Perplexity mars my otherwise regal brow as I gaze uncomprehendingly at the little red triangle with the exclamation mark! Severe Weather Alerts! I stealthily (just in case the weather police are monitoring my reactions to their proclamation) sneak a peak out the window. Feels like another benign and warm night, devoid of any severity. I remain perplexed.
Dawn (perhaps I exaggerate a tad!) brings comprehension along with dire headlines; 'First Hottest Day of the Year', soundly backed up by profound statistics of how many people keel over due to unanticipated good weather in this country. The severity of the situation is made abundantly clear as I reach the easy to follow how to deal with the heat tips... (a) Walk in the shade (b) Drink lots of water (c) Use sunscreen...... Clearly, resources of the highest calibre have been devoted to pure research, bestowing the benefit of such poignant advice. I'm deeply appreciative to see that my hafta (protection money) to the alleged Government isn't just being used to vacuum some MP's moat.
I'm ultra observant as I head out, but the populace seems blithely unconcerned about the 'severity' of the situation. Bare headed, barely covered bodies lay strewn over available grassy patches, showing a marked lack of respect for good advice. It appears that four continuous days of bright sunshine and blue skies at this latitude can cause the human brain to addle to the point of reckless endangerment.
My satirical snarl wilts as I step into my flat. An open window makes an unconvincing play at keeping the shimmer of swat at bay. I stay motionless, but like a conquering ghost army, the stillness permeates my body, snaking it's way up to my head. It is severe, and no longer perplexes me... the Met was right, it's f***ing !
The futility of anger
Guy grins and rolls his eyes as he recounts the Romanians hushed 'she's an angry woman' description. I bristle, dutifully indignant and leave him to deal with the Central Europeans.
A few weeks on, and I'm wondering if the man from Bucharest wasn't right. I am angry. Gut churningly so. It's always been empty words... making a mark, achieving goals, blah, blah..... But there does come a time when you stop and look around and wonder just what the hell you're doing. This, is one of those times.
Reverting to the stereotype just makes me want to bellow to shatter glass, being undervalued, the tipping point. Like a slap in the face. You're working in real estate and you couldn't give a tinker's damn to begin with.....You're good at what you do but don't get paid what you're worth. Fury drums my temples to the rythm of my resentfully pulsating heart, because I don't even care enough to fight. The realisation that you really are alone in a city that will never be your home. That you've just said goodbye to someone who really loves you, and that the others who feel the same way, aren't here. So why am I?
Time to let go of the illusion that things will work out. They won't. How can they when you didn't believe enough to fight for what we had. The wedge of ego and fear gouging a chasm to deep to cross. Nothing's changed really, but it takes the absence of Anaheeta's new found openness and maturity and Mimi's melodramatic 'he's dead to me..' to bring it home. My once insitinctive and unshakeable defence of you crumbling under the onslight of your blithe shoe shopping. Nothing has changed. Fear holding us in limbo, I think, but how long can you delude yourself. Am I still here because leaving would really be the end?
I'm tired of the sadness that insidiously wraps around me like a hungry python when I least expect it. Weary of the recently acquiried disequilibrium that threatens to overwhelm me every now and then. Angry at the anxious tattoo my heart thumps out when bored, frustrated at the absence of control as I toss yet another kohl destroyed kerchief into the laundry bin. I'm tired of fighting a battle that there isn't. The irony of having to surrender after I'd already retreated, chokes me. Pity, hope doesn't go the same way.
I'm tired. Of it all. 28 degrees outside. 4 degrees inside. It's going to be an early fall this year.
Waxy's Little Sister
I feel faintly bemused as I lightly rest my oily palms against the laptop, watching Murray fighting for his life against another handy Swiss Maharashtrian, Wawrinka.
A couple of days ago, I was reminded of the Annual Dinner where I was asked the poignant question of what I missed most about India. I'd pondered the question carefully, and although I smiled, I was dead serious with my, 'A good and inexpensive wax!'. I was wrong. I miss the tree wrenching monsoons most of all.
That was then. I've revelled in a 10 minute hailstorm and been the unexpectedly reluctant participant of amateur night at home since. When your regular charming Brazilian sambas off to Brazil, leaving you with an appropriate replacement that answers to Simone, rest assured... all will not be well!
