Dungeons, pandas and accidental spliff

Last night I went to London Bridge to attend the Launch of Panda Studio, where my lovely friend Z was exhibiting a couple of pieces. On the way there I randomly ran into my old work mate, Nat, whose company was having a party in the London Dungeon. How cool is that? I vote for our next work party being in a dungeon!

It was a good thing Z, gave me such good directions since the venue was cryptically called Arch 897 and turned out to be an old warehouse behind a non-descript black door. Everyone was very arty and you could clearly pick out the models and the photographers admiring (and in some cases snogging) each other. I was glad I had gone for an OTT outfit and was wearing my Hawaiian print leggings. Z, I have to say, had the most fabulous strapless dress on. She and I proceeded to get shmangled on white wine spritzers, while admiring the photography, some of the bands who were playing and the occasional photographer.

Z’s pieces were beautiful and I particularly liked one where she had these bubbles that were halfway between eyes and peacock pattern. Hopefully Z won’t mind me putting up this little snippet of work I stole off her blog…

At 11.30 I had to go… since I have to be out of here at 9.45 today. I decided to be lazy and catch the bus from Clapham Junction since my heels were starting to get to me. Not quite sure how but I ended up chatting to two gorgeous boys who had glitter all around their mouths. It turned out one of them had snogged a girl with glitter on her face.. and then they’d snogged each other. Brilliant! One of them then handed me his cigarette… and since I was dying for a fag and had smoked all mine, I took it. I marvel at my own almost impossible naiveté here… especially since I had remarked earlier that  could smell weed. I genuinely believed it was a roly…  They made some attempts to get me to catch their bus, which takes me sort of close to home but nowhere near as close as my bus so we parted company with massive hugs and they disappeared into the night…

Today I am off to Newquay with Rob, Dom, Lucy, Sanna, Saoirse and Emily for a week. I have decided not to take Frank along, so that I won’t do any work… including blogging. I might work on Edgar, the dragon slayer longhand but that doesn’t even count as work cos it’s so much fun… so see you in a week campers and don’t miss me tooooo much.

Mixtape – June ‘09

So here are the songs for June. A little early but since I’m off on holiday tomorrow and won’t be blogging for the next week, I thought I better get it in now. No Spotify right now. My internet died last night and I didn’t have time this morning. I’ll add it when I get back from hols.

White Lies, E.S.T. – I love how dramatic this song is with it’s big old drums and HarryMcVeigh’s deep voice. There is something a bit Talking Heads about it.

Cash Cash, Party In Your Bedroom (Acoustic) – OMG this is ridiculously cheesy and juvenile but I love it anyway.

MiMi Soya, Deathwish – I think MiMi Soya have legs. This is such a cute little song and Hero is cooler than most of the bandgirls out there.

Danananakroyd, Some Dresses – I never know how many “ananan’s” to put in their name. Another cool Glaswegian band… what do they put in the water there? This just makes me wanna jump around and bounce off stuff. Plus I love the way the song has two complete distinct parts.

Silversun Pickups, There’s No Secrets This Year – This song is kinda 90’s and all guitary and I love Brian Aubert’s twangly vocals. Yay to Faye for recommending.

Alesana, Apology (Acoustic) – I actually don’t like the “plugged” version of the song that much. I think the raw emotion comes across so much better in this slow, wailed/screamed alternative.

Blind Melon, Holyman – I can’t explain to you just now much I love Blind Melon. This song in particular is just a delicious bluesy ball of joy. If I could bottle Shannon Hoon’s voice and spread it all over me every morning, I’d be the happiest person alive.

The Starting Line, Something Left To Give – Just makes me smile…

The Cure, Close To Me – My twitter buddy @NathanDarker was listening to this the other night and then we ended up listening to The Cure together… it was pretty cool.

The Red Paintings, Feed The Wolf – This Aussie band is nuts… and they have violins and this song is amazing cos it’s SO intense!

