened everything with great impartiality for the first few hours.
Of course it's the time when you start cursing yourself and asking yourself the timeless question no one found an answer to yet: Why did I drink so much that night?
Now, I'm really wishing I didn't (not that amount anyway). Especially since I keep getting calls from people I don't even remember ever existed, and who didn't see me at my best... Far from it!
Here's the conversation as it's been last night, this morning way too early, and every hour in between:
"Hello??? (me with a sleepy/drunk/unsure voice)
-Hey darling! How are you?
-Good, good... Err... What about you? (=who the heck are you?)
-Great! What are you up to?"
Then you can classify answers in two different categories:
Answer one:
"I'm sleeping/was sleeping/curing my hungover at home. Last night was wicked but my body can't cope with it anymore.
Answer two:
"-I'm in Turnmills, wanna come along?
-Yep sure, see you in less than an hour darling, I'll bring along long-enumeration-of-unknown-names.
-Cool, sounds great, say hi to everyone, I'll see you in there then!"
Results of answer two:
At least ten different persons who apparently knew me came to Turnmills last night. Thank God it was packed! I didn't recognise them, and they probably didn't find me, which is for the best because if you can get away on the phone it's an other matter in real-clubbing life, and I'm still unsure about how we're related...
Well, all those people sound like decent fun, but slightly stalker-ish... I wish I could at least assiociate various phone numbers with faces...
The kind which doesn't leave you any choice but take up residence on the sofa, with a cushion rolled around your head in a attempt to stop the bumping noise taking place somewhere in between your ears. What was left of my brain wasn't the only noisy item around either; my phone kept ringing, and I just screened everything with great impartiality for the first few hours.
Of course it's the time when you start cursing yourself and asking yourself the timeless question no one found an answer to yet: Why did I drink so much that night?
Now, I'm really wishing I didn't (not that amount anyway). Especially since I keep getting calls from people I don't even remember ever existed, and who didn't see me at my best... Far from it!
Here's the conversation as it's been last night, this morning way too early, and every hour in between:
"Hello??? (me with a sleepy/drunk/unsure voice)
-Hey darling! How are you?
-Good, good... Err... What about you? (=who the heck are you?)
-Great! What are you up to?"
Then you can classify answers in two different categories:
Answer one:
"I'm sleeping/was sleeping/curing my hungover at home. Last night was wicked but my body can't cope with it anymore.
-Oh, I'm so sorry, do want us to come along? I'll bring long-enumeration-of-unknown-names. You live in [...], right?
-Err...(=SHIT! How do they know that?) No! Err, I mean, err... I think I really need some sleep, but we'll catch up later in the week-end, ok? Bye take care! (=and let me get some f*cking sleep!)
Answer two:
"-I'm in Turnmills, wanna come along?
-Yep sure, see you in less than an hour darling, I'll bring along long-enumeration-of-unknown-names.
-Cool, sounds great, say hi to everyone, I'll see you in there then!"
Results of answer two:
At least ten different persons who apparently knew me came to Turnmills last night. Thank God it was packed! I didn't recognise them, and they probably didn't find me, which is for the best because if you can get away on the phone it's an other matter in real-clubbing life, and I'm still unsure about how we're related...
Well, all those people sound like decent fun, but slightly stalker-ish... I wish I could at least assiociate various phone numbers with faces...
Saturday, 27 October 2007
Souvenirs...
Things I remember about last night ( in a very approximative order) :
-dragging Mike and the "usual suspects" ( group of male friends so called because they tend to crash at our house in a state far from sobrierety, on a weekly basis, and the next morning I walk around the house sneaking glances under duvets trying to work out who is who ) to a Hallowe'en fancy dress party somewhere in a pub in far north London. A friend of mine's band was organising it, and I tend to behave like a groupie and never miss out on one of their live acts. (they're pretty good!)
-one of the usual suspects curing his recent break-up with his girlfriend of eight months, hence making sure the drinks kept coming...
-dancing around my handbag like a crazy twelve-year old.
-getting into an argument with the bouncer whether the universe was infinite or not ( I think it's not) while smoking half of his cigarettes.
-going to the incredible hulk, or at least someone dressed up as such, and ask him if his privates are green as well...
-trying to down a shot of sambuca but accidentally pour it down my cleavage, when a Amy Whinehouse look alike (hair and make up included!) kicked me on the head in a moment of extreme enthusiasm.
-striping down to the waist in the common part of the ladies, and, armed with toilet paper, try to get rid of the sticky beverage from my upper body, until a girl in a pink wig walks out of the cubicle...
-convincing my friends to follow pink-wig-girl and her creek to an after party "just around the corner".
-having a splif in a room with a guy and keeping asking him: "Sorry, what's your name again?"
-realising all my friends are gone missing, so go to a bathroom in a garden (if that makes sense?), set my alarm in order to control the amount of time I can allow myself to pass out, and take a nap there and then for half an hour.
-getting "really friendly" with pink-wig-girl on a bunk bed of the third house of the night.
-taking a line and plunge into a deep conversation about drug-dealing with a drug dealer, while pretending I sooo knew what I was talking about.
-lie down on the floor and request every human being passing by to "please please please, lay on top of me" as a way to fight the cold.
-get into a cat-fight with a nun-with-horns about how fast a woman can get wet, and if it's got more to do with visuals than pheromones.
-share a joint and a bottle of wine with pink-wig-girl in yet another garden.
-walk alone along what looked very much like Finsbury Park, with my "sexy goth" outfit drenched in mud.
-being waken up at 7:35 by my phone ringing. A random guy asking why I wasn't at the party anymore and where I was. Dunno. Apparently I'm on bus.
-running around Leicester Square like a mad woman in the rising sun, in search of hot food.
-waking up an hour ago, feeling very pleased I'm still alive, but somehow unable to work out how come I was still wearing my coat and shoes, but my top had disappeared...
I'm desperately trying to work out the order and the missing bits now, but it's a bit too much, I've been out for 13 hours...
Conclusion number one: I think I might need to calm down a little bit...
Conclusion number two: I love Hallowe'en!
Conclusion number three: I love even more partying with randoms!
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Week-end plans
I never plan my Saturday nights in advance.
Usually, it's on Friday nights -excuse me, on Saturday mornings at some point between 2 and 6am- while freezing my ass off at a bus stop with Stella, that the planning gets done.
"So, tomorrow night, Fabric/Notting Hill/Brick lane/that-thing-in-that-members-club-some promoteur-texted-me-about?
-Yeah, sure! Wait, I've said I would go to that house party. But we could go there first, grab a few free drinks, see who's there, then head off, and when the place closes, we could always go to that other party I told you about?"
And that's more or less what we usually do. Being spontaneous is the way to go.
But then , this week-end is a bit different.
It's the first Hallowe'en week-end, and it looks like whole London is planning to get spookily wasted.
First of all, Stella is back from some job abroad, and it being her first week-end in London in ages, we ought to do something worth it, ideally involving plenty of sambuca-drinking, crazy-dancing, and sexy strangers-meeting.
So far I've been invited to two fancy-dress house parties. A good opportunity to unleash my inner goth/alternative self. (I went through a serious goth phase from the age of fifteen to eighteen, when I realised something needed to be done if I wanted to be taken a bit more seriously in the adult real world...)
They should be both quite happening;
-The first one in a Covent garden flat is organised by that friend of mine who buys his condoms on Ebay, and whose parties "beautiful-hot-young-people-only" famously often turn into soft orgies at around 1am.
-The second one is in Camden. I guess it's the place to be on that particular night. Moreover, according to facebook, the crowd attending is going to be mostly straight guys and lesbian girls, which sound very very appealing.
But then I promised D I would take him out, but that can always be rearranged (here's an idea, why don't I take him out tonight?)
And the most annoying thing (not really properly annoying though...) is that OG asked me if he could stay at mine for an all-night-long fucking session.
I know for a fact that if I decline, I will seriously regret it.
Irritating, I wish I could cut myself in three for the night. Isn't it on Hallowe'en night that they say miracles happen? No, shit, it's Christmas!
Usually, it's on Friday nights -excuse me, on Saturday mornings at some point between 2 and 6am- while freezing my ass off at a bus stop with Stella, that the planning gets done.
"So, tomorrow night, Fabric/Notting Hill/Brick lane/that-thing-in-that-members-club-some promoteur-texted-me-about?
-Yeah, sure! Wait, I've said I would go to that house party. But we could go there first, grab a few free drinks, see who's there, then head off, and when the place closes, we could always go to that other party I told you about?"
And that's more or less what we usually do. Being spontaneous is the way to go.
But then , this week-end is a bit different.
It's the first Hallowe'en week-end, and it looks like whole London is planning to get spookily wasted.
