Ode to albatrosses

London has the very best of clubs, and the very worst. My most recent London experience was, unfortunately, the latter.

It started at the apartment in Aldgate. Tired and highly strung from spending four days living in extremely close proximity with my sister (the same bed) was turning into a joke. I love her from a distance, but sleeping, eating, and drinking with her is not exactly my idea of heaven. I layered on the scarlet nail varnish and forced myself to endure the few hours of her prancing around the room in a black mini dress, straightening her naturally poker straight hair, and telling me that my eye brows don’t match, I’m too dressed up, I’m under-dressed, my heels don’t exactly match my belt, and do I think her bum looks big in this?

I downed the Pimms and lemonade and forced myself to carry on quietly without forcing the tweezers down her throat. A painful tube ride later (strip lighting flashing cheerfully), and a rather awful experience involving eight lemons and two bottles of rum in Tesco’s later, we arrived at Hammersmith and went in search of taxis. The first taxi driver was extremely helpful in telling us he didn’t know the area, and couldn’t help us. The second was marginally better, but took us to the wrong street, dropping us down some dark alley and leaving us to negotiate our own way. After walking for ten minutes in six inch heels the five of us arrived at a strip club where the bouncer helpfully ordered us another taxi.

This taxi did, eventually, take us to our destination. Unfortunately he also took fifteen pounds off us to get completely lost, and then make us find the right street in his pocket A to Z. Personally I felt that this was taking the piss, but our relief at arriving quelled a few of my objections.

Meeting up with the rest of the party meant standing in the doorway of a smallish house just outside Hammersmith and enthusing over the birthday girl’s dresses, property developments, interior design, and the fact that my sister really doesn’t look so young. This, coupled with more pimms and lemonade, and possible the worst Mojito I have ever had the misfortune of drinking, was a headache in the making. But it didn’t stop there. From there the party moved via three cabs across zone two and ended up fuck knows where.

This cab was much better. It only cost us twelve pounds and the driver was flirty, complimentary, but never sleazy, so earning my London cabby thumbs up prize. He was the only one in my entire visit who earned this so he was special. The club was the kind of club where you spend a shit load to get in, then find that the place is half empty and really you’d rather stay at home with a DVD than go to all this trouble and then contemplate staying here for another three hours minimum. In a word, it sucked.

While enduring classics such as the Baywatch theme tune and a disco version of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” I downed Sambuca shots, got off with the birthday girl’s younger brother, and sat on the bathroom floor phoning everyone I could think of who might, just possibly (say in an alternate universe) also be awake.

I then ditched the guy (my brother nicknamed him “The Oompaloompa,” and he sang along to Baywatch) lost one shoe (later found), and completely failed to listen to anything that anyone started to try to tell me. I also got asked if I was on coke, and if so, could I get him and his girlfriend some. Surely I wasn’t that bad?

When finally we arrived home, there were only a few hours before I woke up with a screaming hangover, the taste of truly disgusting curry still in my mouth, and the knowledge that I was leaving in two hours, hadn’t packed, and had a seven and a half hour bus journey before home. Wonderful.

Labels: Alcoholism, Mistakes, Theatrics

I’ve turned frigid. At least, for the time being. I realised this last night, sitting in a random’s lap, and with his tongue half way down my throat. It was alright, it was actually nice, but only in the same way that cookies and sunny days are nice. There was no accompanying feeling of, well anything. Now, I’m not a slag, I promise, but usually I at least care that someone has their hands wandering all over me. To be honest, I might as well have been sitting having a cup of tea with him for how much I was turned on.

I’m really quite confused. I actually had a guy avoiding me because he though I’d mess him around. Again. Since when have I turned into an icy bitch with no libido? I spoke to Dave about it and he just didn’t understand it at all. I’m not easy, but I’ve really never been frigid.

I’m perplexed. I’ve spent the week promising people things slutty, slagish, and generally all things nasty, and then, as soon as I get into an atmosphere where I can be those things, I just really don’t care. I was reasonably provocative I guess, I don’t think I know how to dance like a “nice girl,” never mind keep my mouth shut when there is the possibility of an innuendo. But I just really could not be bothered with any of it. The only reason anything happened at all was because I was bored and had already tried to fall asleep on a sofa in the back bar. It didn’t work, so I had to find something else to occupy myself. In the end I gave up on the useless Casanova and went to talk to someone about the size of my ex’s cock (not my choice in conversation, but I felt like I should set him straight when Dinky was telling some random person about how small he’d been).

I’m tired. I’m tired, frustrated, and annoyed at myself. I don’t understand me, and I don’t understand this sudden turn towards sainthood. Not that I’ll ever be even close to a saint, but it looks like I’m turning celibate. I’m miserable anyway because I’m packing my life up into a suitcase. Packing is a giant contradiction in my opinion. On the one hand it represents unlimited possibilities and embracing the new, and on the other it means an end to one way of life, the death of something. I hate packing because I hate trying to work out which side I veer towards. Do I embrace the new, or mourn the death of the old? Can I do both while still retaining a reasonable number of brain cells?

