May 22, 2006
Fabulous, Harry, I love the feathers.
Got woken up at 9:30 today after going to bed at 5:00 a.m. Why at 5:00, you ask? Because Thomas and his flatmate and I were up until then downloading Disney songs and singing along. The Lad, who woke me up this morning talking to another flatmate and then came back to bed, said "When did you go to sleep?"
"Five," I said groggily.
"Stupid," he said.
"We were downloading Disney," I said.
"Stupidest," he said correctly and went back to sleep. I am thinking of tracking down some of the lettuce slugs from yesterday and leaving them on his face. You know, for a lark.
Ha, they seem to have resumed the roadwork going on just outside the front door. This means the fellows will also be prevented from sleeping. My misery is looking forward to its company; it's putting little bowls of peanuts out and making sure there are clean hand towels in the bathroom and wondering if it bought enough beer.
Speaking of great big parties, Thomas had one a few days ago that both rocked and rolled. Lots of people, lots of dancing, lots of falafel on the floor. Pictures of it and of our time with Thomas so far are here. Those interested can also find pictures of Munich here (including our trips to Dachau, the castle Neuschwanstein, hiking to a cloister, and a boating trip with a bunch of people) and of Paris here. We also have five pictures of Zurich here but they are mostly of construction equipment so I leave it to your judgment.
Posted by didofoot at 01:57 AM | Comments (0)
May 21, 2006
The Slumlord of Gropecunt Road
We're making dinner in Thomas's kitchen and the lettuce is covered with little snails and slugs. Each new creepy-crawly discovered gives rise to a long debate about how best to dispose of it -- down the sink? In the trash? Outside? In the salad, for protein?
We sit around drinking wine and listening to Thomas read out loud from my Henry James novel while his flatmate makes bolognese sauce. It is a scene my aristocratic high school English teacher Mr. Hagar could be present at without flinching. After this we discuss the existence in London of a place called Gropecunt Road and I recite the following poem, which I found in Thomas's book Night & Horses & The Desert:
I would that all wine were a dinar a glass
And all cunts on a lion's brow.
Then only the liberal would drink
And only the brave make love.
We talk about how cunt is kind of an acceptable swear word here in the U.K., whereas at home it is one of the few words I would not say in front of the Moms. I wonder to myself whether Mr. Hagar would be more offended by all this cuntishness or by my failure to properly cite my source just now.
Posted by didofoot at 02:09 PM | Comments (2)
May 14, 2006
Overheard conversation in a post office in Paris
I order a dozen stamps at the post office counter and then Melanie and I walk off to stick them while the Lad pays.
"Always the same, eh?" the post office man commiserates. "Ze woman orders, ze man pays."
"Indeed," says the Lad.
"A woman in Paris," says the post office man, lost in a private and gloomy memory, "ees a disastair."
Posted by didofoot at 02:25 AM | Comments (7)