Glasvegas, Geraldine – Who would have thought a song about a social worker would have been such a sticker

Standing room only

I was very kindly invited for a return visit to Casa de Self to join Dom and his family for dinner followed by a play at the Tricycle theatre with his mum. It was an eventful journey to Willesden Green. I got onto the Jubilee Line and happily stood reading my paper as there weren’t any free seats. I’m not too bothered about standing but it seemed to be bothering the elderly gentleman standing next to me… a lot. First he tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t you think it’s a disgrace than none of these young men have offered you a seat?” I said I didn’t mind and that I was fine. He then tapped the man sitting in front of me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t you think you should offer this lady your seat?” He was met with a stony glare. I was mortified. The older gentleman continued to tut loudly until the guy who didn’t want me to have his seat eventually got off and I sat down… ensuring that everything was once again right with the world.

Dinner with the Selfs was lovely. Unlike most families they don’t talk about the weather at the table, it’s all politics, sociology and maths… I loved it.

Our play, Karoo Moose, is about a girl called Thozama, who lives in a township near Knoxville in the Eastern Cape with her drunk, layabout father, her domestic servant grandmother, Grace, and little brother and sister. When a moose escapes en route to the zoo and terrorises the township, Thozama’s story crosses paths with that of Brian, a young policeman and the son of Grace’s “madam”, who is hiding a terrible family secret. The story plays out as a kind of fairytale with the actors switching parts and stepping out to tell bits of the story. I was absolutely enraptured. Notwithstanding the incredible skill and versatility of the cast, the story itself manages to be very dark but not depressing. And something happened to me that doesn’t happen often. I missed home. I missed home a lot and so I sat with a lump in my throat, able to imagine every scene in a way that I don’t think the non-South African audience would have. If you can, go and see this play… you won’t be disappointed.

Thank-you to both Dom and his mum for taking me along. I loved every second of it.

It’s the smo-o-oke, the smo-o-oke…

Last night I headed up to Willesden to Dom’s house to meet up with the Newquay holiday crew (minus Lucy who is home in Birmingham) for a bit of holiday pre-planning. For those who don’t know, seven of us have hired a flat in Newquay and we’ll be spending next week soaking up some rays and hopefully not killing each other.

The night comprised its usual mayhem. Sanna had put together a PowerPoint presentation, which Rob and I both found very puzzling. I don’t think he and I are natural planners. Our biggest concern was trying to figure out what kind of drinking games we should play. Saoirse and Rob had a number of near fatal arguments. Emily and I giggled and talked about clothes. I brought a couple of cakes and we all sang happy birthday to Rob and Dom or “Dobert” as they’ve been nicknamed, who both recently turned 20. And the conversation descended into orgies, the morality around incest, how alcohol is ruining our lives, Boris v Gordon as king of the idiots, sexual harassment in the workplace and babysitting disasters. I believe a good time was had by all. I pity anyone who has to sit in the same train carriage as us on the way to Newquay…

Of course at some point, as it always tends to happen if you leave us in a room with a computer, we decided we should show each other “cool things we found on the interwebz”. Saoirse and I both went for autotune the news, where a bunch of nutters have taken the American news, pumped it through autotune (as favoured by rappers who can’t sing) and added themselves in. Here’s a little example. Saoirse and I laughed… not sure everyone else got it… Shortay!

Nothing could beat this gem that Dom found though. This is a genuine demo tape sent in to an indie record label. It’s probably the best example of how NOT to tell your children about the birds and the bees that I have ever heard. Make sure to listen all the way to the end because that’s where it goes properly wrong. Also though make sure not to listen to it so many times that, like Dom, you end up singing along when you show it to your friends.

Roll on the holiday!