The unexpected jolt of Simone's strong English accent of some dubious persuasion make me falter (uh oh, looks like Murray might be as well) with my jeans halfway down. Still, it is Simone, right..... ? She's in a hurry. Jabbing the patently not hot enough wax, ready to daub me with an ice cream stick. It's like a train wreck - I can't look away, the power of speech elusive, as the ice cream stick pretends to be wielded by a less than gifted six year old, as uneven splotches complete the slathered on patchwork, vaguely knitting together, the all too brief segments of smooth wax on my arms. I wonder if she only works on contortionists as my arms is twisted in a most unbecoming manner to reach what used to be a straight forward bend....
Speech returns as the little miser's frugal use of waxing paper leaves more residual wax than it takes of! Resigned to my karmic destiny, I pretend not to see the used wax strips slip from the protective towel to my beautiful bed cover. I'm distracted, and watch fascinated, as the combination of stuck bedroom window, 30 C and baby fan, turns the heated wax into flaying strings, wafting magically like recalcitrant strands of candy floss as they make the perilous journey from the receptacle to my shin. The enchantment fading just as abruptly as a fairy godmother as I realise my freshly laundered sheet now has translucent, little globes of wax. An insect, and I'd have a fossil. Now, I just have more laundry.
And a nearly audition worthy smooth and oiled body. Country roads, take me hoooome......
A couple of days ago, I was reminded of the Annual Dinner where I was asked the poignant question of what I missed most about India. I'd pondered the question carefully, and although I smiled, I was dead serious with my, 'A good and inexpensive wax!'. I was wrong. I miss the tree wrenching monsoons most of all.
That was then. I've revelled in a 10 minute hailstorm and been the unexpectedly reluctant participant of amateur night at home since. When your regular charming Brazilian sambas off to Brazil, leaving you with an appropriate replacement that answers to Simone, rest assured... all will not be well!
The unexpected jolt of Simone's strong English accent of some dubious persuasion make me falter (uh oh, looks like Murray might be as well) with my jeans halfway down. Still, it is Simone, right..... ? She's in a hurry. Jabbing the patently not hot enough wax, ready to daub me with an ice cream stick. It's like a train wreck - I can't look away, the power of speech elusive, as the ice cream stick pretends to be wielded by a less than gifted six year old, as uneven splotches complete the slathered on patchwork, vaguely knitting together, the all too brief segments of smooth wax on my arms. I wonder if she only works on contortionists as my arms is twisted in a most unbecoming manner to reach what used to be a straight forward bend....
Speech returns as the little miser's frugal use of waxing paper leaves more residual wax than it takes of! Resigned to my karmic destiny, I pretend not to see the used wax strips slip from the protective towel to my beautiful bed cover. I'm distracted, and watch fascinated, as the combination of stuck bedroom window, 30 C and baby fan, turns the heated wax into flaying strings, wafting magically like recalcitrant strands of candy floss as they make the perilous journey from the receptacle to my shin. The enchantment fading just as abruptly as a fairy godmother as I realise my freshly laundered sheet now has translucent, little globes of wax. An insect, and I'd have a fossil. Now, I just have more laundry.
And a nearly audition worthy smooth and oiled body. Country roads, take me hoooome......
Never, will Neverland be the same...
...without it's very own Peter Pan.
The melodrama gene uncharacteristically subdued. It doesn't seem right for him to have died like this. All alone, like a little boy left in the dark. Even more surreal to read about the death of a talented, 50 year old freak of nature. I feel the disbelief a sudden death of youth engenders. Michael Jackson. A child with children of his own. The sadness seeps through my consciousness like a badly insulated window. More than anything, I feel the loss of a pure talent; pity for the boy-man whose life was a regression. Idolised, before being cruelly devoured by those that spawned him; Isolated, unable to reconcile the catatonic adulation with the vicious jeers. The prophecy that was 'Leave me alone'.
Where were all the album sale boosting fans when he needed them most? Fans weep. Tributes fall like rain. 'I am so very sad and confused with every emotion possible' - Lisa Marie Presley. Maybe she did understand better than anyone else. 'I'm having a million different reactions I didn't except I would feel' - Cher. Every one's heart goes to his children and his family.
My heart goes to the little boy with the Afro, who just wanted to sometimes be like other little boys. But to want to be something you're not, is unacceptable. Especially when you're such an easy target. And they never stopped using him, did they. That's who my heart aches for. That confused little boy in the fishbowl with his magic moves, music and imagination. We let him soar because he was so beautiful.... But he wouldn't live his life the way we wanted him to, so we cut his wings.