First of all, Stella is back from some job abroad, and it being her first week-end in London in ages, we ought to do something worth it, ideally involving plenty of sambuca-drinking, crazy-dancing, and sexy strangers-meeting.
So far I've been invited to two fancy-dress house parties. A good opportunity to unleash my inner goth/alternative self. (I went through a serious goth phase from the age of fifteen to eighteen, when I realised something needed to be done if I wanted to be taken a bit more seriously in the adult real world...)
They should be both quite happening;
-The first one in a Covent garden flat is organised by that friend of mine who buys his condoms on Ebay, and whose parties "beautiful-hot-young-people-only" famously often turn into soft orgies at around 1am.
-The second one is in Camden. I guess it's the place to be on that particular night. Moreover, according to facebook, the crowd attending is going to be mostly straight guys and lesbian girls, which sound very very appealing.
But then I promised D I would take him out, but that can always be rearranged (here's an idea, why don't I take him out tonight?)
And the most annoying thing (not really properly annoying though...) is that OG asked me if he could stay at mine for an all-night-long fucking session.
I know for a fact that if I decline, I will seriously regret it.
Irritating, I wish I could cut myself in three for the night. Isn't it on Hallowe'en night that they say miracles happen? No, shit, it's Christmas!
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
Conscience?
I've decided to ditch it. No more conscience. I'll get it back when I'm old and wrinkled.
French Guy never replied to the text I sent him after I left this morning. So I stopped obsessing and very happily opened the door to OG when he came over a while ago... It was fast, straight to the point, and felt amazing.
We had a chat afterwards about the general pros and cons of being in a relationship, and we came to the same conclusion; when it happens, it happens, but it's always lots of trouble and casual sex is a great way to go... Even/especially when it's done by individuals like the two of us: sex-driven, experienced, and heartless. God it sounds so clinical! I'll become a nice girl eventually... Just not now.
While he was on top of me, my phone rang from my bedside table, and I only managed to kick it to the floor with my spare foot. It was D, the guy I met on the bus this morning, asking what I was up to tonight. We'll see...
French Guy never replied to the text I sent him after I left this morning. So I stopped obsessing and very happily opened the door to OG when he came over a while ago... It was fast, straight to the point, and felt amazing.
We had a chat afterwards about the general pros and cons of being in a relationship, and we came to the same conclusion; when it happens, it happens, but it's always lots of trouble and casual sex is a great way to go... Even/especially when it's done by individuals like the two of us: sex-driven, experienced, and heartless. God it sounds so clinical! I'll become a nice girl eventually... Just not now.
While he was on top of me, my phone rang from my bedside table, and I only managed to kick it to the floor with my spare foot. It was D, the guy I met on the bus this morning, asking what I was up to tonight. We'll see...
French National Day
I'm decidedly not an organisation queen. French Guy's flat being at the other end of London, and myself not being entirely sure how to get there, I left home early last night. Way too early.
So, when I had to change buses in Holborn, I decided I could take a little break from public transports.
Another thing I love about London, is that freaks and weirdos are left free to walk around anywhere, day and night. So, no one makes funny faces when yet another freak is sat at a busy bus stop, downing a can of cider from the corner shop, fag in hand, and smiling with contentment.
(Unnecessary precision; said freak=me).
Still with time on my hands, I called my friend Liz, who I knew had just moved around the area. Or so I thought. She invited me over, and -blame the cider- I found myself somewhere at the north end of route 243, in the flat shared by that group of good friends, who I refer to myself as the "shmookin-creek". It says it all.
We had barely found time for a proper chat since our trip to Amsterdam in July, so, an hour and a half later, I was still there, unable to say no to the third joint, and deeply convinced that playing football with a burnt toast across the kitchen was the funniest activity ever practiced in human history. Oh dear...
Somehow, I managed to get my brains back together and remembered I had a date. Late. Actually, "late" isn't strong enough. So I stumbled out and hailed a cab, forgetting behind me bottle of wine, crackers and grapes I had bought. And oh yes, the damn condoms from Boots!
Surely, a night in at your boyfriend's (or in that particular case, at your whatever's, we haven't defined that yet...), should not cost you a penny, but so far I had wasted £25 (cab+ various supplies). Oh dear...
Thank God, French Guy still looked very happy to see me, and didn't seem to notice the state I was in.
Believe me it isn't a legend; the French are really really good kissers. And this isn't a legend either; weed makes us girls really really horny. You do the maths. Should I feel the need to precise that the DVD played itself over and over again whole night in the middle of an empty living room?
I woke up this morning craving food (result of skipping dinner, smoking on an empty stomach followed by much physical activity), and sex. I was dripping wet, again. But he looked so cute fast asleep with his arm around my waist that I couldn't bring myself to wake him, so I lifted the duvet and intended to discreetly finish myself off while he was still unconscious. I think it's my shaking which woke him up... Too late sweetie! I kissed him good morning/good bye, grabbed my clothes and hurried off to the first Pret-a-Manger I could find.
Unspecified expenses: the second pair of socks I've lost at his place in a week (do socks fetishists exist?) plus an earring this time.
When I put down on the counter enough provisions to hold a week-long siege, the man at the till eyed me bizarrely, and asked if it was all for me, or was I being a good girlfriend and bringing breakfast to my man? (Eew...)
"Not my style. All for me, but don't worry, I'll burn it off!
-I bet!" (Eew...)
It wasn't until I went to the loo that I noticed I had eye make-up spread all other my face, and my hair -still the French factor I guess- was very Brigitte Bardot-like in her "bed-head" famous do.
On the bus back home, I was going through my usual routine to safely doze off ( sunglasses on, bag firmly stuck in between my head and the window, alarm set for twenty minutes later - I once woke up in Heathrow and it's not an experience I'm prepared to reiterate), when I was disturbed by a "Eskiuz mee, do you speak Fwench?".
Maybe it was still the effect of all the pot I smoked last night, but I started giggling even before opening my eyes. And when I did open them, damn, he was cute!
So oui, I did speak Fwench! He told me he was freshly landed in London, looking for places to go out and people to go out with, while, as French guys tend to do I noticed, quite obviously hitting on me... So when he asked, I did give him my number, and promised I would show him around.
Apparently, meeting cute French guys on the bus is becoming a new addiction of mine. Like I needed another one!
Time to go though, OG is showing up in an hour...
So, when I had to change buses in Holborn, I decided I could take a little break from public transports.
Another thing I love about London, is that freaks and weirdos are left free to walk around anywhere, day and night. So, no one makes funny faces when yet another freak is sat at a busy bus stop, downing a can of cider from the corner shop, fag in hand, and smiling with contentment.
(Unnecessary precision; said freak=me).
Still with time on my hands, I called my friend Liz, who I knew had just moved around the area. Or so I thought. She invited me over, and -blame the cider- I found myself somewhere at the north end of route 243, in the flat shared by that group of good friends, who I refer to myself as the "shmookin-creek". It says it all.
We had barely found time for a proper chat since our trip to Amsterdam in July, so, an hour and a half later, I was still there, unable to say no to the third joint, and deeply convinced that playing football with a burnt toast across the kitchen was the funniest activity ever practiced in human history. Oh dear...
Somehow, I managed to get my brains back together and remembered I had a date. Late. Actually, "late" isn't strong enough. So I stumbled out and hailed a cab, forgetting behind me bottle of wine, crackers and grapes I had bought. And oh yes, the damn condoms from Boots!
Surely, a night in at your boyfriend's (or in that particular case, at your whatever's, we haven't defined that yet...), should not cost you a penny, but so far I had wasted £25 (cab+ various supplies). Oh dear...
Thank God, French Guy still looked very happy to see me, and didn't seem to notice the state I was in.
Believe me it isn't a legend; the French are really really good kissers. And this isn't a legend either; weed makes us girls really really horny. You do the maths. Should I feel the need to precise that the DVD played itself over and over again whole night in the middle of an empty living room?
I woke up this morning craving food (result of skipping dinner, smoking on an empty stomach followed by much physical activity), and sex. I was dripping wet, again. But he looked so cute fast asleep with his arm around my waist that I couldn't bring myself to wake him, so I lifted the duvet and intended to discreetly finish myself off while he was still unconscious. I think it's my shaking which woke him up... Too late sweetie! I kissed him good morning/good bye, grabbed my clothes and hurried off to the first Pret-a-Manger I could find.
Unspecified expenses: the second pair of socks I've lost at his place in a week (do socks fetishists exist?) plus an earring this time.
When I put down on the counter enough provisions to hold a week-long siege, the man at the till eyed me bizarrely, and asked if it was all for me, or was I being a good girlfriend and bringing breakfast to my man? (Eew...)
"Not my style. All for me, but don't worry, I'll burn it off!
