Wyrd’s little sister

Like seeing someone you haven’t seen for five years, and then you realise that things haven’t changed between you at all. The wavelength is still there, you can pick up as if you just spoke yesterday. You’re just a little bit older now, that’s all.

A couple of years later, you say
“I never thought you’d stay in the academic circles” and he says
“How come a crowded place like London is for you?”

The talk (and the wine) flows freely.
“Do you rembember that night, when…?”
“Yes, it was a terrible evening, I don’t know what went wrong! I only had a bottle of vodka, how come I passed out like that?”

A bottle vodka. Seems a lot more now. For some (for me) it even seemed a lot back then.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “But it was new years eve and you were sick on my shoes.”

The nattering doesn’t stop. For me, we are talking about one of the best years of my life. For you, one of the worst. I say, how come you didn’t tell me? You say,
“there is a thin line between sanity and senselessness and I thought I’d push you over it, why, do you thrive on craziness or something? “
“I wasn’t the one who downed a bottle of vodka!”‘
“No, fuck knows what you downed!”

And the summer night is mild along the Thames. We talk about London, about cities, about eccentric professors, and about them weird, weird, Brits (how we love them). About how everyone else are getting established and having children while we’re not. How we are not in a hurry, how we are still young (we are, aren’t we?) and how most people might not know what they’ve been missing,

I say don’t leave it another five years.

You say you won’t, but I think you are lying or that you’ve had a vodka too many. I say I may come to visit you soon: I may also have had a vodka too many.

It’s weird to watch you walk away.

Just like that.

Because I can sympathise! So much!

Wyrd’s Little Sister doesn’t know why, but she is a popular lady with the weirdos these days. Just ask the random man who tried to crawl into her hat at the Artois tennis tournament this week. No. No kidding. Sometimes life is too surreal for any jokes to be neccessary.

Wyrd’s Little Sister doesn’t know much about tennis, but she has an enjoyable day. I mean, she is welcomed with a glass, ok, two (three if you twist her arm!) glasses of champagne, so why wouldn’t she be?

Anyway, it couldn’t possible be the hat. She wasn’t even wearing a hat when a random man walks into the lift and says “oh you look pretty where are you off to?”

“*mumble**mumble**mumble* art gallery *mumble*” WLS replies.
“What kind of art?” asks Man.
“Who knows?” WLS mutters. “That’s probably why it’s art”.

WLS is thinking she is nearly at the ground floor now. This conversation will be over. It must be. But no. Man has two sons. Man likes silver jewellry art. Man says WLS looks classy, and WLS regret ever buying this dress because she doesn’t mind not looking “classy” as long as strangers just stop talking at her.  WLS goes to greet friend outside the building: Man follows.

“Is that your fella?” he asks. WLS nods vigorously. Man smiles. He stands there, the three of them in a small awkward circle.
“So who’s paying for lunch?” he asks.

WLS wonders why, why, why she is too polite to snarl at him and say “NOT YOU!”

***

Who are these people?
They walk up and talk to you. They walk up to you and say random things, and then they won’t go away. They ask you random stuff about plastic bags and bras, and assume that you can do weird things like speaking Russian while juggling tequila shots.  Things that don’t make sense.

Drunk Man on Saturday Night shouts

“Where’s the King’s Arms?”
And while Wyrd’s Little Sister tries to think where the pub is, Drunk Man leans forward and says
“they’re attached to his shoulders! Hahaha!”

Here is a tip to Drunk Men: please don’t throw up on a girl you are trying to talk with. She won’t appreciate it. Not only because she is standing next to her husband but also: it’s gross!

I have a feeling that when I die, it will be by melting. On the underground, with some tourist’s suitcase neatly parked right there, on top of my foot. And the worst thing is, I am not kidding.

Did I tell you that we have office mice?  They squeak, they are unhygenic little shits and they nibble on everything. I am convinced they are to blame for the little dent in my black shoes.  And, on a day like this, with 27 degrees and bad air conditioning, we discover that we are out of drinking water.

It is probably one of them mice. They have probably chewed their way into a cable or something, and the only thing I can hope is that it fried itself in the process. It’s not that I despise mice, really. It’s just that they prevent me from having fresh fruit in the office so that I blame them for all the vending machine rubbish my body is exposed to in the place of a nice, firm nectarine. It’s the fact that I am allergic, and that they make me sneeze and itch. It’s the fact that they leave little droppings, right there, in the teabox.

