Dover Street is one of those streets perpendicular to Picadilly, parallel to Old Bond, that cuts through Mayfair and ends up at the Ritz.
On Dover Street there is a club with Polynesian flair. They serve communal drinks in ‘treasure chests’– questionable concoctions rumoured to contain rum and/or champagne and/or tequila with colouring and fruit garnishings.
Can I get something else? Would it be rude?
I don’t enthusiastically embrace the concept of communal drinks. Not since the Scorpion Bowl at the Chinese restaurant behind the student union in Cambridge* where we would go as underagers because we knew the Chinese wouldn’t card.
A server walked by. I asked for a beer. No double-take. No questioning look. Some of the others in the party had their own drinks — not just a straws plunged into a Disneyesque chest filled with hard core something or other. I wasn’t the only selfish drinker.
Waiters walked through the party offering hors d’oeuvres. I declined the first tray. Then the second. I was chatting with the hostess.
I suppose I have to eat something. She’ll think I’m poo pooing the poopoo platter.
As I should have. On the third pass, I picked up a sample — chicken on a stick. I do not enthusiastically embrace overcooked and cold finger food. I ate nothing else for the rest of the night.
After three beers, I found myself taking dips into the treasure chests. At first I tried to keep track of my straw. By the end of the evening everyone’s straws were everyone else’s straws too.
Disgusting.
Everyone else consisted of work colleagues. This was not a formal work do, but it was a gathering of most of the company. Someone’s birthday. Compatible colleagues.
But share straws with these people?
I danced until three in the morning.
Early 80′s Madonna and Outkast and Gloria Gaynor.
One of the work colleagues, a gentle giant with a shaved head – a deceptive look: a menacing face covering the demeanour of a lamb, received a bottle to the face because a member of the public – a short aggressive guy – didn’t like the look of our gentle giant. A strong face, little damage. The short aggressive guy was ejected from the match. We danced on.
The taxi driver tried to engage me in conversation as he drove through Chelsea. I couldn’t hear properly, my ear drums still humdrumming from music on the dance floor. I was afraid I couldn’t talk properly; I worried about slurring. I thought about that black cab driver who plied his lone female customers with drug-laced champagne and then had his way with them. My guy wasn’t that guy, but he talked to much.
Butters greeted me enthusiastically. I embraced her enthusiastically. The Mista didn’t even toss in the bed.
*Massachusetts
Filed under: butters, cultural conundrums, going out, London places, present, work
I spent last night printing consecutive frames from Google Maps UK and worrying about what I’m going to wear to Wimbledon. Google Maps UK is my aid in getting me from place to place, and this morning I had to get from One Place to Another to Another. I’ve been to Another on a number of occasions, but infrequently by car, and never managing the vehicle myself. Today, it happens that I am behind the wheel because Butters needs an operation, and to get her to and from the Veterinarian’s office, I need wheels – private wheels because Butters is liable to pee or puke or worse. After dropping Butters for her appointment, I had work-related appointments of my own. The print-out slices of my journey lay on the passenger seat; I had superfluously marked my way with a red pen over Google’s blue path. The superfluous act with my red pen was intended not so much for reference but rather an attempt to etch the journey into my mind’s eye so that I wouldn’t find myself freaking out on the M3.
Have I missed my junction?
Last night, after printing and tracing and trying to etch into my brain this morning’s journey , I turned to my wardrobe, vastly expanded thanks to my visit to the USofA and the convenient exchange rate. Later this week I will be going to a corporate event where the agenda includes strawberries and cream and tennis whites and champagne or Pimms or both. A wise guy at work had me thinking I needed to wear a hat; thus the undue concern with my wardrobe. This morning I had a ‘doh’ moment followed by a confirmation email that cleared it all up.
Watch Wimbledon much on TV? Have you noticed the dress code?
Smart casual.
I love that designation.
No hat required.
Phew.
PS- If you are concerned, Butters is recuperating with a morphine doused patch and a little doggie cast.
