Sunday, August 04, 2002
Washing machine died spectacularly on Friday after a (presumedly) long illness which went strangely un-bothered about by landlord/estate agent. I knew it’d do something like that, it had that I’m-going-to-ruin-your-day look about it that you sometimes see on blokes hanging around deserted tube stations. It was not nice. Suspicious noises coming from the hall – dread – shock – expletives – helplessness – more expletives. Emergency plumber went pale at the state of it, which made me sort of proud. The valve to turn water off was eventually found behind the cooker, which is where I’d put it if I were an arse. The laminate floor’s buckling nicely now, so looks like a new one of those as well as a new washing machine and something off my rent, you ridiculous people.
Think the rug’s had it. It valiantly soaked up half the flood yesterday and what with the piddling British summer and glorious grey skies it’s unlikely to ever recover. Came back Saturday aft to find it slumped on the grass as the sopping towels got ever soppingier on the washing line. Bollocks. All of it stuffed in the shed now, probably cultivating a lovely new breed of fungus.
Ended up being beckoned across the river at stupid o’clock Friday night by the columnist, gullible flood-traumatised spontaneous cuddle-starved me. The river’s so pretty at night from a cab window. Columnist less pretty being seven times drunker than he sounded on the phone. Strenuous, emotionally detached frolics, post-which he falls into the sleep of the sated and I wander around the flat putting videos back in cases and eating mini Rolos. More of the same in the morning, without the chocolate. He gave me the money for the cab which was hilariously sordid. Valiant effort not to feel lousy about it just about succeeded, although the sight of my rug getting rained on in the back garden didn’t help matters.
He was still pissed when he woke up, and sheepishly mumbled that we should go and see a film or something soon, bless him. Does everyone do things the wrong way round these days? I do wish I could enjoy it – experienced and yet unblemished! No responsibilities! Great muscle control! Hurrah! – but dammit, I just want someone to fold sheets with. Sex with the bare minimum of social padding stuffed in around the edges (bit of mutual attraction, intellectual parity hem-hem and get-on-quite-well-ish-ness) still ain’t comfy. Plus I always seem to end up as a sort of anti-muse, something for the depressed and disillusioned to get oblivious on. Happy people are infuriating, obviously, but there’s got to be a miserable medium.
It’s freezing today and I’m bored. I could clean the flat, of course, or try and buff up my feeble CV, but instead I’m texting the columnist to ask if he wants to not have sex or alcohol not south of the Thames. Well, I expect a little give and take in a non-relationship.
My legs ache. I should take up t'ai chi.
Think the rug’s had it. It valiantly soaked up half the flood yesterday and what with the piddling British summer and glorious grey skies it’s unlikely to ever recover. Came back Saturday aft to find it slumped on the grass as the sopping towels got ever soppingier on the washing line. Bollocks. All of it stuffed in the shed now, probably cultivating a lovely new breed of fungus.
Ended up being beckoned across the river at stupid o’clock Friday night by the columnist, gullible flood-traumatised spontaneous cuddle-starved me. The river’s so pretty at night from a cab window. Columnist less pretty being seven times drunker than he sounded on the phone. Strenuous, emotionally detached frolics, post-which he falls into the sleep of the sated and I wander around the flat putting videos back in cases and eating mini Rolos. More of the same in the morning, without the chocolate. He gave me the money for the cab which was hilariously sordid. Valiant effort not to feel lousy about it just about succeeded, although the sight of my rug getting rained on in the back garden didn’t help matters.
He was still pissed when he woke up, and sheepishly mumbled that we should go and see a film or something soon, bless him. Does everyone do things the wrong way round these days? I do wish I could enjoy it – experienced and yet unblemished! No responsibilities! Great muscle control! Hurrah! – but dammit, I just want someone to fold sheets with. Sex with the bare minimum of social padding stuffed in around the edges (bit of mutual attraction, intellectual parity hem-hem and get-on-quite-well-ish-ness) still ain’t comfy. Plus I always seem to end up as a sort of anti-muse, something for the depressed and disillusioned to get oblivious on. Happy people are infuriating, obviously, but there’s got to be a miserable medium.
It’s freezing today and I’m bored. I could clean the flat, of course, or try and buff up my feeble CV, but instead I’m texting the columnist to ask if he wants to not have sex or alcohol not south of the Thames. Well, I expect a little give and take in a non-relationship.
My legs ache. I should take up t'ai chi.