When a co-worker catches one, he ensure that he does it with style. E.g, use whatever you can use, be it a bin or a bin liner. If you are my co-worker you manage to catch it between the bin and the bin liner, so that you can pick up the bin and run away with it. Downstairs. To the garage.

“Did you just leave it there?” I ask. He nods.
“The entire bin and all?”
He nods.
“But…” I start.
“Wyrd’s Little Sister,” he says sternly. “You are not supposed to throw rubbish in the Thames!”

That wasn’t anywhere near what I had been thinking.

“You can’t just leave the bin there,” I say. Colleauge shrugs.
“You always said London is short of bins,” he says.

A warning to you.
If it looks like something is moving between the bin and the bin liner, it probably is.

“Was it at least cute?” I ask.
“No,” colleague replies. “It was disgusting!”

“You know, I felt a bit funny after last time when we were at yours.”

“What?!”

“Yes, I had this weird ache in the shoulder, but then I realised it was because I’d done something I’ve hardly ever done before.”

“What was that?”

“I lifted my arms!”

Wyrd’s Little sister (WLS) feels she should say something about the drinking ban that will be kicking in about an hour, making it illegal to drink alcohol on public transport. But what is there to say?

WLS, for once, is in support of it. And, one of them foreigners as she is, she is curiously observing the ways of the natives. Drinking and partying is not something WLS has never seen or done before. Circle Line Parties on the tube aren’t exactly new. And so the response to the drinking ban isn’t largely surprising either. Parts of WLS would really like to go - just to see what it is like.

But shortly after kick off at 9. pm, it was announced that Liverpool street station was shut - due to overcrowding. So what can you do? The other half of WLS was pretty relieved because to be honest, WLS is not great in large crowds. They get to… crowdy… for her liking. If you can’t swing a cat, you can’t truly swing a bottle either, you know…

Nevertheless.
In a little less than an hour, the drinking ban on public transport will kick in. WLS wishes you a happy party until then, but must admit it will be nice to take the night transport home next time without someone elses Vodka dripping down on her.

If you were to name an iceberg, what would you call it?

C19A doesn’t quite have that sexy ring to it. And then a six year old comes a long to rename it. Ok, so sexy may not be the  best description for the new name either, but at least I think Melting Bob will be remembered for a while.

Conclusion: get more kids involved in important matters.

The Peanut Man haunts me again. All I wanted to do was to buy a sandwich. No peanuts this time. Just a plain and slightly boring sandwich with advocados and mozzarella and sundried tomatoes and pine nuts.

The Peanut Man says

“blablabhblblbla?”

Wyrd’s Little sister says “’scuse me?”

Peanut Man: “HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”

WLS: ” A bit hard of hearing by the sound of it… but no need to shout.”

Peanut Man : ” No, it’s my funny accent. I know.”

WLS: “I wouldn’t know about that.”

Peanut Man: “I have a funny foreign accent!!”

WLS: “Can I just pay for my sandwich?”

Peanut man: “Lots of women like my foreign accent.”

WLS is starving. And it sounds like the chap is from Manchester. What’s so exotic about Manchester?

Peanut Man: “You have an accent!”

WLS: “Of course I do. I one of them bloody foreigners… coming here, stealing your jobs…”

Peanut Man: “And nuts!”

WLS: “I really just want to pay for my sandwich.”

Peanut Man : “Ok, but what about the accent?”

WLS: “SANDWICH!”

Peanut Man: “Patience, woman!”

“He may be flirting with you…” colleauge says when WLS finally gets back to her desk and can eat.

“No,” WLS says decisively. “That’s just not an option.”

“I think he is flirting with you,” colleauge confirms.

Oh dear god of Valhalla, please help us! Send us a hammer or something…

It’s time for Peanut Stew.

It’s been a Grotty Day full of Technological Problems. Lunch is spent ranting down a mobile phone to whoever picks up the receiver. The cafe is full, the queue nearly reaches outside  - that’s what happens when you insist on buying your lunch from The Guys Who Make The Best Bread In London. And I don’t even by bread, I try the special, the peanut stew.

The man behind counter smiles at me. I have gone there often enough for that, I suppose. He smiles at me, and says

“Peanut?! Oi! She wants my peanuts!”

“Don’t even start,” I mutter between my teeth. “It’s not that kind of day!”

Peanut stew.
Pea-nut stew.

Whatever’s wrong with that?

It’s been a long time since I have been doing this pearly thing, so…

I like the fact that it is bank holiday. Bank holidays rock. May rocks because it has many bank holidays and because May is spring, and spring is better than winter.

There.

Who said I don’t know how to be positive?!