Today is the Mista’s birthday. He is a Taurus. When I originally renamed the accompanying foto, with the explicit purpose of using it for The Mista’s birthday post, I mistyped and the foto became Toto.jpg rather than Toro.jpg. What a world of difference the slight difference in shape between ‘r’ and ‘t’ makes in this instance. I’m startled by this spontaneous observation. I don’t think I’ve ever quite appreciated how very similar a ‘t’ looks to an ‘r’.
t r t r t r
The r is missing the little umbrella handle of the t.
The t, the little hooked beak of the r.
That’s it. Otherwise no difference.
Yet the difference between toro and toto, undeniable.
The Mista is no Toto.
I’ll be taking my Toro to sushi for lunch. Who knew bulls ate fish?
The Internets** applied the salve to a recovering Sunday. Instead of over-nursing my hangover with pathetic, attention-getting moans or wiling the day away under cover of a napping duvet, I spent the day researching very important things and telling Petunia all about them.
(Involved in her own computer associated activities, Petunia was good enough to keep me company during my recuperation; whereas the Mista carried on with the requisite performance of Weekend Chores. His performance of the whistling-while-you-work lead was a tadbit overacted. I suspect he knew better than to give me any cues. It was, afterall, the Mista who had produced my current situation: he had made the arrangements for the Saturday night soiree. Then, when he was of two minds as to whether he should go or not because he wasn’t feeling quite right, he might-as-well-have-insisted I go.
“You wouldn’t go without me?” He asked incredulously as if disgusted by the idea of a clinging little stay-at-home-wifie.
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe. But, it won’t be as fun without you.”
I didn’t need to remind him that they were more his friends than mine, and there would be a wee bit of acting required on my part. The small talk would require that I rise above my natural role: the wallflower. I would do it out of obligation, but I wouldn’t be happy about it. That was good enough for him. It got him out of an obligation.
A pact was born. I’d fulfil the Saturday night social obligation without complaint. The Mista, alone, would fulfil the Sunday household obligations, without complaint. Never mind that he overacted. I lounged guilt free on the sofa regaling Petunia with those previously mentioned very important things.
“Did you know Nutella is Italian? Not French!”
High school French clubs across the United States erroneously spread the falsehood that Nutella is French whilst their members smear gobs of the delicious Hazelnut spread across American baked baguettes at their breakfast meetings.
“And, did you know that Nutella can’t be marketed as a chocolate spread because it doesn’t contain enough cocoa? And, the only reason why it’s been ‘cut’ with hazelnuts is because taxes on cocoa originally made it prohibitively expensive to use a higher density of cocoa?!”
“Hmmm. That’s interesting.”
Petunia is an angel.
It was her idea that Nutella was precisely the medicine required for my convalescence. Her HmmmThat’sInterestings are heartfelt and followed on by follow up questions that further demonstrate the sincerity behind her interest.
“Jesus. There’s even a World Nutella Day! Check this out.”
We laughed over the fact that two women have registered a domain name and paid tribute to Nutella by giving it a day of it’s very own. That’s something Petunia and I might do. But not for Nutella. That’s already been done. Intimo is another Italian product worth worldwide evangalisation; and it has yet to be truly discovered.
“Did you know that the Nutella logo hasn’t been changed since 1964?”
“Really? That is a LONG time for a brand logo!”
“I know! Isn’t it?”
Having overheard snippets of our exchange while puttering about doing the household chores, the Mista shook his head to himself. A gesture that indicated partial amusement, partial frustration and partial flabbergastation.
Here I am: doing things while these two twitter on about WHAT?***
*This hangover was not the product of worrisome drinking as were the occasions alluded to in my previous posts. This was social, out-and-about drink cocktails and spot celebrities drinking. This hangover is condoned.
**Plural usage a la George W. Bush (via Henry Rollins in his show The Spoke Word)
***My second occasion to put myself into the Mista’s head and reveal the contents here, on the Internets!
I want to say it started in November. Late November in the ramp up to the Christmas festivities: a dinner here, a meet-up with workmates, ex-colleagues, customers, fellow-bloggers, and/or friends there. At first these occasions seemed to present themselves 2 or 3 times during the work week with Friday and Saturday evenings reserved for more personal alcohol assumption.
