pet shop boys at the tower of london last night was very special. a truly magical night. met some great people. had a fabulous time. how psb is this? a whole email with no capitals, just punctuation. very M*I*N*I*M*A*L
full details to follow.
tomorrow is stag/bachelor do. tense doesn’t begin to describe my state of mind….
We’ve come a long way, D and I. In a few weeks time I’ll be taking him up the aisle. I’ve wanted to do so for such a very long time. The bright new future can begin, and we can safely forget about the day that I discovered my new boyfriend was a gay serial killer.
Well, discovered isn’t quite the word. (Hello officer). Let’s say ‘Strongly suspected’.
It was the morning after the night before, and he had to go to work. Up until that morning, my experiences had consisted of sweaty nightclub fumble, stagger back to his place, roll around wondering when he’d ask me to move in, attempt to discuss the new curtains and slipcovers we’d buy, and wonder whether we’d be married in the summer or autumn.
Next morning, poked in the ribs by a bony finger. Open a rheumy eye to gaze on the face of something from the works of Lon Chaney, and be told ‘I gotta go to work. The bus stop’s at the end of the street.’
Happy days. Not.
This morning, I wake to the sound of running water. A kettle boils happily in the distance. A radio is playing ‘Better the devil you know’ by Kylie, and the my face and body are being warmed by the sun shining through a crack in the curtains. My first thought: I’m still asleep.
I open one eye. He’s just coming into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. ‘I’ve got to go to work,’ he says, and my heart sinks. ‘Do you want some tea?’
I sit up. ‘Yeah, thanks. I’m on holiday today.’
‘You said. Last night,’ he calls back from the kitchen, where the lidded bath continues to fill with water for his ablutions. ‘What are your plans today, then?’ he asks, coming back into the bedroom with two mugs of tea and a plate of toast.
‘Nothing, really.’
‘Do you want to meet up tonight?’
This is only a one night stand. You’re breaking hearts. You’re doing the dumping for once. Think of a distraction.
‘Your bath’ll overflow.’
‘I’ve had mine,’ he smiles uncertainly at me, ‘That’s for you. I’m running a bit late.’
‘Sorry,’ I jumped out of bed.
‘Tonight?’ he asked, the smile faltering a little.
‘I can’t.’ I genuinely couldn’t; I had some stuff to attend to and that Friday night was my only chance.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I’m going to see Madonna.’
I saw the twinkle in his eyes blink out then back on. But when it came back on, it was a little sadder than it had been; a little more forced. ‘O.K. No problem’
‘What about Sunday?’ I asked, forgetting that I was supposed to be in training to be a harsh manwhore.
‘Sunday would be great.’ The smile beamed out. ‘What d’you want to do?’
‘We could go to the pictures,’ I suggested.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I wanted to see Misery.’
You must remember that movie. It was the one about the obsessive who kidnapped and enslaved a writer she’d fallen in love with, graduated from obsessive to psychotic to barking at the frigging moon, cut his foot off with a hammer, and had her face smashed in by said (understandably peeved) writer at the end. Not really a first date movie. Unless your name is Charlie Manson.
‘Not my thing,’ I said, ‘but we’ll find something.’
We made plans, and he kissed me quickly on the lips. ‘I have to go, I’m really late.’
‘But I haven’t bathed,’ I said, grabbing my clothes.
‘No rush,’ he smiled, ‘You’re on holiday. Just pull the door behind you when you’re done.’
And he was gone.
So, as soon as he’d left the flat, I did what anyone in my position would do: I searched the place for something to explain why he was so weirdly nice: A box containing 220 copies of ‘Dianetics’, a bagload of crack, a notebook with the words ‘Nice Boys Don’t Kill And Eat Their Tricks’ written againandagainandagain…
Nothing. Til I opened the wardrobe.
to be continued…
Eighteen days to go…
Last night, left work at 5:35 (early for me).
Made it to an earlier rush hour train and got a seat.
Whooshed home in air conditioned luxury.
Went in, changed straight into my guym clothes and trotted over the road to the gym.
Did a great workout that had me sweating, heart racing and endorphins running around.
Got back home.
Found out that our Honeymoon trip will get us to one of our fave cities on the same day that they celebrate their pride festival (Or CSD as they call it - hint hint). So, we’ll be partying with several hundred thousand rather attractive people til midnight.
Made poached eggs and ham on muffins (no Hollandaise - I have an expensive outfit to get into in a few days) and enjoyed it.
Tidies up the spare rooms because we have guests Friday.
Tonight we’re out to see Pet Shop Boys at the Tower of London, which will be fab (because I’m a fan, and even if they came on and did Urdu Mouth Music for 90 minutes, I’d still love it).
Friday, a trip to a male spa for some general tidying and grooming pre-stag do.
Saturday, the Stag do. (Bachelor Party to those of you in America): About Twenty or Thirty of our friends will be taking us somewhere mysterious for a somewhat mysterious treat. It’s also the day of London’s annual Pride parade and party, so there’ll be al fresco consumption of alcohol all over the place. It’s also the England versus somebody else match, so there’ll be lots of ‘On me ‘ead’ ‘In the net’, ‘The Referees got canker’ (or something) and ‘Nice arse on that one’ (the last, probably from me).
There’ll also be fabulous weather, because I’ve had a word with the man upstairs and promised to convert to Scientlology if he lets it rain. And he wouldn’t want to get one back from them only to lose another to them, would he?
So, all in all, coupled with the fact that all the arrangements are made, all the vendors except for one have been paid, and all the s*** that’s been flying around has settled down, Life is good.
And as if that’s not enough, D will, of course be buying me a puppy for my birthday, or else…
Although, of course, I’m sure I’ll find something to whine about in the coming days. I usually do.
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