Edgar, the dragon slayer – part 3

Flash 30

• Part 1
• Part 2
  

A quest, I think. That’s exactly what my mother said. It unnerves me when she’s right.
“I weren’t always from London, ye know,” says the dragon. “I used ta be from the Forest Of Dean.”
“The Forest Of Dean?” I ask incredulously.
“Well it’s got caves, innit? And a forest. It’s where the rest of me family lives. It’s our natural habitat, ye know?”
“There’s more of you?”
“A few. I ain’t seen ‘em in five ‘undred years, though…”
“That’s all very interesting,” I say, “But what has this got to with the quest?”
“Flippin’ impatient, you are,” says the dragon. “Ain’t you ever ‘eard of the art of tellin’ a story? Anyway, I used ta live in the forest with me mum and dad and me aunties and uncles and brothers and sisters and cousins but they kicked me out.”
“Why did they kick you out?”
“All trumped up charges, obviously”
“Obviously… what did they say you did?”
“They accused me of stealing this book that belonged to me uncle. He’s like the dragon king. I didn’t do nothin’ though but they couldn’t find the bloomin’ thing and so they banished me from the forest. I been stuck livin’ in basements and sewers. And trust me the sewers were pretty bloody grim five ‘undred years ago.”
“Why is the book so important?
“It’s got all kinda dragon secrets in it,” says the dragon.
“Right,” I say. “And let me guess you want me to find this book, prove your innocence and in so doing get you back in with your family?”
“Yer smarter than ya look,” says the dragon, with a toothy grin.
“Where is the book” I ask the dragon.
“I ‘aven’t got a flippin’ clue,” says the dragon. “Don’t ya think if I knew, I’da found it and taken it back by now.”
“Who else might want the book?” I ask the dragon.
“Well there’s the trolls. They’re always tryin’ ta sneak past us and take our treasure.”
“Did you think of checking with them?”
“Of course,” he says. “Thing is, I got some unpaid gambling debts with some really mean trolls. If I go down there it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“Let me guess, these so-called trolls live somewhere ridiculous like Norwich and I’m going to have to go cross country on a wild goose chase.”
The dragon laughs. “Nah, mate. They’re trolls. They live under London Bridge.”

How could I not have guessed this fact? Not only are their dragons in the sewers of Camden but there’s a… a… what’s the collective noun for trolls… a conglomeration of trolls living under London Bridge. Next thing he’s going to tell me there are fairies living on Old Compton Street.
“Hold on,” I say. “If the trolls have had your book for 500 years, why haven’t they attacked and destroyed the rest of the dragons?”
“Trolls, Eddie, trolls,” says the dragon. “They ain’t exactly big readers. It’s probably taken them the ‘ole five  ‘undred years to read the prologue.”
“So you lost at gambling to a bunch of illiterate, bridge dwellers? Never mind. Fine, I will go and get your book, ok? Is there a way to call the trolls out?”
“Just take some cheese an’ a mirra. They can’t resist dairy or their own raflecshins and whatever you do don’t mention me name.”
“What is your name?”
“Aslef,” says the dragon. “Aslef, the mighty wing.”
“Alright Aslef,” I say. “Wish me luck.”
“G’luck, Eddie,” he says and with that he flaps his wings and is gone.

I do what any self-respecting man would do. I ring my mum. I have already made the decision not to tell her about the actual agreement my father made with Aslef. If she leaves him, he will attempt to come and live with me, since he is completely incapable of taking care of himself. And then he’s going to die either way because I’ll strangle him. My mother is nonplussed. In fact she is fascinated as I relay the story.

“Trolls,” she says. “That’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to meet some trolls.”
“What are you talking about, mother?”
“Your father and I have been arguing about the size of trolls for the last twenty-six years. As far as I’m aware a troll is about 3 feet tall but your dad is convinced that they’re gigantic and ever since Harry Potter backed that up in those films, he’s been insufferable. Now I can finally prove him wrong.”
“What do you expect me to do, mum? Take photos of them. They’re hardly going to pose, smiling, while I steal their book, are they?”
“What photos?” asks my mom. “We’re coming along.”
“You most certainly are not,” I say.
“Do you think I’d let you face trolls alone,” says my mother. “I have experience. I’ve been arguing with your father’s roadies for years. They’re practically trolls. It’ll be great.”
“And what help exactly is dad going to be?” I ask.
“You know I can’t leave him at home,’ says my mum. “Last time he dyed Marilyn black and then flew to Los Angeles. I found him onstage in the Hard Rock Café with a homeless person.”

