With all the stuff going on getting ready for BooBoo’s birthday, I never got around to blogging that I had a date.
Guess what? I had a date.
The emails to and fro were okay; he could spell, form an actual sentence and never once called me ‘hunnie’ or ‘babe’ or ‘darlin’. A good start.
I arranged to meet him at the Grotto, priming Darling Spike in advance so that if the Datee went bizarre-o on me, at a pre-arranged signal from me, Spikey could clock him over the head with a Magners bottle and deposit him in the dumpster.
I had a really nice time. I even hung around long enough for dinner. (Spikey carved a rose out of a tomato and affixed it to the mesa of the mountain of mashed potatoes on my plate of bangers & mash. God, I miss Thai food.)
Friendly Skies Guy is very nice. Yeah, he works for United Airlines…at Heathrow. I loathe airports, except for Duty Frees, and (a recent animus) the people who hang out at them picking other people up (for money.) It’s perfectly okay if it’s the Irish Lad you’re picking up and he’s brought back fags or diamonds from South Africa. Fortunately, United’s gates are at Terminal
One, at the moment anyway. They’re moving. I hope they have better luck with BT and Sky than I did when I moved.
We had lots to talk about. My travel agency used Apollo, United’s reservation system, so we could chat about funny glitches ‘Appalled-o’ perpetrated like that time it arbitrarily cancelled the return flight for the entire marching band (plus instruments) from Beijing. Yeah, that was a hoot.
FSGuy has been positively everywhere, including places I’ve not visited like Dubai, Lebanon and Cuba. And The States, naturally, but the places foreigners seem to think are ‘America’ like Las Vegas and Fort Lauderdale. And New York.
And he met Condoleezza Rice! Seriously. She popped in on Air Force One with WhatsHisName for a three hour visit. I can so relate. The Duty Free at Heathrow is divine. I hope she stocked up on Chanel Lip Liner pencils; such a bargain. FSGuy got some fantastic pictures. Of Air Force One, not Condoleezza Rice.
Anyhow, he asked me ‘when can I bask in your radiance (courtesy of Ruby’s Beauty Course) again?’ Okay… that’s not exactly what he said. I paraphrased. I had to break it to him gently that I was off the next morning for a fortnight (I know it was only four days; it felt like fourteen) up north. Blog in progress; I promise.
He sent sweet little texts while I was away. That prompted me, shamefully, to gripe to BooBoo after about the fiftieth, “Déjà vu all over again!” which she unfortunately didn’t get and I had to explain about Yogi Berra. And Turd of Camberley.
Monday was a holiday here (not that you would notice really) so I decided to have my First Annual Memorial Day Barbecue. I felt I owed it to British women; otherwise they just wear white any old time. Sometimes even white shoes with black pantyhose. (I just shuddered in horror. I swear.)
The weather was crap, but we managed to eat (the Irish Lad barbecued) before it poured. And since he was a blood relative of the chef, I had to feed Eamonn, even though he turned up in his Eli Manning jersey. Pinkie wore her brand new McNabb jersey to offset the ‘Giantness’ and shared with everyone that she also was wearing her Eagles knickers. She offered to show every(any)body said undergarment, but I don’t think anyone took her up on the offer. Not too many people were totally blitzed.
Tuesday night was Film Club. For sure this time. ‘Waltzing with Bashir’ was … haunting. It’s an animated film, extremely well done, and will certainly change the way anyone thinks about war. I’m sure everybody knows it’s about the invasion of Lebanon. At the very end, when the massacre occurs, the film abruptly switches from animation to real, newsreel footage. It was horrific.
So…FSGuy had to be patient and wait until Wednesday night to see me again. I promise a full report, including what I finally decided to wear.