-I bet!" (Eew...)
It wasn't until I went to the loo that I noticed I had eye make-up spread all other my face, and my hair -still the French factor I guess- was very Brigitte Bardot-like in her "bed-head" famous do.
On the bus back home, I was going through my usual routine to safely doze off ( sunglasses on, bag firmly stuck in between my head and the window, alarm set for twenty minutes later - I once woke up in Heathrow and it's not an experience I'm prepared to reiterate), when I was disturbed by a "Eskiuz mee, do you speak Fwench?".
Maybe it was still the effect of all the pot I smoked last night, but I started giggling even before opening my eyes. And when I did open them, damn, he was cute!
So oui, I did speak Fwench! He told me he was freshly landed in London, looking for places to go out and people to go out with, while, as French guys tend to do I noticed, quite obviously hitting on me... So when he asked, I did give him my number, and promised I would show him around.
Apparently, meeting cute French guys on the bus is becoming a new addiction of mine. Like I needed another one!
Time to go though, OG is showing up in an hour...
Monday, 22 October 2007
Double-dating drama
"I'm a living dating-disaster!" I blurted out after recounting the whole OG/French Guy situation from the top, and punctuated the affirmation by loudly blowing my nose in the fifth one of the pile of Starbucks napkins I had accumulated on our table for the occasion.
"Hun, I don't know what to say, really, appart from the fact all this is not very lady-like..." was Andy's only answer to my distress.
I should have known he wasn't the best person to get great relashionship advice from, seeing that his love life is even more chaotic than mine. But I figured out, since I had been there to buy him cosmopolitans by the dozen while convincingly repeating that women were an awful species when his last boyfriend left him for a girl, that he was still the ideal candidate when I'd called him earlier this afternoon for an emergency Starbucks session (way too early for alcoholic drinks, I very responsibly thought).
"God, their caramel macchiato tastes like shit after those bloody Strepsils! Well, I reckon that now I've made my own bed, I'll just have to lie in it. Big question being: which bed???"
So, for the second time, we went through all the texts messages I had been getting from both parts since this morning, in the aim of reading between the lines and draw conclusions from the number of "x" at the end of each. The two middle-aged women at the next table seemed to find it tremendously hilarious and I surprised myself by managing to keep my mouth shut and not tell them to go and buy themselves vibrators.
My big problem was -is- that I somehow got my expectations really high regarding French Guy. To the point I was ready any minute to get rid of OG in exactly the time needed to text: "I've met someone I'm serious about. Wish you the best. Bye!" Being a pro at predictive texting, believe me, it's only a matter of seconds.
So, when by 11:30 this morning, French Guy still hadn't called, I sent him a sweet message asking about his plans for tonight.
Before French Guy even replied, (was it Destiny's way of getting itself known to me?), my phone beeped. OG urging me to drink lots of fruit juice and water, "xxxxxx".
It's fair to say I had been playing the not-entirely-untrue 'I'm too ill for that" card, letting him hang in there, at least until I'd figured out how serious things were with French Guy.
When the latter eventually replied, it was to say that he was too knackered from his week-end in Paris to face a night out, and suggested I'd come over for a DVD night in. Point. No "x". None whatsoever!
Pissed off he didn't even bother to send me one when I had let myself go to the point of sending him a full triple-set, I texted OG straight away, assuring him I would be totally recovered from my cold by tomorrow night. Maybe a bit presumptuous to be entirely honest...
Yes, I know, I'm completely neurotic, and happily confess my two main psychotic issues:
-impulsiveness;
-control freakiness which goes hand in hand with over-analysing.
So, here I am. Two consecutive nights. Two hot hook-ups. Two different guys I've already slept with.
Am I ready to push my limits that far? Apparently so.
But I so wish I could just go with the flow without desperately needing to classify them under either each of the following categories:
-hot dial-a-shag buddy
-hot guy to nurse my romantic side with.
( the good thing there beeing that both options can objectively be qualified as hot!)
and without the -completely pathetic, I admit- need to analyse the number of "x". This, and trying to work out what their feelings for me are...
Double-dating is definitely a lot of trouble to go through if you ask, but it looks like the most sado-masochist part of me is very eager to find out exactly how much trouble there is in store.
One thing at a time.
Right now? another Strepsil.
Tonight? French DVDs.
Tomorrow? Argh! Who the hell knows???
"Hun, I don't know what to say, really, appart from the fact all this is not very lady-like..." was Andy's only answer to my distress.
I should have known he wasn't the best person to get great relashionship advice from, seeing that his love life is even more chaotic than mine. But I figured out, since I had been there to buy him cosmopolitans by the dozen while convincingly repeating that women were an awful species when his last boyfriend left him for a girl, that he was still the ideal candidate when I'd called him earlier this afternoon for an emergency Starbucks session (way too early for alcoholic drinks, I very responsibly thought).
"God, their caramel macchiato tastes like shit after those bloody Strepsils! Well, I reckon that now I've made my own bed, I'll just have to lie in it. Big question being: which bed???"
So, for the second time, we went through all the texts messages I had been getting from both parts since this morning, in the aim of reading between the lines and draw conclusions from the number of "x" at the end of each. The two middle-aged women at the next table seemed to find it tremendously hilarious and I surprised myself by managing to keep my mouth shut and not tell them to go and buy themselves vibrators.
My big problem was -is- that I somehow got my expectations really high regarding French Guy. To the point I was ready any minute to get rid of OG in exactly the time needed to text: "I've met someone I'm serious about. Wish you the best. Bye!" Being a pro at predictive texting, believe me, it's only a matter of seconds.
So, when by 11:30 this morning, French Guy still hadn't called, I sent him a sweet message asking about his plans for tonight.
Before French Guy even replied, (was it Destiny's way of getting itself known to me?), my phone beeped. OG urging me to drink lots of fruit juice and water, "xxxxxx".
It's fair to say I had been playing the not-entirely-untrue 'I'm too ill for that" card, letting him hang in there, at least until I'd figured out how serious things were with French Guy.
When the latter eventually replied, it was to say that he was too knackered from his week-end in Paris to face a night out, and suggested I'd come over for a DVD night in. Point. No "x". None whatsoever!
Pissed off he didn't even bother to send me one when I had let myself go to the point of sending him a full triple-set, I texted OG straight away, assuring him I would be totally recovered from my cold by tomorrow night. Maybe a bit presumptuous to be entirely honest...
Yes, I know, I'm completely neurotic, and happily confess my two main psychotic issues:
-impulsiveness;
-control freakiness which goes hand in hand with over-analysing.
So, here I am. Two consecutive nights. Two hot hook-ups. Two different guys I've already slept with.
Am I ready to push my limits that far? Apparently so.
But I so wish I could just go with the flow without desperately needing to classify them under either each of the following categories:
-hot dial-a-shag buddy
-hot guy to nurse my romantic side with.
( the good thing there beeing that both options can objectively be qualified as hot!)
and without the -completely pathetic, I admit- need to analyse the number of "x". This, and trying to work out what their feelings for me are...
Double-dating is definitely a lot of trouble to go through if you ask, but it looks like the most sado-masochist part of me is very eager to find out exactly how much trouble there is in store.
One thing at a time.
Right now? another Strepsil.
Tonight? French DVDs.
Tomorrow? Argh! Who the hell knows???
Sunday, 21 October 2007
I'm back from a shopping-for-the-essentials-in-Boots trip. I love the self-medication policy in England. Really, who needs a doctor when you can do your own pick-n-mix at your local supermarket? But still, quite a mission on a sunday when all families go shopping together...
As usual, I forgot to get a basket at the door, hence ended up running the aisles (I wasn't the only one running; so was my nose...), with, propped up in a debatable balance between my chin and elbows, a pile of various boxes, including vitamines of every sort, a "Cold&Flu Max relief", a jumbo box of tissues, three boxes of hair colorant (there was a 3 for 2 deal), two packs of Strepsils, a lip cream, and, well hidden somewhere in the middle, a box of Durex condoms.
With a certain lack of grace, I was somehow still managing all right so far.
That is, until the fateful hundredth sneeze of the day, which sent my harvest flying in every direction.
A sweet couple helped me picking up everything, with their two children staring at me like I was the incredible hulk with a running nose. Without a doubt a close approximation. Bless them. Especially when, as they left me with a brand new rebuilt pile of boxes, I overheard their seven-year-old son asking: "Mum? What is fetherlite?"
As usual, I forgot to get a basket at the door, hence ended up running the aisles (I wasn't the only one running; so was my nose...), with, propped up in a debatable balance between my chin and elbows, a pile of various boxes, including vitamines of every sort, a "Cold&Flu Max relief", a jumbo box of tissues, three boxes of hair colorant (there was a 3 for 2 deal), two packs of Strepsils, a lip cream, and, well hidden somewhere in the middle, a box of Durex condoms.