I meet my parents at London Bridge Station. My father has fashioned himself a suit of armour out of some of my mother’s pots. There is a colander on his head and he is carrying a curtain rail as if it were some kind of lance. My mother has brought along a hand mirror and a wedge of brie. I have never wished I had siblings more at any moment in my life. Only someone who had actually grown up in my house with my parents would understand the sheer bizarreness of this situation and be able to sympathise with the mixture of pride and absolute mortification I feel right now. My parents may be insane but at least they’re supportive… even when I’m hunting trolls at the behest of the dragon who has kidnapped my girlfriend.

Film study… week 5

Week 5 and we’re finally moving onto B…

Army Of Darkness
Apparently this is the third in the Evil Dead Trilogy. I haven’t seen any Evil Dead films and I’m not sure what to say about this one. When Ash and his girlfriend go to a cabin on holiday they find a strange book that sucks Ash into a war in 1300 where the locals are not only waging war against each other but also an army of zombies. It’s an absolute cheese festival that in no way takes itself seriously and Bruce Campbell is hilarious as Ash. I do have some questions though, where does Ash suddenly produce a gun from, having been tied up for hours and how is he such an expert in combat when he works in a supermarket?

Ethel's extreme makeover had not gone quite according to plan

Art School Confidential
This film explores the pretentious randomness of the art world through the eyes of student Jerome (Max Minghella). Jerome becomes more and more depressed as his attempts to become a great artist are torn apart in favour of the childlike creations of fellow-student Jonah (Max Keeslar). It doesn’t help that Jonah is also his love-rival for beautiful nude model, Audrey (Sophia Myles). At the same time a serial strangler is stalking the campus, knocking off a series of victims. The problem with this film is that it doesn’t know what it wants to be, campus comedy, satire or psychological thriller and so it ends up being none of them.

Keep looking over your shoulder, Jerome, the art critics could show-up at any time

Baise Moi
When rape-victim, Manu (Raffaëla Anderson) and prostitute, Nadine (Karen Bach) meet by chance, they take off on a drunken sex and murder-spree, while travelling across France. This is what would happen if Thelma And Louise were French crackwhores. Way too violent and sexually explicit for me (all the sex… and there was a lot of sex… was real). I was a bit grossed out.

Say anything about the weight I've put on and I'll blow your fucking head off

Becoming Jane
Starring Anne Hathaway as a young, unknown Jane Austen, this film follows her romance with roguish Irish barrister, Tom Lefroy (James McAvoy). Uncharacteristically unspoken for her time Jane dreams of marrying for love but her family are desperate for her to marry a man of wealth and social-standing, which Lefroy is definitely not. Will Jane jeopardise everything for love? As charming as the film is, who the fuck cares… let’s face it… I’d watch James McAvoy peel potatoes for two hours and be satisfied.

But, I'm taller than him... taller, you see... he's a flippen midget... hello?

Bee Movie
I’m probably not the right person for this film. I don’t generally like Disneyfied animated films. This one, where a Bee (voiced by Jerry Seinfeld) sues the honey industry with disastrous natural consquences, was particularly awful. It raised enough logistical issues to have me saying, “but… but… but…” every five seconds. I was particularly perturbed by the Bee (Barry’s) supposed romance with a human woman voiced by Renee Zellweger… seriously? WTF?!?

Do you think our kids will look more like me or more like you?

Where does one buy breast insurance?

Finally five minutes to write. Friday night B and I went to check out some stand-up comedy in Camden. The less said about that the better. What I can tell you is that a short course in stand-up may teach you some comedy techniques but funny is like every other form of creativity… you either can or you can’t. You can teach someone to spell but not how to write…. you can teach someone to play a music instrument but not how to compose… and you can teach a slightly unstable loser how to tell jokes but comedic timing is inborn. Also I now know more about the Argos in Catford than I ever thought necessary.