I'm not a Michael Jackson fan. I thought the moonwalk was silly. I remember Billie Jean. I remember watching Diana Ross introduce him as, 'My baby Michael Jackson' in the early 70's. Some little black boy with an Afro. Almost easy as 123, he was the King of Pop. Kylie is pop. Michael Jackson.....is incredible talent. Was pure talent. A fundamental part of my life. Our lives. You didn't have to think about him, he was just there. Maybe that's why it feels so strange to think it might be over. But it can't be. Not while we're still here.....
Like a comet, he blazed through a generation, giving life as he took it. Ours. His. Death is the only constant; perhaps Peter Pan's found his way to Neverland. Good night Sweet Prince.
The melodrama gene uncharacteristically subdued. It doesn't seem right for him to have died like this. All alone, like a little boy left in the dark. Even more surreal to read about the death of a talented, 50 year old freak of nature. I feel the disbelief a sudden death of youth engenders. Michael Jackson. A child with children of his own. The sadness seeps through my consciousness like a badly insulated window. More than anything, I feel the loss of a pure talent; pity for the boy-man whose life was a regression. Idolised, before being cruelly devoured by those that spawned him; Isolated, unable to reconcile the catatonic adulation with the vicious jeers. The prophecy that was 'Leave me alone'.
Where were all the album sale boosting fans when he needed them most? Fans weep. Tributes fall like rain. 'I am so very sad and confused with every emotion possible' - Lisa Marie Presley. Maybe she did understand better than anyone else. 'I'm having a million different reactions I didn't except I would feel' - Cher. Every one's heart goes to his children and his family.
My heart goes to the little boy with the Afro, who just wanted to sometimes be like other little boys. But to want to be something you're not, is unacceptable. Especially when you're such an easy target. And they never stopped using him, did they. That's who my heart aches for. That confused little boy in the fishbowl with his magic moves, music and imagination. We let him soar because he was so beautiful.... But he wouldn't live his life the way we wanted him to, so we cut his wings.
I'm not a Michael Jackson fan. I thought the moonwalk was silly. I remember Billie Jean. I remember watching Diana Ross introduce him as, 'My baby Michael Jackson' in the early 70's. Some little black boy with an Afro. Almost easy as 123, he was the King of Pop. Kylie is pop. Michael Jackson.....is incredible talent. Was pure talent. A fundamental part of my life. Our lives. You didn't have to think about him, he was just there. Maybe that's why it feels so strange to think it might be over. But it can't be. Not while we're still here.....
Like a comet, he blazed through a generation, giving life as he took it. Ours. His. Death is the only constant; perhaps Peter Pan's found his way to Neverland. Good night Sweet Prince.
Should I stay or should I go?
18 years on, and I'm echoing The Clash......
The human mind is truly a strange thing. Of all the musical possibilities to permeate my brain at two thirty on a Monday morning, it's one from the appalling eighties, seemingly penned by an unnaturally gifted 3 year old. "If I go there will be trouble.... and if I stay it will be double..." So why does it feel as though it's mocking me instead?
The sadness and anger giving way to emptiness. There really is nothing to keep me here any longer. The acknowledgement makes my heart thunder in a most unpleasantly anxious manner. 2 days till the end of the month. 48 hours. 2009 or 2010? New beginnings are scary, and I feel paralysed by the weight of having to make a decision. Which might explain why I'm still agonising at three in the morning; Head vs. Heart.
Or it could be the last of the Godiva.....
The human mind is truly a strange thing. Of all the musical possibilities to permeate my brain at two thirty on a Monday morning, it's one from the appalling eighties, seemingly penned by an unnaturally gifted 3 year old. "If I go there will be trouble.... and if I stay it will be double..." So why does it feel as though it's mocking me instead?
The sadness and anger giving way to emptiness. There really is nothing to keep me here any longer. The acknowledgement makes my heart thunder in a most unpleasantly anxious manner. 2 days till the end of the month. 48 hours. 2009 or 2010? New beginnings are scary, and I feel paralysed by the weight of having to make a decision. Which might explain why I'm still agonising at three in the morning; Head vs. Heart.
Or it could be the last of the Godiva.....
Gone with the wind...
Uh oh. No sunblock. Panicked thoughts of serious tan lines cross my mind as my eyes alight on the small plastic tub of pale, yellow liquid. I'll bet it wanted to grow up to be slathered on freshly baked baguette... I do believe we do deep injustice to Ms. Antoinette.