With a certain lack of grace, I was somehow still managing all right so far.
That is, until the fateful hundredth sneeze of the day, which sent my harvest flying in every direction.
A sweet couple helped me picking up everything, with their two children staring at me like I was the incredible hulk with a running nose. Without a doubt a close approximation. Bless them. Especially when, as they left me with a brand new rebuilt pile of boxes, I overheard their seven-year-old son asking: "Mum? What is fetherlite?"
Saturday, 20 October 2007
Flu 2
So much for a fun saturday night out...
While everyone is at the pub, downing pints of beer, and watching England miserably loosing the rugby world cup, I'm home alone, downing cups of hot lemon, and watching my sex-life floating away...
This is such a depressive thought.
I could call my mum, but she would say that I should go to church and light a candle to get cured faster, but surely, if my only point is to get laid by monday, no matter how many candles I light, even if if I set the whole bloody church on fire, "He" is probably NOT going to listen to me.
Ok, time to go to bed, the fever must have got the best part of me if I'm reduced to turn to religion as a last resort...
While everyone is at the pub, downing pints of beer, and watching England miserably loosing the rugby world cup, I'm home alone, downing cups of hot lemon, and watching my sex-life floating away...
This is such a depressive thought.
I could call my mum, but she would say that I should go to church and light a candle to get cured faster, but surely, if my only point is to get laid by monday, no matter how many candles I light, even if if I set the whole bloody church on fire, "He" is probably NOT going to listen to me.
Ok, time to go to bed, the fever must have got the best part of me if I'm reduced to turn to religion as a last resort...
Flu...
As expected, OG called.
I told him I was ill. Which is unfortunately still true; I can hardly breathe through my nose, which would only complicate the matter...
This is really upsetting. I guess experts would say that this is typical feminine behaviour: now I've said no, I really wish I'd said yes...
If anyone out there knows of a magic cure to a real bad case of flu, please let yourself known!
So yes, I've decided (if I'm miraculously healed by tonight) to sleep with OG at least one more time before things get more serious with French Guy. Let's call it a way to take the pressure off!
I told him I was ill. Which is unfortunately still true; I can hardly breathe through my nose, which would only complicate the matter...
This is really upsetting. I guess experts would say that this is typical feminine behaviour: now I've said no, I really wish I'd said yes...
If anyone out there knows of a magic cure to a real bad case of flu, please let yourself known!
So yes, I've decided (if I'm miraculously healed by tonight) to sleep with OG at least one more time before things get more serious with French Guy. Let's call it a way to take the pressure off!
Friday, 19 October 2007
Great minds think alike
I'm ill, barely made it out of bed today. I guess the lifestyle I've led for the past few weeks is bound to catch up with me at some point...
Yesterday night was fun. I had my little 5 minutes of fame as a comic-with-a-laughing-audience when I blurted out quite loudly that, anyway, Velasquez had never painted anything else than Spanish crossed-gened bastards on obese horses, and, to pump up my ego, have been asked a few times where I had studied arts history...
Unfortunately, as my gay friend Mike and I made the sad observation during our cigarette break outside the gallery, the two of us were quite lowering the medium age of the crowd attending... Still we got ourselves into yet another one of those typical fights:
Me: "Shame it's mostly full of "friends" of the gallery, it doesn't make them really young, does it?
-Mike: I know... Well, there still is that guy...
-The cute blond one behind the reception desk?
-Haha, great minds think alike!
-Well, I'd bet he's gay though...
-Shame, isn't it?
-Listen, don't pretend to make that sorry face, I'm the one who should be sorry if he's gay!
-He works in the arts darling, hence he's gay. Give it a rest!
-How would you know? May I remind you that your gay-dar is broken?
-How dare you? I don't think so!
-10pounds?
-Deal!"
And there we were again, alternatively trying to chat that guy up. Well, at the end, he did give his number to me, which made me a tenner richer and I bought Mike a drink when we left the gallery!
Not that I'm planning to call him anytime soon. Even if I was the lucky one, I still have doubts concerning his sexuality, and I'm far to busy at the moment...
OG left me a message basically saying that he could'nt wait for another night together. And as I'm no one to turn down that kind of offer, I left him a quite positive answer... Meaning that I should be expecting a phone call from him sometime tomorrow...
But there comes in French Guy. The combined facts that we had such a great time on Tuesday night and that he keeps leaving me all those sweet messages, make him really hard to shake from my head. I really don't like admitting it, but I'm completely mesmerized. And he really behaves like he's expecting some kind of long term thing with me. I mean, wow, that's great! But now I'm confronted with it, I'm not sure I'm ready for this... Any kind of settled down monogamy that is.
All this is completely freaking me out, because yes, I could see myself in a relashionship with the boy, and to my grand surprise, it looks like he can, too!
FRIGHTENING.
Well, anyway, he's away in France this week-end, and we already planned dinner plus extras on monday night. I'm scarying myself shitless by being litteraly physically unable to wait until then!
And regarding OG tomorrow, I guess I'll just do what my conscience will tell me to when he calls. The thing is, I am still clue-less about what it will tell me...
Yesterday night was fun. I had my little 5 minutes of fame as a comic-with-a-laughing-audience when I blurted out quite loudly that, anyway, Velasquez had never painted anything else than Spanish crossed-gened bastards on obese horses, and, to pump up my ego, have been asked a few times where I had studied arts history...
Unfortunately, as my gay friend Mike and I made the sad observation during our cigarette break outside the gallery, the two of us were quite lowering the medium age of the crowd attending... Still we got ourselves into yet another one of those typical fights:
Me: "Shame it's mostly full of "friends" of the gallery, it doesn't make them really young, does it?
-Mike: I know... Well, there still is that guy...
-The cute blond one behind the reception desk?
-Haha, great minds think alike!
-Well, I'd bet he's gay though...
-Shame, isn't it?
-Listen, don't pretend to make that sorry face, I'm the one who should be sorry if he's gay!
-He works in the arts darling, hence he's gay. Give it a rest!
-How would you know? May I remind you that your gay-dar is broken?
-How dare you? I don't think so!
-10pounds?
-Deal!"
And there we were again, alternatively trying to chat that guy up. Well, at the end, he did give his number to me, which made me a tenner richer and I bought Mike a drink when we left the gallery!
Not that I'm planning to call him anytime soon. Even if I was the lucky one, I still have doubts concerning his sexuality, and I'm far to busy at the moment...
OG left me a message basically saying that he could'nt wait for another night together. And as I'm no one to turn down that kind of offer, I left him a quite positive answer... Meaning that I should be expecting a phone call from him sometime tomorrow...
But there comes in French Guy. The combined facts that we had such a great time on Tuesday night and that he keeps leaving me all those sweet messages, make him really hard to shake from my head. I really don't like admitting it, but I'm completely mesmerized. And he really behaves like he's expecting some kind of long term thing with me. I mean, wow, that's great! But now I'm confronted with it, I'm not sure I'm ready for this... Any kind of settled down monogamy that is.
All this is completely freaking me out, because yes, I could see myself in a relashionship with the boy, and to my grand surprise, it looks like he can, too!
FRIGHTENING.
Well, anyway, he's away in France this week-end, and we already planned dinner plus extras on monday night. I'm scarying myself shitless by being litteraly physically unable to wait until then!
And regarding OG tomorrow, I guess I'll just do what my conscience will tell me to when he calls. The thing is, I am still clue-less about what it will tell me...
Thursday, 18 October 2007
Gallery openings
Tonight I'm accompanying a friend to another gallery opening.
I kind of made it a duty to attend those events after my first one a few months ago. Believe me, it's always slightly more decadent than expected!
For what I knew from chick-films, it was supposed to be packed with glamourous, dressed-up, posh-accented, arty people walking around gracefully holding a glass of champagne. And it was.
So, at my first, I played the part with a full-length back evening gown, and started discussions with random strangers about the deep meaning of the artist, (My high-school teachers always said I was very good at going on and on about subjects I was clue-less about, and still make it look like it was my speciality. Personally, I prefer the expression "talking bullshit with class"...) and it all went well.
But what chick-films never show, it's the scene when everyone is not so much walking around anymore, slightly less gracefully anyway, and holding for dear life on their fourth of fith glass of free Veuve-Cliquot.
After an hour and a half, you can be sure of it, there's a palpable change in the general atmosphere. Even the most dedicated of us don't give a shit anymore about the paintings/photographs/sculptures, and the artist is usually left alone in his corner, with his pile of books still to dedicate. Unless, of course, the old very wealthy spinster of the night decided to "sponsor" him.