As Christmas approached, an onslaught of alcohol enhancing events came hard and fast. Before I knew it, I was tipsy most nights and groggier than normal most mornings. The Christmas holidays came and rather than taking a rest, which would have been quite possible considering the Mista, Petunia and I were just about the only ones left in London over Christmas, I dove deeper into the bottle. Not having to go into work was reason for celebration. Every day of the holiday was a holiday. Bottles of wine, pints of beer, champagne and vodka disappeared. We barely left our flat, and I was sauced most of the time.
With the new year and the return to work and the turning-over-a-new-leaf feeling of January that comes over you even when you don’t make new year’s resolutions, I was sure this temporary spell of over consumption would dry itself up and whittle away.
January didn’t do what I thought it would do for me. Instead, at a minimum, the Mista and I split a bottle of wine each night. The mornings continued to be difficult. My gym routine ignored. Each day I vowed I’d have a clean day. Each evening I’d tell myself, “tomorrow.”
By the end of the third week of February, the Mista and I resolved to help reinforce good habits, rather than being the others’ downfall (it seemed whenever the Mista wasn’t going to drink, I would open the bottle of wine or vice versa, and we are both too polite to let the other drink alone). We made a pact: from the last week of February through March we would only drink 5 nights.
We did it. It wasn’t so hard. Of those 5 nights, not all were as messy as you might imagine.
So I thought to myself I had been reformed, that I had been returned to a casual drinker.
April has proven that I don’t need to drink every night. I’ve not drunk during the week, and I’ve been relatively tempered on Friday and Saturday nights.
It’s Sundays that have me worried.
Something grips me on Sunday afternoons when I’m in the kitchen preparing our big midday meal. I want to cook with a glass of wine in my hand. Then I want a glass of wine to accompany the meal. And I want to go to the pub and have a pint with Petunia. And I slowly drink myself drunk until I’m passed out on the sofa, and the Mista slowly shakes his head in disapproval.
Is it just a bad case of the Sunday Blues*?
Am I a Sunday alcoholic?
*Depression brought on by the close of a weekend.
I wasn’t always so boastful about knowing where to go for a wee. Even now, in some neighbourhoods, I would be hard-pressed to come through with loo knowledge. One such moment in one such neighbourhood was a Sunday morning in Butler Wharf – a strip of redevelopment over the bridge from the Tower of London.
I was still relatively new to London. It was November 2001 – I remember because the Mista and I were in Butler Wharf only because my brother, my father, and his wife were visiting London for American Thanksgiving. They were in site-seeing mode, and the Tower of London was on the agenda that day. The Mista and I had already ‘done the tower’ — two times in the preceding two months. (We had a lot of visitors the first few months after we moved to London; all of whom wanted to visit the standard London attractions). Whilst my brother, my father, and his wife strolled the White Tower, gawked at the royal jewels, and snapped photos of that grassy spot where Anne Boleyn lost her head, the Mista and I meandered across the bridge and into new territory: Butler Wharf.
We discovered that not a whole lot goes on in Butler Wharf on a Sunday morning – not in November in 2001 anyways.
At this point in the narrative, I need to interrupt myself to say something about the Mista:
Walking makes the Mista need to shit. We sometimes play a game whereby the Mista rates the level of urgency associated with his need to find a toilet. Level 5 is red alert. Level 5s have us frenetically searching for a loo. Level 1s are “for information only”.
Crossing Tower Bridge, the Mista commented that he needed to take a shit.
“What level?” I asked.
“2.”
“There’s a toilet over there.” By chance, a public convenience was located in a spot of green on the SW side of Tower Bridge.
The Mista pooh-poohed this well-placed-for-the-time public convenience.
“That place looks disgusting.”
Figuring that the Mista had a better handle on the urgency of his impending bowl movement than I, I didn’t press the point. We continued with our meandering.
Almost a big mistake.
A few more blocks and level 2 had jumped to a level 4. The few pubs or restaurants we passed were all closed.
Flashing red lights and sirens could have been going off as the Mista reached level 5.
The damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t Catch-22 of this situation is: walking faster increases the urgency, but speed is of the essence.
The Mista began to panic. I began to panic.
