9 March 2010

Nick doesn’t know it but this is my second cup of tea of the evening and it’s full of whiskey. I feel good.

Tonight, it’s tea for dinner because I’m so full of Marks and Spencers Apple and Cinnamon Hot Cross Buns. Those people are geniuses. I find that 12 seconds in the microwave brings them to the perfect doughy loveliness. I picked some up for Sandra and me to indulge in with our afternoon tea. Actually, whilst she popped out of the office for a lunchtime walk around the block, I inhaled two in a row leaving only one for her as our secretary ran away with another.

It’s evening. I’m sitting on the floor in the lounge, up against the heater like a cat again, next to William Shatner’s autobiography. Nick picked it up at the same time that I picked up the Cyndi and Liza. It’s called Up Til Now, which I think is a rather disappointing title. Nick says it’s hard to read, which is also mildly disappointing, but, yes, it was purchased in the spirit of ridiculous. The man at the second hand charity shop told us that, not only was Shatner a wicked homophobic, he was also a racist bastard. Again, I’m disappointed. I really enjoyed Boston Legal. Did you? I actually do remember preferring James Spader. I think he did an excellent job of The Secretary.

On the other side of me, I have the Argos catalogue. It’s fabulous. I’ve pulled out my post-its and we’ve marked the fooz ball table that we want amongst other things. And it’s not just a fooz ball table. It’s also a card table, a backgammon table, a pool table, a table-bowling table and an air-hockey table… The decision is made.

I’ve just checked the catalogue for the correct spelling of “fooz ball”. Argos refers to them as “football” tables and although I accept that it makes sense, it means that you’ll have to continue cringing at my spelling.

Today could have been more interesting.

How about that poem that I promised you?

Here goes. Entitled: In which I remember the past and just want to cry at how beautiful it was…

We had the ships to our back, cruisers on the harbour

And drunks in pubs leaning over railings

And pissing, spitting, fighting… I pushed you

A little, delicately, and laughed, looked away,

Closing my eyes in mirth so that they seemed

Upside-down, crescent, fingernail moons,

At something charming you’d said. And you said

You’d like me to stay, tonight, this close still…

So, enclosed in eaves, watching, we wait for our turn

To woo a crowd with our dance and make

A couple’a’bucks, we move closer together

And languish amongst my petticoat and

Your flared dirty trousers, encrusted with muck.

You had a guitar, pluck, pluckety-pluck

Then you strummed and I hummed a little and swayed.

John threw a cigarette butt into the alcove and brought the world in

With a siren and a splash and the tingle of cold hard cash,

Tinkling to the ground at our feet - for it was the High Street -

And Katie squealed intolerably over and over but

With such chaotic delight! She was tight.

And quietly, ever so much so, you leaned in

For one more look. I’m lost. Take me back there.

Oh, would that life would – that cruel old thing!

I could possibly get more disgustingly sentimental. Why don’t you try to out-do me? I bet you’ll simply pour it out, you desperate romantics.

Enough. I’m heading for the kettle.