Business cards and phone numbers are quickly exchanged, if there's a dark corner, you're most likely to stumble on a drunken couple not-so-discreetly making out, and the scene taking place in the ladies could as well come from the bathroom of a members-only West End club. There's always the group of women exchanging comments on that hot guy next to the bar while re-touching their make-up, the stick-thin girl violently shaking the doors because she knows her canapés are going to come up a bit too soon, and the two giggling friends emerging wide-pupiled from the same cubicle.
Take China White on a Wednesday night, replace the DJ by the artist du jour, add a free-drink policy, et voilĂ !
I can't wait to get to know the deep meaning behind the Christmas cards drawings tonight...
I kind of made it a duty to attend those events after my first one a few months ago. Believe me, it's always slightly more decadent than expected!
For what I knew from chick-films, it was supposed to be packed with glamourous, dressed-up, posh-accented, arty people walking around gracefully holding a glass of champagne. And it was.
So, at my first, I played the part with a full-length back evening gown, and started discussions with random strangers about the deep meaning of the artist, (My high-school teachers always said I was very good at going on and on about subjects I was clue-less about, and still make it look like it was my speciality. Personally, I prefer the expression "talking bullshit with class"...) and it all went well.
But what chick-films never show, it's the scene when everyone is not so much walking around anymore, slightly less gracefully anyway, and holding for dear life on their fourth of fith glass of free Veuve-Cliquot.
After an hour and a half, you can be sure of it, there's a palpable change in the general atmosphere. Even the most dedicated of us don't give a shit anymore about the paintings/photographs/sculptures, and the artist is usually left alone in his corner, with his pile of books still to dedicate. Unless, of course, the old very wealthy spinster of the night decided to "sponsor" him.
Business cards and phone numbers are quickly exchanged, if there's a dark corner, you're most likely to stumble on a drunken couple not-so-discreetly making out, and the scene taking place in the ladies could as well come from the bathroom of a members-only West End club. There's always the group of women exchanging comments on that hot guy next to the bar while re-touching their make-up, the stick-thin girl violently shaking the doors because she knows her canapés are going to come up a bit too soon, and the two giggling friends emerging wide-pupiled from the same cubicle.
Take China White on a Wednesday night, replace the DJ by the artist du jour, add a free-drink policy, et voilĂ !
I can't wait to get to know the deep meaning behind the Christmas cards drawings tonight...
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
Walk Of Shame
One of the greatest thing about living in such a fashion-obcessed city, is that, day and night, a mere 60 percent of London women travel in high heels.
The simple knowledge of this fact is quite comforting, especially when you have to brace yourself for the infamous walk of shame in yesterday night clothes.
I found myself in a similar situation this morning, actually feeling quite guilty, which was a first. I ended up on a bus in Highbury, part of town I had never even heard of before, and which, for some reason, seemed so much closer to Soho last night. I mean, surely, the cab ride couldn't have possibly lasted that long?
One of my housemate's favourite "philosophical" sentence is: Time flies when you're having fun. Apparently, he's right.
But the WOS this morning was complete and a complete cliché. French Guy kissed me goodbye on his threshold, door wide open on the busy street, wearing nothing but a towel, while, litteraly a foot away from us, his thirty-something angry neighbour shot us looks of pure hatred, nervously emptying her handbag, looking for her keys,
Then, there was the problem of public transports. I didn't take a shower at his place before I left, hence had a terrible coton-mouth, and I knew I was smelling of sex from ten meters away. Tried to cover it up with cigarette smoke, (which, nowadays, is not really better accepted) but eventually, I got off the bus in Covent Garden:
-first stop, Caffè Nero, where I washed my hands and downed all the possible liquid goods on offer,
-second stop, The Body Shop, where I pretended I was deeply interested in the latest scent and "incidentally" sprayed a copious amount on myself before facing the tube journey, smelling of (sounds like a very lame joke but true) "coco-nut".
Now, the boy... I'm not feeling really proud about that behaviour of mine last night, seeing that:
No, I didn't know him well. Not at all would be more correct actually. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we met at a night bus stop, chatted for 15mins and kept in touch via Facebook. (I'm seriously starting to worry about the ever-growing influence the "social-networking-website" has on my social life...)
Yes, I crossed my boundaries and had a few vodka-based cocktails, drink I had sworn off a year ago probably for a good reason.
No, I didn't even get THAT drunk, so, no excuse there.
Yes, at least five different persons in the club told us to get a room.
Yes, we did get a room, meaning the back of the cab, and his room for that matter, and the living room, and another room which role in the house I'm still not sure about. Laundry??
[reading what I've just written, I think I might have eventually got THAT drunk.]
But what makes me feel worse is that he's o-so-sweet, incredibly handsome, and I'm still not sure if I had ever reached such a level of intimacy with ex-proper-boyfriends. At 6am, we fell asleep entwined with eachother and for once there was no "ouch", "I can't feel my arm anymore" or "I'm dying of suffocation"... And he already texted and rang me.
He's got some serious "potential-boyfriend" material and I behaved more or less like a slut.
Surely, I shouldn't feel bad, because the whole point was making eachother feel good?
We'll see what happens.
But I'm probably going to give all my Sex and the City DVDs to a charity shop, just because the "you shouldn't sleep with him on the first date" rule is mentioned at least once an episode and I can't cope with patronizing advice and reproaches coming from the DVD player. Actually, didn't Carrie sleep with Big before even making it to the restaurant? Hmm... I'll watch it again before ditching it.
Now, to avoid anymore judgemental looks or words, I'm going to work on a more politically-correct version of my night, to serve to my housemates.
The simple knowledge of this fact is quite comforting, especially when you have to brace yourself for the infamous walk of shame in yesterday night clothes.
I found myself in a similar situation this morning, actually feeling quite guilty, which was a first. I ended up on a bus in Highbury, part of town I had never even heard of before, and which, for some reason, seemed so much closer to Soho last night. I mean, surely, the cab ride couldn't have possibly lasted that long?
One of my housemate's favourite "philosophical" sentence is: Time flies when you're having fun. Apparently, he's right.
But the WOS this morning was complete and a complete cliché. French Guy kissed me goodbye on his threshold, door wide open on the busy street, wearing nothing but a towel, while, litteraly a foot away from us, his thirty-something angry neighbour shot us looks of pure hatred, nervously emptying her handbag, looking for her keys,
Then, there was the problem of public transports. I didn't take a shower at his place before I left, hence had a terrible coton-mouth, and I knew I was smelling of sex from ten meters away. Tried to cover it up with cigarette smoke, (which, nowadays, is not really better accepted) but eventually, I got off the bus in Covent Garden:
-first stop, Caffè Nero, where I washed my hands and downed all the possible liquid goods on offer,
-second stop, The Body Shop, where I pretended I was deeply interested in the latest scent and "incidentally" sprayed a copious amount on myself before facing the tube journey, smelling of (sounds like a very lame joke but true) "coco-nut".
Now, the boy... I'm not feeling really proud about that behaviour of mine last night, seeing that:
No, I didn't know him well. Not at all would be more correct actually. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we met at a night bus stop, chatted for 15mins and kept in touch via Facebook. (I'm seriously starting to worry about the ever-growing influence the "social-networking-website" has on my social life...)
Yes, I crossed my boundaries and had a few vodka-based cocktails, drink I had sworn off a year ago probably for a good reason.
No, I didn't even get THAT drunk, so, no excuse there.
Yes, at least five different persons in the club told us to get a room.
Yes, we did get a room, meaning the back of the cab, and his room for that matter, and the living room, and another room which role in the house I'm still not sure about. Laundry??
[reading what I've just written, I think I might have eventually got THAT drunk.]
But what makes me feel worse is that he's o-so-sweet, incredibly handsome, and I'm still not sure if I had ever reached such a level of intimacy with ex-proper-boyfriends. At 6am, we fell asleep entwined with eachother and for once there was no "ouch", "I can't feel my arm anymore" or "I'm dying of suffocation"... And he already texted and rang me.
He's got some serious "potential-boyfriend" material and I behaved more or less like a slut.
Surely, I shouldn't feel bad, because the whole point was making eachother feel good?
We'll see what happens.
But I'm probably going to give all my Sex and the City DVDs to a charity shop, just because the "you shouldn't sleep with him on the first date" rule is mentioned at least once an episode and I can't cope with patronizing advice and reproaches coming from the DVD player. Actually, didn't Carrie sleep with Big before even making it to the restaurant? Hmm... I'll watch it again before ditching it.
Now, to avoid anymore judgemental looks or words, I'm going to work on a more politically-correct version of my night, to serve to my housemates.
Tuesday, 16 October 2007
Happy hungover everyone! Well, admitting there are other people out there feeling their head is about to explode on a Tuesday morning. Sorry, on a Tuesday afternoon. COFFEEEEEEEE!!!
