Monday, January 28, 2008

Vomit, and all that it leaves behind

I have been meaning to post, honest. Its just I picked up this tiny little germ. Tiny, insignificant, winter generating stomach germ called norovirus that causes the aptly named 'winter vomiting virus'. I will never be able to eat another piece of gnocchi ever again. That's enough of the detail. Due to my ever turbulent innards being ever turbulent innards it's lingering, and whilst I haven't physically hurled for a few days, the nausea is a little grim. But not as grim as the sweat. Bloody hell! How can one small usually cold person produce so much sweat? I'm ashamed to go out in company which has led me to cancel two dates today and I'm dreading uni tonight (mind, I'm also dreading uni because marks are due back and it's 'call of the wild' teaching us - Pauline. Always makes me think of the League of Gentlemen that name).

So I'm caught in inertia. Again. That suspended feeling between pure illness hell and total recovery. Alright, so I'm feeling sorry for myself! There are so many things I want (need) to do that require just that little bit of effort that I just can't be bothered to pull out. All goes back to laziness again.

So in response I am becoming turtle-like. I am retreating to the settee with water and digestive biscuits and all five volumes of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy for solace. I am daydreaming pretty dreams about beautiful distraught maidens who want to throw themselves off high walls (pretty because in my head it looks like an Alan Lee painting), I'm thinking about loss and how it's two years since Johnny died tomorrow, the point at which the world caved in around us both and swept us into a maelstrom of misunderstanding and regret. I thinking about the words of Freud (pilfered from Saturday's Guardian):

"We will never find a substitute. No matter what may fill the gap, even if it be filled completely, it nevertheless remains something else. And actually this is how it should be, it is the only way of perpetuating that love which we do not want to relinquish."

Sunday, January 06, 2008

The Surreal World

Tish descended upon us this weekend in her full witching glory, and I duly accepted her invite to return to the home of our youth, Winlaton Village for a bevvy. Mindful of where we were going I dressed somewhat conservatively in blue jeans, cute white blouse and v-neck jumper, so no exposed flesh, no exposed chest etc, given that the locals can become quite savage.

After a celebratory glass of champagne for the new year we ventured cautiously to the hub of local refined culture - The Rose and Crown public house. Waltzing through the door first I was nearly decapitated by a whirling dervish wielding a sword with gay abandon. Yep, the Morris Dancers had returned to Winlaton in their full glory, little bells tinkling with gusto.

Slightly unnerved by this, we waited until the aged gentlemen paused for breath, clapped politely and gave them some money to ward off evil (we really did...). We sunk a few companionable gin and tonics whilst the locals tried to remember who we were (I should mention that Tish has died her hair a very fetching shade of bright pink, accentuated with turquoise eyeliner. Winlaton isn't quite ready for this level of glamour).

Feeling brave we then ventured 'up the street' as it's known, to the banging disco at the Vulcan. There were precisely six people in there. The gin had that dangerous fluorescent sheen that tells you it isn't kosher. Cue tall, baldy chap starts to talk to me. Transpire we'd been in the same form class at school, although I didn't recognise him from Adam (ok, ok I'm a bitch! Let's just say the years have not been kind!). Last orders shouted, he persuaded us to the Murderer's Arms (The Queens) for another drink and to meet his friend.

Now, I don't know why my brain disengaged from the obvious danger here, but it was particularly gin addled by this stage. The dear Morris Dancers were back in operation in this pub, and we smiled, said hello and gave out some dutiful kisses (I really was drunk...). Then this bloke with a face like a raw meat patty joined us - the 'friend'. First he grabbed Tish's ass then made a move on my chest (twatful). He was rebuffed. Then he told us all about his wife and the eight porn films he'd 'starred' in. What, with animals? No sane woman would go near that face...

We decided after an emergency conference in the ladies to escape. However, they'd sat on our coats (bastards!), so we had to ask for them, at which point they got nasty, cos apparently we were going home with them....! Tish nicked off and had a brilliant flash of inspiration...she sweet talked two Morris Men to pretend they were her father (both at once! That's a neat trick) and they came and escorted us out of pub to the Chinese takeaway. Hurray for Morris Dancers! The kisses on cheeks worked! Chivalry ain't dead.

Seriously, it was a bit scary. I haven't been out pulling for ever (n.b. I wasn't out pulling then either, just looking for a chat about village life) and I'm really dense at realising when people are chatting me up. I now recall why I no longer live in a small village.

We ended the night having a midnight feast on the foldout settee with wine, crisps, cookies, jellybeans and chocolate. I felt liked I'd been clubbed the next day but it was totally worth it!

Today I am mostly: eating lovely food (not just any food, Marks and Spencers food!), listening to K.T. Tunstall at this precise moment (i-tunes on shuffle), reading The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams, meant to be editing my uni work (hah!), wondering why I'm not wearing socks as my study is freezing, vowing never to drink again. Again. I think I say that weekly...)