Saturday had me up early and on a mission. After the fairy cake incident of last Sunday, I have been bitten by the baking bug. This time it was a white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake… recipe nabbed from The Metro… some ingredients not available at the local Sainsbury’s so I had to go to Southside. It was there I met the blender of destiny. Our hand blender gave up the ghost not too long ago so I’ve been thinking of getting a new one. Found a Philips one on sale for half-price. It has a food processor attachment and a fairy cake attachment (whisk). I am in love. Arrived home even prouder than if I had bought a pair of shoes. Abbi = housewife. So far I have fed said cheesecake to B, Yvonne and Nick. The Consensus is that it’s good… just in case you’re feeling bakey… this is the recipe.

Ingredients

100g crushed digestive biscuits
100g crushed ginger biscuits
100g butter
250g mascarpone cheese
250g cream cheese
70g icing sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
500g melted white chocolate
300g raspberries

Mix crushed biscuits with butter and press into the bottom of ideally a pie plate (or if, like us, you don’t have a pie plate, some other kind of dish). Stir together cheese, icing sugar and vanilla. Gently fold in chocolate (make sure you allow it to cool before you add it). Pour over biscuit base. Cover cheese mixture with a layer of raspberries. If you push the raspberries slightly into the cheese mixture, their juice won’t run out over your beautiful white cake. Refrigerate overnight.

After the baking was done, I tempered my impending housewifery by drinking beer and watching rugby. Thank goodness South Africa won after getting cocky and taking off half the top players at half time…

Our evening was spent in Richmond celebrating Alex’s birthday. It was lovely to see everyone but I have to say that Richmond is a strange place. Charming during the day but oddly sinister at night. I had a number off odd encounters during the night. First I had a very drunk man come and insist that I tell his even drunker friends what the tattoo on my leg says. Impressively posh and middle-aged, they went on to chant about me getting onto their table, while looking down my dress. Fortunately Ryan saved me and they went on to pole dancing around the garden umbrellas… sigh.

When we left another “gentleman” shouted, “nice ginger wig” at me. I shouted back, “It’s my real hair!” And he replied, “Show us your pubes and I’ll believe you.” Yup… classy. When Barb and I finally went home, we were accosted by pykies. One of whom asked me if I was insured. When I expressed my confusion, he said, “to carry those boobs!” Starting to think I feel safer in Brixton than in Richmond!

I don’t run unless I’m being chased

Yesterday my company hosted an interdepartmental charity rounders event. Since I work in a sales lead organisation, it seems that when we add an element of competition to any attempt to raise money, the turn out suddenly triples, especially if one is in an environment where alcohol may be consumed.

And so yesterday afternoon we dutifully set of for the beautiful Hyde Park to the old football grounds, where one may obtain permission to throw, kick or hit a ball around… all of which we were doing since some of the more enthusiastic boys had brought along a rugby ball and a football to pass the time in between games.

I had not intended to play… I don’t generally run unless I’m being chased. I just meant to stand on the sidelines, rattling my bangles in appreciation, drinking cider and listening to some of the boys (names not mentioned) commenting on the running prowess of the female players… mostly in the chest area. However, one of our team *cough* Michael *cough* didn’t show up and the next thing I was lining up with the rest of my illustrious team to take the bat. It soon became very obvious that I have become no better at sport since my schooldays. Not only was I immediately out after a pathetic hit… but I had also failed to grasp the rules and believed I could bat again (well everyone else was… they just weren’t out…doh!) In fairness… no one stopped me… not even the opposing team. I did manage to mimic my initial hit perfectly and I was out immediately again… so no harm done. Well, until I went on to play backstop… where I didn’t actually stop anything. Sigh…we lost by one run.