It was a great night all in all. Very cool over-excited band playing at The End. Seriously, they were really really good, and I might be really really death today, but who cares?
Followed by four hours of some crazy dancing with Stella and randoms from the very arty crownd around. Well, I keep thinking we were the only ones on nothing more than Sambuca shots at that particular time in the venue...
That could explain the lack of "scoring" that night, most of hot guys and girls being a bit too self-centered... Shame.
This one cute guy did come to me with the cheesiest line:
"This is part of a dare, would you allow me to kiss you on the lips?
-Me, checking the material: Hmmm... you have potential, but why would I let you do that?
-Dare Guy: Why not?
(He stumbles and spills his drink down my cleavage.)
-Me: I'll tell you why not, you've just spilled your drink on me. Sorry dude, deal breaker!"
Too bad. I need to contact French Guy, see if he's up to go out tonight. Or OG for that matter, see if he's up to stay in...
On the way back, an old man stopped the N7 by waving what looked like a mini-banjo.
Only in London...
It was a great night all in all. Very cool over-excited band playing at The End. Seriously, they were really really good, and I might be really really death today, but who cares?
Followed by four hours of some crazy dancing with Stella and randoms from the very arty crownd around. Well, I keep thinking we were the only ones on nothing more than Sambuca shots at that particular time in the venue...
That could explain the lack of "scoring" that night, most of hot guys and girls being a bit too self-centered... Shame.
This one cute guy did come to me with the cheesiest line:
"This is part of a dare, would you allow me to kiss you on the lips?
-Me, checking the material: Hmmm... you have potential, but why would I let you do that?
-Dare Guy: Why not?
(He stumbles and spills his drink down my cleavage.)
-Me: I'll tell you why not, you've just spilled your drink on me. Sorry dude, deal breaker!"
Too bad. I need to contact French Guy, see if he's up to go out tonight. Or OG for that matter, see if he's up to stay in...
On the way back, an old man stopped the N7 by waving what looked like a mini-banjo.
Only in London...
Monday, 15 October 2007
Of course life never goes according to plans, does it? Well, as far as I'm concerned, I've found out a new rule, probably a far relative of Murphy's law: As long as one makes plans more than two days in advance, and involving more than two persons, said plans are fifty percent likely to fall through.
The rule of "more than two", if you want. I have to see if there are any statistics and probabilities to back the theory, and who knows, become a famous mathematician. My father would be proud...
So, yes, the deal with the French Guy fell through. I guess that's what happens when you play with the fire. By playing with the fire, I mean making arrangements with so-called "players". It's only fair, seeing I always have a plan B, a C and sometimes stretching as far as L or M, so I totally understand the said players ought to come prepared and have a back up plan as well...
Instead I went for dinner with my lesbian ex-flatmate P and her friends, and then just for drinks and some serious catching up with Stella. We missed out on each other's updates for over a week, and that's a first. I need her around for a more grown-up insight, and I guess she needs me for a crazier, more spontaneous one. And we have at least two things in common;
-we'll never say no to a fun night out,
-since the bloody smoking ban we're prepared to freeze our ass off in outside areas whatever the British weather.
Enough for a good friendship if you ask!
Here goes the conversation:
S: So, did you go to Buttoned Down Disco's night in Koko?
Me: Nope and I'm gutted
S: What happened? I tried to reach you, like a thousand times, and you didn't pick up. So which option was it? In a club and didn't hear the phone, in bed with either OG or French Guy, or stoned somewhere?
Me: Unfortunately, none of the above, just watched the rugby and passed out in bed... alone!
S: That's no good, what's happening to us?
Me: Yep, something is definitely wrong there, let's go out tomorrow!
So today, I went around shops and picked up enough night life magasines to keep us updated for the next month. And tonight, it's Notting Hill Arts Club party followed by AKA/The End. When things need to be done, count on me to take matters in hand!
I'd better go and get ready now...
The rule of "more than two", if you want. I have to see if there are any statistics and probabilities to back the theory, and who knows, become a famous mathematician. My father would be proud...
So, yes, the deal with the French Guy fell through. I guess that's what happens when you play with the fire. By playing with the fire, I mean making arrangements with so-called "players". It's only fair, seeing I always have a plan B, a C and sometimes stretching as far as L or M, so I totally understand the said players ought to come prepared and have a back up plan as well...
Instead I went for dinner with my lesbian ex-flatmate P and her friends, and then just for drinks and some serious catching up with Stella. We missed out on each other's updates for over a week, and that's a first. I need her around for a more grown-up insight, and I guess she needs me for a crazier, more spontaneous one. And we have at least two things in common;
-we'll never say no to a fun night out,
-since the bloody smoking ban we're prepared to freeze our ass off in outside areas whatever the British weather.
Enough for a good friendship if you ask!
Here goes the conversation:
S: So, did you go to Buttoned Down Disco's night in Koko?
Me: Nope and I'm gutted
S: What happened? I tried to reach you, like a thousand times, and you didn't pick up. So which option was it? In a club and didn't hear the phone, in bed with either OG or French Guy, or stoned somewhere?
Me: Unfortunately, none of the above, just watched the rugby and passed out in bed... alone!
S: That's no good, what's happening to us?
Me: Yep, something is definitely wrong there, let's go out tomorrow!
So today, I went around shops and picked up enough night life magasines to keep us updated for the next month. And tonight, it's Notting Hill Arts Club party followed by AKA/The End. When things need to be done, count on me to take matters in hand!
I'd better go and get ready now...
Sunday, 14 October 2007
"back" on the market??
I've just spent whole last week on a holiday abroad with health-obsessed parents, so much for night time fun from a foldable bed in the same room as my dear genitors! They say you learn from your mistakes, but when the mistake consists in impulsively booking plane tickets to Greece for 25pounds go and return without checking the time of your flight, it looks like I'll never learn. I had to leave at 2:55am London time friday morning. As a consequence, I'm still wondering where my week-end is gone.
Don't get me wrong there, I did go to bed at 6pm that friday, but, as I'm still trying to work out how, my housemates managed to get me out of bed and we went on another "let's-destroy-Portobello-Road" night trip... Or maybe let's destroy ourselves on Portobello?
Having been up for the last 25hours, after much sambuca drinking, pint glasses stealing, and other paranormal activities including loads of dancing with strangers wearing authentic Native American feathers hats, and smoking my lungs off INSIDE the club, I decided to call it a night at around 4 and hailed a cab. Nethertheless, I still dragged back to the house my housemate's gay accointance in the aim of turning him straight enough for the night...Didn't work. Well, we did share a ham and pineapple pizza...
That bad habit must stop! I have enough gay related stories to stay away while sober, but can't help hitting on cute gay guys when I had a few... Pathetic I know!
When I next gained consciousness it was 5:37pm, Saturday. Woops.
I decided it was a sign my body needed some well deserved rest and stayed in. I was invited to another gay birthday party but happily passed on that one. This is my personal belief that if you don't feel great, you should never push yourself to go out unless you know FOR SURE that you're going to have the time of your life. If you still do go out, there's a very strong probability you're going to end up freezing at a bus stop just a few hours later thinking what a waste of time/energy/money/make up/hot bodies the whole initiative was, and will inevitably hate most of the world population, including yourself. Who needs more hatred?
So, instead, I battled with my computer for the best part of an hour to watch the rugby world cup semi finals, France/England with French comments (no way I was going to support England on that one!) and replied to OG's text during the second half time. OG is the guy I've started something with last week-end. I'm still wondering what this something is...
OG is the toxic bachelor par excellence. After much googling and facebook spying, I came to the conclusion that his private parts were kept as out of sight from amateurs as the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square (I'm not making any size comparison there, I'd class him in the Medium/Large department). And that's fine with me, as long as none of us pretends we're something more than what we are... But his insistance to take me out on two slightly uncomfortable dates before the actual thing, and the way he behaved in bed don't quite match. Hmmm...
Anyway, here's our last night conversation:
Him: Hello lovely... Welcome back! How was it? Am watching the rugby tonight... I know you're supposrting France, but it looks like we're going to win ha ha ha ha ;) xxx
Me: You really can't be serious, England winning against France? I don't think so!!!
Him: Uh. I don't think so... Maybe we should have our own game sometime... ;)
Me: Definitely, England against France, see who leads and scores first...
Me: Looks like France is winning
(that's my own way of liking rugby)
Half time over. The British lucky idiots win out of pure luck. I'm pissed off, facebook him "revenge?", switch off the computer, grab my vibrator and go to bed.
Two hours later my phone rings; OG. And as usual when I take a call in the middle of the night, I can never remember the content of the conversation the next day. Shit!
