My love, m'lady, me darlin'...

What could be a more perfect end to a cluster fuck week - a never before considered question that led to an animated if somewhat unexpected debate on the folly of the bendy bus. A charming gentleman with a fondness for effusive endearments, much concerned about the city's dwindling coffers, who informs me that we have to suffer this unsightly traffic aberration till 2015, which is when the contract runs out apparently.
One week. Exactly. Two missed deadlines, endless phone calls to maneuver through insidiously petty internal politics, desperate juggle to travel schedules to appease righteously offended client, interminable year end drama with finance and admin, client redundancies, new faces to please, inebreited colleagues full of good cheer and little else on a friday afternoon, late night concalls to ensure the client still thinks we're sexier than the competition come Tuesday, monsoon weather that makes artful dodging of maliciously gleeful vehicular spray a necessity, erratic christmas shopping (an assortment of fourteen different gifts for the same three people, with a waiting list of fifteenish cannot bode well), a horribly broken heart eliciting a resounding 'all men are fundamentally stupid' assertion, yet another working weekend mitigated by a roitous farewell, an orgasmic online encounter, and an overindulgent sunday lunch, inspirational conviction that I absolutely don't trust anyone who can't hate, or doesn't love to kiss; a nose wheel that needed to be changed (how do they do that anyway? use a jack???), Sujata's scary schedule for December, an uncharacteristic feeling of trepidation of what I will find when I go home this time, an exquisite entrecote du cheval cooked at the table, 3 martini biancos, 3 glasses of wine, an unspeakable digestif, a happy client, a headache, a long, hot shower, bad weather in Western Europe, the sexiest excuse for a watch, a centrosauras apertus (why does most of my adult life seem to have been spent at Geneva airport?), a three hour delay getting into Heathrow, BA disguised as Air India (a 'choice' between a solitary cookie clamouring for death or an apologetic bag of salted nuts), 83 unread messages since this afternoon. A client who writes 'dear loved ones....when ow when' (I think I'm in love). 7 missed calls. This is my life? How is that even possible?! Who are these people? Why is my mother calling??
Four dinner invitations turn my never before 'empty since breakfast' stomach into a Barnum & Bailey's sideshow. Two days before I leave, and people only now find the time to want to feed me?? Why do I have so many unwieldly shapes to transport? I hate packing. Uh-oh. I feel a full on crank welling over my love, m'lady, me darlin'.....