Milestone
The dog ate my blog posts.
Actually, that’s not true – I have, in fact, written a couple of entries, but they’re not yet good enough to post.
“What’s that”, I hear you exclaim in surprise. “She actually cares about quality? I would never have guessed.”
Fair point. Most of the blather on here (this included) is posted when the guilt just won’t let me go another day without updating. I know how my people need me. Sooner or later I’ll knock the other stories into shape.
Anyway. This post is a belated commemoration. Last weekend (9 September) marked a whole six months since I departed the fair shores of my homeland. I should, really, compose a very meaningful post about, you know, my journey and all the things I’ve learned thus far. Whether I woke up alone and all my wounds were clean, etc (that was for you, Kloss. If you can’t work it out you are dead to me).
But no! Instead, I choose to mark this milestone with a sweet but faintly disturbing story that I believe illustrates all I need to say about my travels thus far.
(Or perhaps I just think it’s funny. You decide).
Picture it: London, 2006. A very hungover jLo wanders slowly along Camden High Street. It’s late Saturday morning, but our heroine is still on her way home from the night before. She is quite ill, the rigours of the previous evening’s debauchery (including, very ill-advisedly, numerous rounds of cocktails) inscribed across her pale, clammy face. She is not looking her best: her hair is so frizzy it frames her skull in a pathetic whitegirl 'fro (seriously you guys: since when is my hair super-curly? Since London is when. It’s too weird). She smells pretty bad, she is limping along in stupid boots.
She lumbers slowly to the bus stop and comes to a halt, lighting a cigarette that her raw scratchy throat really doesn’t need. An elderly Italian gentleman approaches her.
EIG: You are very beautiful.
jLo (smiling wanly through the pain, wondering yet again why she is such a magnet for the crazy): Thanks.
EIG: Are you Italian?
jLo: No, no I am not.
EIG: Oh. (a pause). Do you have a boyfriend?
jLo: No, I don’t.
EIG: That is very surprising.
jLo: Yes, I find it quite surprising myself. (Lie #1)
The EIG does not respond, he turns around and starts to scrabble around with something jLo can’t quite see. Oh well, she thinks. That was that.
But she was wrong.
The EIG turned back, a scrap of paper in his hand. He thrusts it towards her.
EIG: Here. This is my phone number. I am Alfonso.
jLo: Thanks, Alfonso.
Alfonso: What is your number?
jLo: Oh, I don’t have a phone. (Lie #2)
Alfonso: Okay. You call me. We will be friends.
(Dramatic pause)
Alfonso: And then one day? I shall make you my wife.
Actually, that’s not true – I have, in fact, written a couple of entries, but they’re not yet good enough to post.
“What’s that”, I hear you exclaim in surprise. “She actually cares about quality? I would never have guessed.”
Fair point. Most of the blather on here (this included) is posted when the guilt just won’t let me go another day without updating. I know how my people need me. Sooner or later I’ll knock the other stories into shape.
Anyway. This post is a belated commemoration. Last weekend (9 September) marked a whole six months since I departed the fair shores of my homeland. I should, really, compose a very meaningful post about, you know, my journey and all the things I’ve learned thus far. Whether I woke up alone and all my wounds were clean, etc (that was for you, Kloss. If you can’t work it out you are dead to me).
But no! Instead, I choose to mark this milestone with a sweet but faintly disturbing story that I believe illustrates all I need to say about my travels thus far.
(Or perhaps I just think it’s funny. You decide).
Picture it: London, 2006. A very hungover jLo wanders slowly along Camden High Street. It’s late Saturday morning, but our heroine is still on her way home from the night before. She is quite ill, the rigours of the previous evening’s debauchery (including, very ill-advisedly, numerous rounds of cocktails) inscribed across her pale, clammy face. She is not looking her best: her hair is so frizzy it frames her skull in a pathetic whitegirl 'fro (seriously you guys: since when is my hair super-curly? Since London is when. It’s too weird). She smells pretty bad, she is limping along in stupid boots.