It happens the poor chap had facebooked me back ("Indeed. What were you thinking of doing to me exactly? Maybe I'll just come and meet you and see what you do...") at one of the rare moments I was:
-not online
-knackered
-not in the mood anymore having made good use of my last Ann Summers treat.
Damn!!!
Still, I think I remember we arranged to meet up next week.
But as I very strongly suspect, he probably went through his contact list after the said phone call to find someone who would oblige, and I am sure he found another pretty girl who did. Am I showing that obvious insecurity issues there? Not my style.
But I've noticed, since we've met, I'm more determined than ever to find someone(s) else to take the pressure off and put us on an equal level. But what if he's not like that? He's always being so attentionate, and too nice to be true, or is he just applying his usual tombeur routine? Hmm... Anyway, as I'm not letting myself getting hurt by yet another of what I believe is his kind, I decided to enjoy only what's on offer and never start wanting exclusivity from him.
So, I've arranged to meet up tonight with that very very cute French guy I've met at a bus stop two months ago before he went on holidays in Mexico. He's back in London, contacted me first, and looks like he's as much of a party animal as I am. Promising...
Don't get me wrong there, I did go to bed at 6pm that friday, but, as I'm still trying to work out how, my housemates managed to get me out of bed and we went on another "let's-destroy-Portobello-Road" night trip... Or maybe let's destroy ourselves on Portobello?
Having been up for the last 25hours, after much sambuca drinking, pint glasses stealing, and other paranormal activities including loads of dancing with strangers wearing authentic Native American feathers hats, and smoking my lungs off INSIDE the club, I decided to call it a night at around 4 and hailed a cab. Nethertheless, I still dragged back to the house my housemate's gay accointance in the aim of turning him straight enough for the night...Didn't work. Well, we did share a ham and pineapple pizza...
That bad habit must stop! I have enough gay related stories to stay away while sober, but can't help hitting on cute gay guys when I had a few... Pathetic I know!
When I next gained consciousness it was 5:37pm, Saturday. Woops.
I decided it was a sign my body needed some well deserved rest and stayed in. I was invited to another gay birthday party but happily passed on that one. This is my personal belief that if you don't feel great, you should never push yourself to go out unless you know FOR SURE that you're going to have the time of your life. If you still do go out, there's a very strong probability you're going to end up freezing at a bus stop just a few hours later thinking what a waste of time/energy/money/make up/hot bodies the whole initiative was, and will inevitably hate most of the world population, including yourself. Who needs more hatred?
So, instead, I battled with my computer for the best part of an hour to watch the rugby world cup semi finals, France/England with French comments (no way I was going to support England on that one!) and replied to OG's text during the second half time. OG is the guy I've started something with last week-end. I'm still wondering what this something is...
OG is the toxic bachelor par excellence. After much googling and facebook spying, I came to the conclusion that his private parts were kept as out of sight from amateurs as the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square (I'm not making any size comparison there, I'd class him in the Medium/Large department). And that's fine with me, as long as none of us pretends we're something more than what we are... But his insistance to take me out on two slightly uncomfortable dates before the actual thing, and the way he behaved in bed don't quite match. Hmmm...
Anyway, here's our last night conversation:
Him: Hello lovely... Welcome back! How was it? Am watching the rugby tonight... I know you're supposrting France, but it looks like we're going to win ha ha ha ha ;) xxx
Me: You really can't be serious, England winning against France? I don't think so!!!
Him: Uh. I don't think so... Maybe we should have our own game sometime... ;)
Me: Definitely, England against France, see who leads and scores first...
Me: Looks like France is winning
(that's my own way of liking rugby)
Half time over. The British lucky idiots win out of pure luck. I'm pissed off, facebook him "revenge?", switch off the computer, grab my vibrator and go to bed.
Two hours later my phone rings; OG. And as usual when I take a call in the middle of the night, I can never remember the content of the conversation the next day. Shit!
It happens the poor chap had facebooked me back ("Indeed. What were you thinking of doing to me exactly? Maybe I'll just come and meet you and see what you do...") at one of the rare moments I was:
-not online
-knackered
-not in the mood anymore having made good use of my last Ann Summers treat.
Damn!!!
Still, I think I remember we arranged to meet up next week.
But as I very strongly suspect, he probably went through his contact list after the said phone call to find someone who would oblige, and I am sure he found another pretty girl who did. Am I showing that obvious insecurity issues there? Not my style.
But I've noticed, since we've met, I'm more determined than ever to find someone(s) else to take the pressure off and put us on an equal level. But what if he's not like that? He's always being so attentionate, and too nice to be true, or is he just applying his usual tombeur routine? Hmm... Anyway, as I'm not letting myself getting hurt by yet another of what I believe is his kind, I decided to enjoy only what's on offer and never start wanting exclusivity from him.
So, I've arranged to meet up tonight with that very very cute French guy I've met at a bus stop two months ago before he went on holidays in Mexico. He's back in London, contacted me first, and looks like he's as much of a party animal as I am. Promising...
Sunday, 7 October 2007
For the good cause???
And here we are again, I'm pissed off. I've missed a Saturday night out, which is so unlike me.
But I keep telling myself it was for the good cause...
I've been seeing that guy for two weeks now. It all started quite agressively. (people in the arts and entertainment... if you ask: NO! We can't get a grip! We're passionate about pretty much everything, get used to it! )
I was sat at the pub, talking politics and shittyness of the English weather with the usual suspects.
And as usual, when I couldn't understand the conversation anymore ( Unfortunately, I'm really not good with politics), I let my eyes wander around the outside area and rested them on ...that absolute treat for the eyes. Tall, handsome, messy hair, bright blue eyes; exactly my type! He was quite apparently looking for someone and I kept staring at him... And he stared back. If there was a little voice commenting the moment, it couldn't have said anything but: Lust at first sight!!
That was so obvious that I had to readjust in my seat, and pretended to be interested again in MPs blah blah... Untill I realised he was hugging my friend Tam and sat just across the table from me, smiling. AAARGH! said the little voice, girl, you're in deep shit!
Tam introduced us, and we happened to work in very similar fields so we had quite a lot to talk about...for a minute an a half. Which he ended by a:
"So, do you sleep with every guy you previously eyed so greedily?"
Some info about the setting: I was surrounded by a group of nine quite prude persons, all 5 or 6 years older than me, who probably wouldn't want to know the kind of girl I can be. And I wouldn't want them to know either!
So, by answering "That's so not the point, do you intend to sleep with everyone who unfortunately happened to look in your direction?" I started the big fight.
Obviously we kept in touch through Facebook and met for coffee the next week... And kept fighting too. He's such an arrogant bastard and I can't stop the urge to put induviduals of his kind back in their place. We even spent most of yesterday disagreeing about when and where to meet up. Well, I won!!
To the outsider it could have looked like we were fighting at my doorstep yesterday night, and all the way up the stairs to my room, but actually for once, we were quite on the same level... And that was nice.
Just interrupted by:
-My more-than-tipsy housemate coming back home at 3am screaming at the top of his lungs non-identifiable songs. When I oppened the door to tell him to shut up he blurted out he loved me, was going to make it up to me and buy me breakfast the next day. Always a good look when there's someone else in your bed... I hope it was still evident it was a very gay declaration of love.
- Text messages from my clubbing-partners in crime Brooke and Stella, asking where I was and when I was going to join... at 11:15, 1:52, 2:44, 4:15, and 8:39. Apparently they were still having the time of their life at Egg this morning, and I missed out. Damn!
Well, I still had a great time, and fortunately, yesterday, I went for drinks around Portobello with my housemate and co and then stopped by the Notting Hill Arts Club on my way to my date...
But I keep telling myself it was for the good cause...
I've been seeing that guy for two weeks now. It all started quite agressively. (people in the arts and entertainment... if you ask: NO! We can't get a grip! We're passionate about pretty much everything, get used to it! )
I was sat at the pub, talking politics and shittyness of the English weather with the usual suspects.
And as usual, when I couldn't understand the conversation anymore ( Unfortunately, I'm really not good with politics), I let my eyes wander around the outside area and rested them on ...that absolute treat for the eyes. Tall, handsome, messy hair, bright blue eyes; exactly my type! He was quite apparently looking for someone and I kept staring at him... And he stared back. If there was a little voice commenting the moment, it couldn't have said anything but: Lust at first sight!!
That was so obvious that I had to readjust in my seat, and pretended to be interested again in MPs blah blah... Untill I realised he was hugging my friend Tam and sat just across the table from me, smiling. AAARGH! said the little voice, girl, you're in deep shit!
Tam introduced us, and we happened to work in very similar fields so we had quite a lot to talk about...for a minute an a half. Which he ended by a:
"So, do you sleep with every guy you previously eyed so greedily?"