The grey skies play on my hope like a fickle lover. The low growling of thunder makes my lips twitch into a smile of anticipation, as I perch on the window ledge. Lightning... more thunder. A wind toying the leaves just so.... teasing them and me with the promise of a break in the oppressive heat. My stomach knots as my nostrils quiver.. I can smell it. The first few fat drops of rain. Shy, unsure, almost reluctant... and then bolder, stronger, harder till it's pelting down like a monsoon, streaking the dust on the ledge, splashing inside. An unusual sound. Rattling pebbles on the window. All hail!! A full on hail storm as the not so little stony nuggets drive me in to protect poor Pishka. I hug myself with joy and against the cold as my nipples contract, hail ricocheting off the ledge, scaffolding, windows and ouch!.... me!!
All too soon, it's over..... gone with the wind that lifted the day.
The grey skies play on my hope like a fickle lover. The low growling of thunder makes my lips twitch into a smile of anticipation, as I perch on the window ledge. Lightning... more thunder. A wind toying the leaves just so.... teasing them and me with the promise of a break in the oppressive heat. My stomach knots as my nostrils quiver.. I can smell it. The first few fat drops of rain. Shy, unsure, almost reluctant... and then bolder, stronger, harder till it's pelting down like a monsoon, streaking the dust on the ledge, splashing inside. An unusual sound. Rattling pebbles on the window. All hail!! A full on hail storm as the not so little stony nuggets drive me in to protect poor Pishka. I hug myself with joy and against the cold as my nipples contract, hail ricocheting off the ledge, scaffolding, windows and ouch!.... me!!
All too soon, it's over..... gone with the wind that lifted the day.
Criminal Intent
I survey the outcome of the afternoon's pillage with satisfaction. Classics mingling disdainfully with bright, flirty fun. I am pleased. Anaheeta's visit seems to have tipped my weakness for slinky lingerie onto nonsense dresses!! Hmmmmm. I vaguely wonder why my newest acquisition seems to jingle, but it's only an unexpected jab against my thigh as I flop down on the sofa that makes my antenna wiggle...... Unfriggin' believable. The tag's still on it. This, after I had to change the classic coz the tag wouldn't come off!!! Twice in two days. What are the odds??
Apparently, it wasn't enough to have to serenely return the glances of a large number of women in La Senza as my entrance set off the alarms.... An attempt to get an earlier escapee tag removed. How could I have not heard that clamouring???? I blush as I recollect my blank, incomprehension when she said I'd have to come back again... Again?? This is the first time I've walked in.... (to Boots). Riiight - everyone knows Boot's sales assistants are generally generously endowed women in tight t-shirts with La Senza scrawled across in pink. But oh no!! Yours truly was obviously occupied with far more elevated thoughts, and Anaheeta was busy windmilling an explaining of a bad mannered tag from Boots that had been setting off alarms all over Central London.....
I'm sorely tempted to write a strongly worded letter of complaint at the glaring incompetence of the stores and their bumbling staff that allows vague women to waltz around setting of alarms unchallenged! Either that, or scour eBay for a cheap tag removal gadget.... there must be something out there that'll save me having to root through all receptacles in the hope of finding a matching bill...
Apparently, it wasn't enough to have to serenely return the glances of a large number of women in La Senza as my entrance set off the alarms.... An attempt to get an earlier escapee tag removed. How could I have not heard that clamouring???? I blush as I recollect my blank, incomprehension when she said I'd have to come back again... Again?? This is the first time I've walked in.... (to Boots). Riiight - everyone knows Boot's sales assistants are generally generously endowed women in tight t-shirts with La Senza scrawled across in pink. But oh no!! Yours truly was obviously occupied with far more elevated thoughts, and Anaheeta was busy windmilling an explaining of a bad mannered tag from Boots that had been setting off alarms all over Central London.....
I'm sorely tempted to write a strongly worded letter of complaint at the glaring incompetence of the stores and their bumbling staff that allows vague women to waltz around setting of alarms unchallenged! Either that, or scour eBay for a cheap tag removal gadget.... there must be something out there that'll save me having to root through all receptacles in the hope of finding a matching bill...
A Lily by any other name.....