I ended up heading to Soho with Vicky and Becky for Chinese, which was much needed after all the running around. Crispy drunk, salt and pepper squid, lemon chicken and beef in black bean sauce with egg-friend rice… sigh… yum…

Tonight… stand-up comedy in Camden… should be fun!

Edgar, the dragon slayer – part 2

Flash 29
If you haven’t read part 1, it’s here.

“Aren’t dragons normally really into treasure?” says my dad. “Dubloons and gold stolen from pirates!”
My mother rolls her eyes. “There used to be a pawn shop next to The Cavern,” she says.
“I remember that shop,” says my dad, wildly waving his cigarette and narrowly missing singeing our terrified cat, Marilyn. “I bought your engagement…” he trails off, wide-eyed.
“You told me my engagement ring was an antique!” says my mother. “You told me it was a family heirloom!”
“It was somebody’s family heirloom,” says my dad, sheepishly.
“I am starting to wonder if everything in this marriage is a lie,” snaps my mother, snatching my father’s cigarette out of his mouth. “And isn’t it time you quit smoking, you’re almost fifty.”
“Ruby,” says my dad, plaintively.
She sighs. “Goddamn dragon! Leonard, just tell me you didn’t buy this house on eBay because it’s on top of an old Roman burial ground or switch Edgar at birth in the hospital and we’ll move on.”
“I promise,” says my father.

I have had about as much as I can take of the two of them. I think I’d rather face the dragon.
“Hold on,” says my dad as I make to leave. “The dragon gave me this as part of the deal.”
He undoes a string from around his wrist and hands it to me. There is a large, yellowing tooth hanging from it.
“Weren’t you naked when you met the dragon?” asks my mother. “Where did you keep the… you know what, I think we’ve had enough revelations for one day. I don’t want to know.”

When I get back to The Cavern, it’s deserted. There is obviously no show tonight and the alley behind the club is oddly eerie. It’s rained and steam is rising from the hot tarmac. I feel like an idiot but I take out the tooth and hold it up. It takes on a bluish glow and I hear the sound of giant wings flapping. I look up and I can see the dragon slowly descending on the alley. I suppose I should worry about people seeing it but this is Camden. No one notices anything.

The dragon lands in front of me and gives a little shake before settling and folding its wings. This time I manage to get a closer look at it. It’s about the size of a moving van and rather than being the kind of regal, elegant creature, I had always been lead to believe dragons were, this one looks a bit like a Tyrannosaurus with wings.

“Oo’re you?” it says in a surprisingly East End accent.
“Um, Edgar,” I say.
“Where’s the drunk fella?” he says looking around. “’Im with the ‘air. It was ‘im I gave me tooth to.”
“My dad?” I ask.
“Yer dad? Jiminy Christmas, ‘ow long ‘as it been?”
“Twenty-six years.”
“’E still alive?” asks the dragon. “Rate ‘e were goin, I figure ’e’d a kicked the bucket by now.”
“He’s fine,” I say. “You have my girlfriend and I want her back.”
“Look, mate,” says the dragon. “There’s been a birrova mix-up. Yer dad promised me a first-born, righ’? An’ I been ‘angin’ around this shit’ole waitin’ for you to turn up fer years. Lost track of time completely. Not like I got much choice anyway. There ain’t a lorra caves about London, innit? Figure, like father like son. When you and yer missus come down ‘ere eventuallym I didn’t pick up any of that rock ‘n roll aura from you, so I figured she must be yer dad’s kid. ‘Oos yer mum anyway? Bet ya don’t even know!”
“Don’t you remember what you promised my dad in exchange for me?” I ask. “You told him you’d make my mother fall in love with him.”
The dragon chuckles. “I ain’t got no power ova love. Isn’t no one what got power ova love. What I promised yer dad was that ‘is ‘air wouldn’t ever fall out. See ‘ere it is in ‘is contract.”
And the dragon presents piece of paper in his claw.

I’m not sure what I’m more shocked by, the fact that my dad traded me to keep his ridiculous 80’s hair and forgot about it or that my mum has put up with my father for twenty-six years without any magic.

