Yes, it’s been a long time.
Last weekend was rather a strange one. Saturday seemed to be the day my friends from England rang. Eileen rang, Paula rang, Lulu rang. Lulu and I nattered for an hour and a half. Claire and Julie texted. Yeah, I was bummed.
Then, I had to drive into the Big Apple to Pat’s flat. Darling Pat had flown to the States for a family emergency. Since she didn’t need clothes or anything (she keeps them in both places), she brought a suitcase full of my stuff from Weybridge, courtesy of my sister wife, Karen. Pat is very brave. I cannot divulge what was actually in the suitcase. I believe that the Nationality Directorate, Immigration Services, The National Trust, and Buckingham Palace have my phones tapped, my mail opened, and read my blog. Of course, maybe I’m just paranoid. The National Trust wouldn’t read my mail. At least I don’t think so.
Of course, I opened the damned suitcase, and started to cry.
As well on Saturday, James and Scotty arrived in New York for their annual Super Bowl weekend. It was amazing that only a year ago on Super Bowl weekend, they were at my house in King of Prussia. We had plans to meet on Sunday. A slew of funny, drunken texts ensued from the blokes starting around 9:00 at night. They were in Hoboken (don’t ask) and had been up for 26 straight hours. James was not tracking on all cylinders.
I talked my roomie, Scary Fairy, into coming into the city with me on Sunday, although she insisted she was not getting pissed and staying over with the guys. I said that was probably what I was going to do; she got all concerned and asked if I had packed a) a nightie and b) my toothbrush. (Answer: a) hell no; b) of course.) She should have suggested packing a jumbo, industrial sized bottle of extra-strength Advil. At least that would have been sensible and damned welcome on Monday morning.
Scary and I got to the appointed pub . . . I mean BAR at around 5:00. Scotty and Jimbo were busy talking in "I’m British and have an accent" to a crowd of oohing and aahing females.
This part is true. Scotty looked up, looked at me, looked away and kept on talking. Hmm. I went over, pushed through all the simpering females, and tapped him on the shoulder. He had not recognized me. Of course, it’s been a couple months and I have been on the Deportation Diet. (It’s all the rage among deadly terrorists kicked out of the UK) I have lost 75 lbs. I look hot, if I must say so myself. Scotty and Jimbo were suitably complimentary. Dearest Scotty had my Zinfy waiting.
Obviously, it was brilliant to be with the blokes, and piss taking, and bets on the game, flew fast and furious. Even better, Jarvo was in New York, too, and came over. It was almost as much fun as The Sorting Room in Twickenham after a ‘Quins game. I loved seeing them all, but I was really sad too.
I went outside with Jimbo to smoke, and this girl, who was also out there in the freezing cold puffing, said, of course, to James "OOH, I just love your accent."
James blushed, and I said "He’s putting it on. He’s really from Dallas." Simpering girl said, "Oh really? It sounds authentic." I reply, "Really, he’s a Texan. He just does it to attract women. Ignore him and he’ll start sounding just like Willie Nelson in a minute." James looks like he wants to throttle me. Gee, I miss taking the piss. You need to do it to Brits for the best results.
Scary Fairy, a real party pooper, went home, leaving me to my own devices. I was really, really good until we met that Doctor Guy and his wife from Miami. He was wearing a leather cap. I don’t know why I remember that. I don’t remember anything else, after about the tenth round of shooters he bought.
Okay. This is true too. I woke up the next morning, stark naked in a strange hotel room. Wow. And I couldn’t even blame Monkey Joe this time. After ringing Scotty, I discovered I wasn’t even in the hotel I thought I was in. Okay. Except for a massive hangover, it was all good.
Karen rang me when I got home, dying to hear about my adventures with the blokes. I gave her the full scoop. Blondie sister-wife then says, "Did you look at your camera?" (Pat had brought it home with the suitcase.) "No. Why?" I asked. "Just download the pictures and then ring me back."
Oh my God! Cheese Boy had taken my Philadelphia Eagles hat to the Grotto, and had taken a picture of absolutely everyone individually wearing it. Even Robbie Lee. He was wearing just the hat, no clothes. I made that up; I can’t imagine why Cheese Boy didn’t think of it. He’s letting his hair grow again. Robbie, not Cheese Boy. I will definitely post the snaps. And, yes, I cried.
I am homesick for Weybridge.