I'm deeply touched by Blondie's gift, more so that she remembered my nose crinkling comment about liking trees and plants - green stuff, so much more than flowers. That deeply touched feeling has now given way to deep suspicion, as I survey the instructions on the care of my new Cala Lillies.
'Keep 15 feet away from direct sunlight'. Oook. We're in London. (a) there's no sun (b) my flat isn't 15 feet long. Is there a deeper, subliminal meaning reserved only for those that don't kill plants?? My defensiveness reaches paranoia as I eyeball the next line, 'Keep damp but do not over water'. Looking at the instructions from different angles fails to clear away the clouds of 'wtf' that mar my brow. I'm caught in an existential conundrum, and can feel myself age as I try to unravel the truth behind the command.
Day 3 and my bonhomie towards Blondie has distilled into aggravated anxiety as I glare at the offensive tinge of yellow marring the dark green leaves cradling the delicate chalices of greenywhite lily. I hover around the pot, unsure of my next move. Uh oh. Spinal cord driven executive decision and my heartbeat jumps guiltily as I asses the wan, yellow leaf in my hand. I hastily dispose of the dead vegetation and resume a nonchalant inspection of the resident flora and fauna. I contemplate taking my shears to a couple of the leaves before my attention is snagged by a glimpse of more yellow. My resolve dithers severely as I try to gauge potential bud from dead leaf.
Discretion wins the day and I resign myself to some more poking around the pot to determine ground damposity. Is this damp enough? Should I add more water? Could it really drown? Do I look like I have a degree in garden management? Hell, do I look like I do manual labour? If it had been only flowers, I'd have just happily revelled in it, waited for it to die and tossed it, but no... she had to get me a flowering friggin' plant. This dirt under fingernail look is really not my thing.
I retreat to the sofa in disgust, and divide my irritation equally between the F1 and the Cala's. Three and a half minutes later, I'm poking stressed fingers back into the mud type thing. Fuck this. I think we both need a drink.
'Keep 15 feet away from direct sunlight'. Oook. We're in London. (a) there's no sun (b) my flat isn't 15 feet long. Is there a deeper, subliminal meaning reserved only for those that don't kill plants?? My defensiveness reaches paranoia as I eyeball the next line, 'Keep damp but do not over water'. Looking at the instructions from different angles fails to clear away the clouds of 'wtf' that mar my brow. I'm caught in an existential conundrum, and can feel myself age as I try to unravel the truth behind the command.
Day 3 and my bonhomie towards Blondie has distilled into aggravated anxiety as I glare at the offensive tinge of yellow marring the dark green leaves cradling the delicate chalices of greenywhite lily. I hover around the pot, unsure of my next move. Uh oh. Spinal cord driven executive decision and my heartbeat jumps guiltily as I asses the wan, yellow leaf in my hand. I hastily dispose of the dead vegetation and resume a nonchalant inspection of the resident flora and fauna. I contemplate taking my shears to a couple of the leaves before my attention is snagged by a glimpse of more yellow. My resolve dithers severely as I try to gauge potential bud from dead leaf.
Discretion wins the day and I resign myself to some more poking around the pot to determine ground damposity. Is this damp enough? Should I add more water? Could it really drown? Do I look like I have a degree in garden management? Hell, do I look like I do manual labour? If it had been only flowers, I'd have just happily revelled in it, waited for it to die and tossed it, but no... she had to get me a flowering friggin' plant. This dirt under fingernail look is really not my thing.
I retreat to the sofa in disgust, and divide my irritation equally between the F1 and the Cala's. Three and a half minutes later, I'm poking stressed fingers back into the mud type thing. Fuck this. I think we both need a drink.
The name is Duck.
Desdemona Duck....
A vision so far removed from my last memory of the glittering, übercool MI6 building when a sexy, black speedboat hurtles from a concealed glass panel as a suave Pierce Brosnan rips apart the Thames in The World is Not Enough, that humiliation takes on a new nuance as we trundle along the slipway alongside MI6, like a pregnant pachyderm, and slosh into the Thames. Oh yeah! The duck is quacking!
While I would rant about how this is yet another tourist defrauding exercise (and it is...), there is something rather cool being aboard one of the amphibians that actually landed on the beach at Normandy on D-Day. Granted, the experience wouldn't have been quite the same (although methinks WWII would have been won in a heartbeat, what with the enemy laid hapless, peeing their pants at the site of ducks waddling up the beach), but you do feel a wholly inappropriate thrill of knowledge as you crawl back up the slipway from the Thames.
