Tuesday, January 06, 2015

Lon - done

I have an erratic and painful spasm in my right thigh - January bluesitous?

A good test of my mindset is my evening commute home along Putney bridge. A happy Gemma chooses to wander along on the side closest to the Thames, occasionally snapping away at a fetching sunset, and breathing in the fragrant, polluted air.

An unhappy Gemma drags her feet along the side closest to the road, hoping to be clipped by a cyclist and spun (undoubtedly) like an elegant ballerina, into the traffic, and put out my fucking misery.

Needless to say, this week, I'll be walking road side.

Things I missed about this Shity 

(Cleverly, I've amalgamated the words 'Shit' and 'City' to convey my displeasure at the location at which I currently reside. I'm probably the first person to have come up with this.)

1. The drip

If you're having a shower in my flat, at the same time that one of the other lovely residents (of which there are 6, excluding Ginger) is having theirs, than your experience becomes akin to sticking your head under a leaky tap. You cannot wash your hair on these days, because you do not have the thirty minutes required, for the drip to gently wash the shampoo out.

2. The journey

Oh the stood on toes, the rucksack to the gut! How I missed thee over the Christmas break! Thankfully, it wasn't long before the first assault, yesterday in fact. I was sitting down, playing on Candy Crush, trying to imagine that the whole thing was a regrettable, depressing nightmare, when I was struck on the nose by a handbag. The lady, upon arriving on the tube, was happy to let the leather monstrosity rock back and forth from her wrist, striking me with each sway. I said:

'Excuse me, I don't suppose you could put your bag on the floor. It keeps hitting me in the face.'

What did she do?

Apologise? Exhibit remorse? No, of course not. She trapped her tongue between her front teeth, and giggled at me, as if we were sharing some intimately fun and cheeky moment, then held the bag slightly away.

On a lighter note, I did receive this email today:


So if I do want to surprise my woman, I've got somewhere to turn for advice. Because I'm so helpful, I've included the full email address, should you wish to get in touch directly.

I'm also being stalked by an Italian wedding planner called Emile. She keeps sending me 34 page documents of terms and conditions for my b&b wedding, and pointing out in capitals that booking all of the bedrooms will only set me back £15,000.

It looks like my dream of saying I do to a ginger, at a bed and breakfast, is dead.

In her last correspondence, Emile asked me if I was ready to take my wedding seriously.

No, not as seriously as she takes stalking.

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