“I told you you should have used that first toilet.”
“Let’s try to be constructive here.”
“You could go between a couple of cars.”
“No way. No way.” The way he scanned the parallel parked cars while he was rejecting my suggestion, indicated that he was desperate enough to have taken consideration before dismissing it.
“There’s a garbage can over there. I could cover you.”
He only half listened. He focused his attention on the blocks of flats, the closed sandwich shops, the utter and complete lack of available toilets. He cursed my brother, my father, and his wife for indirectly putting him in this situation. He cursed Butler Wharf; he cursed desolate Sunday mornings, all the while scampering along like Charlie Chaplin until he reached the “disgusting” toilet he’d cavalierly written off while still at level 2.
What the …? Where the …?
Suddenly I was, if not upright, at least fully awake with my head still on the pillow. The panic of not waking up to my wedding band nicely lodged on the appropriate finger got my mind working. I remembered the arduous task of taking off my wedding band and plopping it into my coin purse.
I had to take it off for the Easter flight.
The Mista, Petunia, and I had been talking about this trip for almost a year after we saw the girls on America’s Next Top Model do it. We meant to do it in June, then August, then November. We finally got round to the planning. We did our research, made the booking, and rented the car we needed to get to the exciting destination of Milton Keynes.
I can just about hear the collective gasp of those of you who know anything at all about Milton Keynes. You ask, “Milton Keynes? For God’s sake, why?”
To fly!
I have to admit. I thought it was going to be a rip-off: the price of the rental car. The trip up to Milton Keynes. The general headache of the overall journey. Not to mention the cost of the flight itself. All the cost and aggravation for 2 minutes in the flight chamber. I was poised to pooh-pooh the whole ordeal.
As we sat in a line on the bench in the antechamber, my nerves began to attack my stomach. Despite having agreed that the Mista would go first, somehow Petunia found herself positioned to be the first of our little group, followed by me, followed by the Mista. She got up to enter the chamber, and my heart dropped into my gut. I had to pee.
For Christ’s sake. It’s not like you’re jumping out of a plane!*
My turn came. I focussed on the position as described by the instructor in the “training” session. I floated! I flew! Up and down and side to side! An irrepressible grin consumed my face, much like Butters when she’s running through the high grass at Hyde Park.
All the aggravation, the price of the car, the price of the flight: all worth it. I want to go back!
My wedding band is now back where it should be.
*I have actually properly jumped out of a plane, so the fear of entering the indoor flight chamber strikes me as absurdly irrational.
The Mista was in the bath when I got home from work. I accused him of dolling himself up in preparation of ‘our date’ but I know the truth about the Mista: he loves his baths. My finding him in the bath on Friday night had nothing to with our evening’s plans.
I find the Mista in the bath a lot. He can sit in hot water for ages, reading his newspaper in the rising steam. If we have plans, and I find him soaking in the tub, I get nervous that we’ll be late. I try not to let it show because the Mista gets particularly tetchy when he’s feeling rushed.
“When are we ever late because of me?” he’ll ask.
And I have to admit it’s true. We’re never late. It’s just that I really would prefer to be early.
When I got home on Friday and found the Mista in the tub, I didn’t let myself worry that we’d be late for our table booking. I took a zen approach to dinner plans.
They’ll hold the table. No need to be there on the dot.
Turns out we were early. We went to a pub on the Kings Road, just a block from our dinner booking. A pint later and we were sitting at our table in not the not quite as ritzy as I had imagined Chutney Mary.
The MIsta had been there before. What he said that time was confirmed this time: the food is very, very tasty; but the portions are small. The taste buds do not complain — especially when meeting the Mango Martini, which, other than the shape of the glass in which it is served, has absolutely nothing to do with a Martini. We ordered our starters to share — they knew our intention was to share — the waitress even asked to confirm. So why, oh why, would they serve only 3 scallops as a starter to share? Those 3 scallops were, although only 3, absolutely delicious. As was the rest of the meal.
I cannot speak to value for money. I didn’t bother to look at the final bill. It was a good meal, and I was satisfied.