I wonder if it is just mere fortuitous coincidence that has the slipway next to the MI6 building, or is there an unseen hand at play...????
P.S. - all the ducks are named after Shakespeare's ladies... but sadly, Ophelia just sank without a trace..... Bwaaahahaha!!!
A vision so far removed from my last memory of the glittering, übercool MI6 building when a sexy, black speedboat hurtles from a concealed glass panel as a suave Pierce Brosnan rips apart the Thames in The World is Not Enough, that humiliation takes on a new nuance as we trundle along the slipway alongside MI6, like a pregnant pachyderm, and slosh into the Thames. Oh yeah! The duck is quacking!
While I would rant about how this is yet another tourist defrauding exercise (and it is...), there is something rather cool being aboard one of the amphibians that actually landed on the beach at Normandy on D-Day. Granted, the experience wouldn't have been quite the same (although methinks WWII would have been won in a heartbeat, what with the enemy laid hapless, peeing their pants at the site of ducks waddling up the beach), but you do feel a wholly inappropriate thrill of knowledge as you crawl back up the slipway from the Thames.
I wonder if it is just mere fortuitous coincidence that has the slipway next to the MI6 building, or is there an unseen hand at play...????
P.S. - all the ducks are named after Shakespeare's ladies... but sadly, Ophelia just sank without a trace..... Bwaaahahaha!!!
London My Eye!
Victor Lustig deserves an unconditional apology. His scam was trivial compared to gargantuan fraud perpetuated by the city of London on unsuspecting tourists on the South Bank.
Like karmic dominoes, life cascades along, it's wake depositing us at the Eye on a Friday afternoon. A suitable bored young man with excessive hair product syndrome unhelpfully tells us it'll be 15 minutes to queue for the ticket, and another 15 to overcome the line to the wheel. Since our duck has forsaken us, and Phedre won't begin before 8 pm, we shrug and let the dominoes fall..... the line's not too bad, but my cheery comment is truncated by Anaheeta's horrified yelp "£34". My feet seem to be stuck on some form of adhesive... gum possibly? Erm no. It's waiting for my brain to overcome the shock at the thought of having to apply for a bank loan. Wait - that's for the combined ticket to the wax works. Relief morphs into doubt, but our indecision and several horribly dressed young people with loud voices and accents that evoke the spirit of Professor Higgins in me, propels us to the next counter, and I very reluctantly hand over the plastic.
Dazed at the brazen extortion (£17/head), it takes us 90 seconds before we commence our whining about the length of the queue, endless children, the sun, the stupid wheel, bloody tourists, badly dressed teenagers....who the hell are all these people and why are they not gainfully employed elsewhere???
So, was it worth it? NO. Absolutely not. A complete scam of ginormous proportions. Without a doubt, the most expensive and pointless way to get bored, and even hogging the solitary bench for some sulky shut eye (apparently to the consternation of all those who haven't seen the Thames and it's surroundings from a height), is a distinctly unrewarding experience with daft tourists shuffling around. I can hear a 15 minute back massage in Chinatown tut tutting my foolishness...
Like karmic dominoes, life cascades along, it's wake depositing us at the Eye on a Friday afternoon. A suitable bored young man with excessive hair product syndrome unhelpfully tells us it'll be 15 minutes to queue for the ticket, and another 15 to overcome the line to the wheel. Since our duck has forsaken us, and Phedre won't begin before 8 pm, we shrug and let the dominoes fall..... the line's not too bad, but my cheery comment is truncated by Anaheeta's horrified yelp "£34". My feet seem to be stuck on some form of adhesive... gum possibly? Erm no. It's waiting for my brain to overcome the shock at the thought of having to apply for a bank loan. Wait - that's for the combined ticket to the wax works. Relief morphs into doubt, but our indecision and several horribly dressed young people with loud voices and accents that evoke the spirit of Professor Higgins in me, propels us to the next counter, and I very reluctantly hand over the plastic.
Dazed at the brazen extortion (£17/head), it takes us 90 seconds before we commence our whining about the length of the queue, endless children, the sun, the stupid wheel, bloody tourists, badly dressed teenagers....who the hell are all these people and why are they not gainfully employed elsewhere???