Some info about the setting: I was surrounded by a group of nine quite prude persons, all 5 or 6 years older than me, who probably wouldn't want to know the kind of girl I can be. And I wouldn't want them to know either!
So, by answering "That's so not the point, do you intend to sleep with everyone who unfortunately happened to look in your direction?" I started the big fight.
Obviously we kept in touch through Facebook and met for coffee the next week... And kept fighting too. He's such an arrogant bastard and I can't stop the urge to put induviduals of his kind back in their place. We even spent most of yesterday disagreeing about when and where to meet up. Well, I won!!
To the outsider it could have looked like we were fighting at my doorstep yesterday night, and all the way up the stairs to my room, but actually for once, we were quite on the same level... And that was nice.
Just interrupted by:
-My more-than-tipsy housemate coming back home at 3am screaming at the top of his lungs non-identifiable songs. When I oppened the door to tell him to shut up he blurted out he loved me, was going to make it up to me and buy me breakfast the next day. Always a good look when there's someone else in your bed... I hope it was still evident it was a very gay declaration of love.
- Text messages from my clubbing-partners in crime Brooke and Stella, asking where I was and when I was going to join... at 11:15, 1:52, 2:44, 4:15, and 8:39. Apparently they were still having the time of their life at Egg this morning, and I missed out. Damn!
Well, I still had a great time, and fortunately, yesterday, I went for drinks around Portobello with my housemate and co and then stopped by the Notting Hill Arts Club on my way to my date...
Friday, 5 October 2007
The dangers of Facebook
We'll never say it enough, Facebook is a great networking device. It allows you to:
-stay in touch with your friends abroad,
-save a few pounds on texting,
-organise a party,
-get to know better that sexy stranger at the bar, who you know is a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of that person you've just met only once but is now in your "friends" list. ( and everyone knows that a little poking often leads to so much more...),
-etc....
But see, when all those sexy strangers become exes, it would take massive guts (that unfortunately I don't have) to remove them from your friends list. And let's be honest there, who doesn't want to know what happens to them after you've broken up???
And you keep checking their profile hoping that their status will be " ______ is desperate", "______ will never find love again", or even better "_______ wants to kill himself"!
Obviously, most of the time, YOU end up wanting to kill yourself because he's never looked better on his profile picture, and his page is filled by sexually explicit comments from five different slutty looking girls.
But that's not all my point. I've been invited at my gay friend Andy's birthday drinks tonight. Through Facebook, obviously. Well, fair enough, but I wouldn't have even considered going there, if I had been invited the "real-life" way . Don't get me wrong there, I'm a very open-minded person (my first boyfriend left me for a guy when I was 15...), and some of my best friends are gay, bi, whatever, but mainly because I've already spent far too much time on the gay scene, I know for a fact that there's never anything in store for me on those nights. A girl surely has better plans for herself on a friday night!
So, when I received the invitation last Sunday, I still pressed the "might show up" button and started to scratch my brain for a decent excuse not to show up... Until Tuesday, when there popped in my News feeds: "the-only-person-on-earth-that-truly-broke-your-heart is planning to attend Andy's birthday drinks"!!! That's the thing, with Facebook, I've both known them for years, and while the three of us went to the same school, I could swear on my life they never spoke to each other. So why on earth would "the-only-person-on-earth-that-truly-broke-my-heart" decide to go? I'm not that self centered yet to think he decided to go because he saw I was going. But why? It is sooo not his scene! So why? WHY???
So, obviously I'm going... And freaking out. It took me eight months to get over him, and only because I haven't seen him in a year and a month... (if you don't take in account the drunken horny messenger exchanges at 2amonce in a while)
But I decided to stay only if it will have become obvious that:
-he will never show up
-he will show up and display no interest in me whatsoever (harsh)
-he will show up and I won't be interested anymore (if it's the case, I'll immediately run off to Saint Paul's and lit a candle! hum... not likely)
-he will show up and will remind me why I was so crazy about him (if it's the case, this time I'll run straight to the Thames)
-he will show up and spend the evening with that bitch who said she would come as well (if it's the case I'd have to stay a bit longer, just to work out how to discreetly kill them both before leaving)
Anyway, I'd better get going now and try not to get too slaughtered, but I don't see why I shouldn't; it's Andy's birthday after all! Don't ask why I'm wearing the dress I bought for my date tomorrow...
-stay in touch with your friends abroad,
-save a few pounds on texting,
-organise a party,
-get to know better that sexy stranger at the bar, who you know is a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of that person you've just met only once but is now in your "friends" list. ( and everyone knows that a little poking often leads to so much more...),
-etc....
But see, when all those sexy strangers become exes, it would take massive guts (that unfortunately I don't have) to remove them from your friends list. And let's be honest there, who doesn't want to know what happens to them after you've broken up???
And you keep checking their profile hoping that their status will be " ______ is desperate", "______ will never find love again", or even better "_______ wants to kill himself"!
Obviously, most of the time, YOU end up wanting to kill yourself because he's never looked better on his profile picture, and his page is filled by sexually explicit comments from five different slutty looking girls.
But that's not all my point. I've been invited at my gay friend Andy's birthday drinks tonight. Through Facebook, obviously. Well, fair enough, but I wouldn't have even considered going there, if I had been invited the "real-life" way . Don't get me wrong there, I'm a very open-minded person (my first boyfriend left me for a guy when I was 15...), and some of my best friends are gay, bi, whatever, but mainly because I've already spent far too much time on the gay scene, I know for a fact that there's never anything in store for me on those nights. A girl surely has better plans for herself on a friday night!
So, when I received the invitation last Sunday, I still pressed the "might show up" button and started to scratch my brain for a decent excuse not to show up... Until Tuesday, when there popped in my News feeds: "the-only-person-on-earth-that-truly-broke-your-heart is planning to attend Andy's birthday drinks"!!! That's the thing, with Facebook, I've both known them for years, and while the three of us went to the same school, I could swear on my life they never spoke to each other. So why on earth would "the-only-person-on-earth-that-truly-broke-my-heart" decide to go? I'm not that self centered yet to think he decided to go because he saw I was going. But why? It is sooo not his scene! So why? WHY???
So, obviously I'm going... And freaking out. It took me eight months to get over him, and only because I haven't seen him in a year and a month... (if you don't take in account the drunken horny messenger exchanges at 2amonce in a while)
But I decided to stay only if it will have become obvious that:
-he will never show up
-he will show up and display no interest in me whatsoever (harsh)
-he will show up and I won't be interested anymore (if it's the case, I'll immediately run off to Saint Paul's and lit a candle! hum... not likely)
-he will show up and will remind me why I was so crazy about him (if it's the case, this time I'll run straight to the Thames)
-he will show up and spend the evening with that bitch who said she would come as well (if it's the case I'd have to stay a bit longer, just to work out how to discreetly kill them both before leaving)
Anyway, I'd better get going now and try not to get too slaughtered, but I don't see why I shouldn't; it's Andy's birthday after all! Don't ask why I'm wearing the dress I bought for my date tomorrow...
Little introduction...
I'm a Londoner at heart! I have spent "only" three years here, but being well known by my friends as the-girl-who-lives-out-of-her-suitcase, I think that after experiencing living in eight different places all that time, that gives me a great knowledge of night buses routes!
Thank God, I'm eventually settled down in West London, at walking distance from Portobello Road. It's been almost six months; a first for me! My housemates have become family, I love them to bits, and I like to think the feeling is mutual. Well... as long as they don't know everything I'm up to as soon as I've closed the front door in my high heels...
Surely, I'm not the only 21 years old girl in London who carries on the duty to explore everything that our beautiful city has to offer... At night that is!
I've been keeping track of most my night escapades on my personal diary for years, but it became slightly frustrating not to be able to share the funny, sometimes hilarious or even scary annecdotes collected after a few drinks out there. Especially since, going through a dry spell work-wise, I spend far too much time online nowadays...
So there we go, I hope you enjoy it and don't mind the possible grammar and/or spelling mistakes, since English is only my 3rd language...
Thank God, I'm eventually settled down in West London, at walking distance from Portobello Road. It's been almost six months; a first for me! My housemates have become family, I love them to bits, and I like to think the feeling is mutual. Well... as long as they don't know everything I'm up to as soon as I've closed the front door in my high heels...
Surely, I'm not the only 21 years old girl in London who carries on the duty to explore everything that our beautiful city has to offer... At night that is!
I've been keeping track of most my night escapades on my personal diary for years, but it became slightly frustrating not to be able to share the funny, sometimes hilarious or even scary annecdotes collected after a few drinks out there. Especially since, going through a dry spell work-wise, I spend far too much time online nowadays...
So there we go, I hope you enjoy it and don't mind the possible grammar and/or spelling mistakes, since English is only my 3rd language...
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