I give up. I’ve got things to pack still, passports to check on, and shoes to deliberate over taking. I need to remember to take my toothbrush, and stop thinking everything through because when I do I just end up annoyed at myself. I don’t like the fact that last night I spent the whole time basically unfeeling and ice-queenish, but it’s past and hopefully tomorrow, or sometime soon, this complete disinterest will pass. Unless I’ve really been ruined for good this time.

Don’t wanna think about it anymore. Whenever I next post, possibly not for a while, I’ll be on the other side of the ocean, and a lot less hungover. Until then, auf wiedersehen.

Labels: Alcoholism, Coquetry, Mistakes, Pleasure

“The best things in life are free.” The Beatles, Money.

She was fifteen. Barely that, having only just had her birthday the week before. He was twenty three. It was, as these things always are, at a party. She’d been drinking for six hours, he was probably worse. I knew she’d gone, but I couldn’t find her. A pretty large part of me didn’t want to find her. When she came back I’d collapsed.

We haven’t had a mother. I couldn’t be a mother to her, she was too strong willed and stubborn. But I was her confidante, I looked after her, stuck up for her, helped her whenever I could. But I couldn’t stop her, and I couldn’t leave her. So while I waited I drank. I drank away the memory. I saw her walking out the door, hand in hand with him, into the darkness. I just kept seeing it; over and over. And every time it came back I’d drink more, faster.

She came and lay next to me, “I’m sorry Harriet, I’m so sorry, I know its cos’ve me, I’m just so sorry.” I cried. I cried as she told me all of it; I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want her to tell me. It hurt too much- I understood. She went to the hospital the next morning and took the morning after pill. When she got home she cried too. She cried for hours with my dad shouting in the background, wanting to know what the hell was going on. I told him she was feeling really ill and that someone had rejected her the night before. He believed me unquestioningly.

I knew it had to happen eventually. She looks old for her age, and she dresses provocatively. She wasn’t ready. I knew it, she screamed at me when I approached the subject with her months before that. She knew she was ready, how dare I try to influence her life like that, it was none of my business. But I knew what would happen, I went through the same phase at her age, and I knew how much she would regret it.

The best things in life aren’t free; they come at a high cost emotionally. It took her weeks to recover, and six months later she still hasn’t regained nearly half of her previous confidence. She regrets it. I don’t tell her, “I told you so.” I barely tell her anything anymore. We don’t talk; I find it hard to get on with her at all. I love her, but ever since then I’ve found it increasingly hard to communicate with her.

Yesterday she cried. She told me that she feels like she can’t talk to anyone anymore, like I hate her. She feels lonely and hates it because she’s always fighting with both me and dad and there’s no one on her side anymore. I can’t explain why I’m not on her side anymore. I know that I stopped sticking up for her, I stopped covering for her. In a slightly vindictive way, I guess I’ve made things harder for her recently. She was hurt that I’d returned from my interview and she’d had to hear what had happened from dad as I was on the phone to Stacey.

I don’t know. I guess I just gave up. I still remember feeling completely powerless, it’s the one feeling that I can’t physically tolerate. Whenever it happens I do something incredibly stupid. Since that Saturday night I haven’t been properly drunk. I have had only one hangover, but it didn’t even compare to the one I had at work the next day. They nearly sacked me for that one shift alone. Since then I haven’t been sick while drunk or hungover. So it cured me of binge drinking, it cured her of casual sex, and it stuck a gradually widening rift between us. I knew there was nothing else I could do for her. And I don’t know what I can do now.

Labels: Alcoholism, dynasty, Mistakes, Pleasure

Well, I survived christmas. Somehow. A lot has happened really, since I last wrote in this anyway. The best word to describe me and blogging right now has to be "neglectful". Well, I shall endeavour to become less negligent and write more in future. New Year's is coming up, maybe I can make a suitable reseolution in reference to me writing more. Or maybe I'll just regurgitate a few of the usual: learn to speak japanese, practice standing on head and other pointless yoga positions, etc. I guess it all depends on whether or not I'm drunk when I make my resolutions. And also probably on whether I'm single or not at the time I write them.

I have a problem. There are two men, one who is brilliant and we share a sense of humour. Thats pretty rare for me, I have too much of a sarcastic slightly nasty sense of humour, most people either don't get it or just think that I'm slightly crazy. But he understands it and comes out with stuff that makes me just want to grin. He just makes me happy and when things first started with him I tried to drop him. I really did, I already had things with two other men and thought my life was complicated enough. But I couldn't seem to dump him, every time I tried he did something that made me laugh more than anything else. I literally told him, look it isn't going to work, don't bother. But somehow he managed to turn it round on me. I like persistence, so I guess maybe thats why I changed my mind.

The other one shouldn't even be counted. Except for the fact that I can't seem to get him out of my head. Which sucks because it makes me feel like I'm sixteen again. I always wanted to feel that specific type of lust again. The infatuation mixed with lust and innocence. Then the weirdest thing happened, I met someone who made me feel like a kid. And not in a bad way, or maybe it is in a bad day. Somehow he just makes me nervous and I want him so much. But I don't want to keep him around. He doesn't make me laugh, and to be honest his personality is kind of irritating.

I don't know. I can't choose, but I don't think I'll ever be given the chance to. It's all so stupid.

Labels: Alcoholism, Being the Duck, Courting, Theatrics