So, was it worth it? NO. Absolutely not. A complete scam of ginormous proportions. Without a doubt, the most expensive and pointless way to get bored, and even hogging the solitary bench for some sulky shut eye (apparently to the consternation of all those who haven't seen the Thames and it's surroundings from a height), is a distinctly unrewarding experience with daft tourists shuffling around. I can hear a 15 minute back massage in Chinatown tut tutting my foolishness...
You've come a long way baby...
One month, to the date. 30 days. An innocuous enough number. A mere waft of time.
A distraught electro cardiogram. A kaleidoscope of emotions. Severe disequilibrium like unexpected turbulence on a calm day. It catches me unaware. An unwanted surprise. I know not what ails me...but there sure as hell are no endorphins in play. Disenchantment rules.
I almost yearn for tunnel vision. But it is not mine to have. The picture is all wrong. The individual elements exquisite, even perfect, but together; it does not belong. Something makes you shake your head. But it eludes you, it's invisibility aggravating. The longer you stare, the less it makes sense. A text message. A phone call. Missing imperfections subtly woven together, a thing of beauty, like Seurat's 'Bathers at Asnières'.
The irony that allows you to feel everything has changed, only to discover that nothing has, yet, it's different; the incongruity that only permits those that cause upheaval in your soul to soothe it. Perhaps it's poetic justice, the need to find yourself reflected back in your surroundings.... the balance is precarious. Sometimes impossible. But if you don't try, you'll never know, will you. Grave thoughts for summer in London. When did I stop being BtB??
Siigh. Guess it's time to fling myself headlong and see where the river takes me....
A distraught electro cardiogram. A kaleidoscope of emotions. Severe disequilibrium like unexpected turbulence on a calm day. It catches me unaware. An unwanted surprise. I know not what ails me...but there sure as hell are no endorphins in play. Disenchantment rules.
I almost yearn for tunnel vision. But it is not mine to have. The picture is all wrong. The individual elements exquisite, even perfect, but together; it does not belong. Something makes you shake your head. But it eludes you, it's invisibility aggravating. The longer you stare, the less it makes sense. A text message. A phone call. Missing imperfections subtly woven together, a thing of beauty, like Seurat's 'Bathers at Asnières'.
The irony that allows you to feel everything has changed, only to discover that nothing has, yet, it's different; the incongruity that only permits those that cause upheaval in your soul to soothe it. Perhaps it's poetic justice, the need to find yourself reflected back in your surroundings.... the balance is precarious. Sometimes impossible. But if you don't try, you'll never know, will you. Grave thoughts for summer in London. When did I stop being BtB??
Siigh. Guess it's time to fling myself headlong and see where the river takes me....
That's all folks...
Easy come, easy go. Easier when you're the one that's leaving...
No looking back. No lingering. Just a hug from the heart, and you're gone. A million journeys over the years. So many goodbyes. But really, only au revoirs.
So, why does my lip threaten to wobble when I hug her goodbye? I can't remember the number of times we've played out this scene together...what makes this one different? We quiver lashes, but don't cry as the car pulls away. For only the second time in my life, it hurts to be left behind.
A familiar and surprisingly patient voice indulges my tearful incontinence, as I render my kerchief unfit for polishing my glasses. A little more indulgence and I'm fit for company, and even handle our final love you's with laughter, albeit unsteady.
Back home, I'm reluctant to break the silence, the throbbing in my eyeballs unrelenting, the mood borderline PMS. The emptiness of the bed echoes within me. Ripping through me. Dredging up the past. Questioning the present. Doubting the future. I feel emotionally mangled. My heart aches for all that's gone awol. It's going to be a long night.
No looking back. No lingering. Just a hug from the heart, and you're gone. A million journeys over the years. So many goodbyes. But really, only au revoirs.
So, why does my lip threaten to wobble when I hug her goodbye? I can't remember the number of times we've played out this scene together...what makes this one different? We quiver lashes, but don't cry as the car pulls away. For only the second time in my life, it hurts to be left behind.
A familiar and surprisingly patient voice indulges my tearful incontinence, as I render my kerchief unfit for polishing my glasses. A little more indulgence and I'm fit for company, and even handle our final love you's with laughter, albeit unsteady.
Back home, I'm reluctant to break the silence, the throbbing in my eyeballs unrelenting, the mood borderline PMS. The emptiness of the bed echoes within me. Ripping through me. Dredging up the past. Questioning the present. Doubting the future. I feel emotionally mangled. My heart aches for all that's gone awol. It's going to be a long night.
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