On the other side of town, Petunia was attending some black tie industry event. She had said she might make it ‘a night on the town’, which indeed she did. The sad news that she had to share with us today: Barsolona, my one and only sure-fire place to dance (of my ‘Girls Night Out’ series) has closed. Now I would have no idea where to between 2 and 4 in the morning in SoHo. I will now need either to find a replacement or retire.
I enjoyed Sarah Peacharse‘s comment (“If you precede Brixton Academy with ‘the’, you sound like Borat having the sex.”) so much that all night I referred to Brixton Academy as The Brixton Academy in what I believed to be a Boratesque accent. No one but me got it. I made myself laugh, and everyone else just thought I was weird.
We laughed our way through American pool, and pints, and pizza, and zuchinni and melazane fritti. We laughed at Petunia’s admission that she’d like to marry a dentist so that she could have her teeth looked after on demand (any dentists out there?). We laughed at the retelling of the South Park episode when the Cartman, Stan, Kyle and Kenny dress Butters up like a dog. We laughed at this, and we laughed at that, and I laughed at my frequent references to The Brixton Academy until we arrived and I looked up at the imposing ediface. Then the laughing stopped. The Brixton Academy isn’t the Brixton Academy or even Brixton Academy! It’s the goddamn crappy-ass beer academy: Carling Academy. My disappointment was sharp.
It (my disappointment) was even greater later, when I realised that Carling Academy’s choice of beer is somewhat limited.
I hate Carling.
All this talk of beer makes me think about the beers I drink (relunctantly or with relish depending upon what my choices are).
Grolsch, even just one, gives me a debilitating headache. I’ll drink Kronenburg and Stella. I enjoy Staroprammen, Paulener, and occasionally a Lefe.
All this talk of beer makes me wonder what you drink.
Maybe I’ll put up a survey. Will you fill it out?
We got off at Clapham Junction, which was probably a mistake. I hadn’t had a proper look at the map that was attached to the mail that detailed The Plans. I had assumed the Clapham location of Riley’s pool, snooker, and poker club would be easily accessible from Clapham Junction. The Claphams always do this to me: they mislead me into thinking that they are a small, tight-knit group; so tight-knit, I assume that they are one and the same, these Claphams: North and South and Common and Junction. They are deceptive and spread out. In fact North and Common have more in common with Brixton than they do with their distant cousin, Junction.
Petunia and I realised our mistake when we didn’t immediately spot Wandsworth Road outside the Clapham Junction station.
God damn it. Should we have gotten off at Wandsworth Town?
We examined the map hanging behind the plastic glass at the bus stop and wondered aloud where the hell we were going. We had the address but no map. A polite young lady overheard us and told us how we ought to go to get to Clapham Common, but I wasn’t so sure we wanted to go to Clapham Common, so we pretended like we were grateful for her advice then went to wait in the surprisingly long line at the taxi rank.
The guy behind us in the queue was talking to his mate about his allergies.
“Something’s wrong with my nuts.”
I thought I was on the verge of an opportunity to submit to this site, but the vein of the conversation didn’t continue as it had promised. Something about being allergic to grapes, but not believing he could be allergic to grapes because grapes are a fruit and people aren’t allergic to fruit. I don’t believe that; it’s just what the guy said.
We got to Riley’s where we handed the surly-faced lady behind the counter a couple of vouchers we had downloaded from the internet to avoid the £5 pound entry fee for non-members. I wondered if she was just generally irritated or if our avoiding the entry fee had put her face out of joint. A quick look around Riley’s, and I settled on the former. The fluorescent lights, the cheesy purples and blues, the constant sound of balls crashing together, the ugly uniform she had to wear complete with ‘www.poker.com’ embossed above the breast pocket. If Riley’s were a fabric it would be polyester. Not so far off a bowling alley, but less family orientated. If I had to work at Riley’s, I’d be a surly bitch, for sure.
A couple of the guys were already there. I played 3 games and sunk two balls. Pool (billiards, snooker) has never been my thing. The cue doesn’t feel comfortable in my hands: too loose, my shots too gentle, me too conscious of what my ass looks like when I bend over. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it.
I learned Brits don’t say ‘scratch’. The say ‘foul’.
