It’s been a strange few days. I’ve had a serious case of the “blahs”. It can be summed up in a line from the new film Bright Young Things
. Dan Aykroyd, playing a newspaper editor, berates a young British socialite…
“Son, are you going to be a Butterfly or a Bee?”
Cut to young British socialite looking puzzled.
“Do you want to fly around and look pretty all the time or do you want to make some honey?”
Friday night I hauled my hangover to Brixton to one of those generic modern noodle places for Lizzie’s birthday. My brain was mush but luckily a couple of Asahi beers got me chatting and Lizzie had hired the room upstairs so we were able to customize the event with Paul Van Dyke’s new album and lots of lounging around on cushions. Rachael (chick mag sub ed) was there and we giggled about my impending blind date with her co-worker Will Stokes the following night.
I was barely out of bed the next morning when we had a troupe of Girl Guides turn up to look at the house. We have to move out in two weeks and so the landlord is letting people view the property. Except he didn’t turn up (or ring to warn us) which meant Brown Owl and Co marched free range round our pad, pausing every so often to ask “does this come with the house?” I’m uncharitable in these situations but it’s high on my pet peeves list (along with Debbie Harry & saying “gays”)
Later I bought a second hand copy of The Hours from the Kidney Foundation Charity Shop for 80p. I know, racy.
Blind date. The word imbues both bad sitcom scenarios and Sex & the City sophistication. Or that’s what I decided sitting on a brown leather couch in a trendy gay pub huddled over a warm pint waiting for mine to turn up. Luckily Will was very cute and funny. Really cute and really funny. And we agreed to meet again (tomorrow night). It’s strange though because sitting here now I have no recollection what he looks like. None.
The boys (the ones I live with) were having a going away do at Abigail’s Party in Soho (full marks for cool venue name) so I said goodnight to Master Stokes and ran along the streets, drunk with blind date success and warm beer. Then there was dancing and a night bus home.
Sunday was one of those strange days that start well enough but ends with a frustrating whimper. I think I need to play more sport.