She lumbers slowly to the bus stop and comes to a halt, lighting a cigarette that her raw scratchy throat really doesn’t need. An elderly Italian gentleman approaches her.
EIG: You are very beautiful.
jLo (smiling wanly through the pain, wondering yet again why she is such a magnet for the crazy): Thanks.
EIG: Are you Italian?
jLo: No, no I am not.
EIG: Oh. (a pause). Do you have a boyfriend?
jLo: No, I don’t.
EIG: That is very surprising.
jLo: Yes, I find it quite surprising myself. (Lie #1)
The EIG does not respond, he turns around and starts to scrabble around with something jLo can’t quite see. Oh well, she thinks. That was that.
But she was wrong.
The EIG turned back, a scrap of paper in his hand. He thrusts it towards her.
EIG: Here. This is my phone number. I am Alfonso.
jLo: Thanks, Alfonso.
Alfonso: What is your number?
jLo: Oh, I don’t have a phone. (Lie #2)
Alfonso: Okay. You call me. We will be friends.
(Dramatic pause)
Alfonso: And then one day? I shall make you my wife.
posted by jLo at 1:47 AM
14 Comments:
You. Are. Fucking. Shitting. Me.
Is that when the Sophia Loren movie music started up and you realised that only men two and a half times your age are sexy and worth throwing your petulant, olive oil bathed arms around?
Or - gross-ish thought - do you think he meant the "I will make you my wife" line as an old-fashioned metaphor, for - you know.
You obviously don't understand romance, J, The.
Oh? Are you saying that is how you proposed to McBec?
PS jLo - I was going to say that because Ed and I were the first people to comment on your blog, we are clearly the more loyal and generally better of your friends. Just so the hierarchy is clear.
Hee, you guys crack me up. No, I'm not shitting you, Ed - Alfonso really happened. In fact, you would be shocked if you knew how often I am wooed by strangers at bus stops. No, really.
J,The: how on earth did you know that my arms were petulant and olive oil bathed that day? You must be the psychic, that's too spooky.
And oh yes, I've carefully noted the loyalty and betterness of Ed and yourself, and it shall be appropriately rewarded on that sweet future day when glory is mine and the fates of all will lie quivering in my vengeful hand.
Ha ha ha. That's hilarious. Perhaps there is some cultural nuance about English bus stops that we antipodeans just don’t get.
And what do you mean your other posts aren't yet good enough?!?! You don't write for two weeks and then tease us, your loyal readers, with the knowledge that there bas been writing but we're not privy to it. You are harsh jLo. Will be looking out for the next one.
Don't rule anything out JLo I think you should ring him, find out how wealthy he is, what his claim to fame is, whether he has a villa on Lake Como or what. He clearly didn't want to marry just anyone - like he would have ruled you out if you were Italian. He wants YOU! Let us know when you've called him.
I never thought that I would recover from today's particularly bad case of Mondayitis, but that story was gold, and I now know that I will be able to make it though the rest of the day with a smile.
Thanks JLo!
Two words for you - SUGAR DADDY. 'Nuff said.
JLo, I am absolutely positive that you that you are still a fool for the Sangraal, come to think of it, Are you sure Alfonso wasn't trying to give you a clue to help you in your quest?
not to rain on your parade, but bus stops are a freak magnet. most normal people try and find alternate modes of transport.
...yes i take the bus to work, why do you ask?
I wondered if you were still alive. And now I know! Ah, all is well with the world.
Averil
AZ: be careful what you wish for.
Eleri: funnily enough, I seem to have lost his number, oh no! Not to worry, I'm sure another offer will come along shortly...
Sarina: we aim to please! I am very happy to think I might have contributed to the long search for a Mondayitis cure.
RtotheBDub: I like the way you think.
Kloss: If that's a clue, then I'm not sure I'm such a fool for it after all.
Mark: Do you often propose to girls on the bus?
Greeny: yes, indeed.
Averil: OHMYGOD! How awesome to hear from you. I tried to email without success, write me one! My email address is myfirstname.mylastname@gmail.com. Hope you are very well.
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