“Look, where’s Elle?” I ask.
“She’s in the basement of The Cavern, your missus. We been talking these past coupla days. She’s worried about you, she is. Says that you’re afraid to be yourself. She says you’re obsessed with being normal when you ain’t got a normal gene in you.”

And I am in an alley… in Camden… negotiating with a mythological character that sounds like he’s from Hackney and all I want is Elle and for everything to go back the way it was. Suddenly I’m very angry.
“I don’t give a fuck what you and my dad agreed. Just give me back my girlfriend!”
“Bleedin’ ‘eck,” says the dragon. “Calm yerself down. Look, you can ‘ave yer missus back but I’m gonna ‘ave to take you now. I gorra contract, you see.”
“And do what with me?” I ask.
The dragon shrugs. “I ‘and’t really thought about it, mate. Yer dad’s the only geezer crazy enough to ever make a deal with me. Guess I could get ya ta ‘elp clean up round The Cavern, like. Make cups of tea.”
“Cups of tea,” I shout. “You’re a fucking dragon, for fuck sake!”
The dragon laughs again and lets out a wheezy cough, punctuated by a puff of smoke.
“No room for any dragonin’ around ‘ere anymore, lad. The knights are all actors and ‘ippy musos tryin’ ta save the world these days. The castles are tourist attractions and the treasure’s been credit crunched. I’m in me retirement.”
“Well what then?” I say. “I’ll come and live with you in the basement of this pub and make you tea. That’s ridiculous!”
“Actually,” says the dragon. “I might be able ta cut you a deal. ‘Ow do you feel about a quest?”

El tamaño cuenta

So last night I finally went on a date with the 22 year old Colombian musician, we’ll call El Musico, who has been attempting to romance me for a while. Now before I tell the story of the date, I have to make a shameful confession: I am a heightist. I’m 5’7 and quite a substantial woman. I find it very hard to picture myself with a man who is shorter than me. It just makes me feel gigantic, and anything related to large is something I think most women (with the exception of body builders and pro wrestlers) never want to feel. I have attempted to spend time with smaller men… I should be used to it after all, my own father is pint-sized and my beloved brother is only marginally taller than me. And I have made exceptions…my ex, ER (AKA Emotionless Robot) was only 5’5… although he was a gigantic dickhead so maybe that makes up for his diminutive stature. Anyway… sue me, but I’d like someone who’s 6ft tall or more… I just would. Like the Charmer (who I am currently treating to silence as a punishment), who is 6’4. He has to bend down to kiss me.

When I checked out El Musico’s dating profile it said he was 5’7. While not ideal, I figured I’d just not wear heels. But when I met the man in Richmond… it turned out that maybe he lied just a little on his profile… or actually quite a lot, since he was about 5’3. I could have used him as a drinks tray. Sigh… I know I am as shallow as a shower but I just couldn’t consider him as a potential suitor. If I rolled over in bed at night, I’d crush him!

All in all we had a very pleasant evening. El Musico talks 19 to the dozen in his rather charming South American accent, while constantly correcting his own grammar… and boy does he have great stories. Having grown up the youngest of four and only son of a well-connected wealthy doctor, he’s certainly lived the high life. From sojourns in the States to venturing into the Amazon jungle, with his now tribalised godfather, who went mad after being kidnapped by guerrillas, I was riveted. There were tales about “piranha whisperers” and camping trips where you had to walk four hours because there was no road or “ghire a ghorse”. (When I asked him if he could ride a horse, he gave me a look as if I had asked him something ridiculous and said, “I ghad mayny ghorses gwhen I was young.”) Coming from anyone else I probably would have thought the tales were a little tall but he was so genuine and unaffected that I’m inclined to believe all of it.

I’m not sure what El Musico thought of me, but he did give my elbow a little squeeze when we parted company (that was as high as he could reach) and we agreed to meet up again… in my mind we will be meeting as friends… but then again, the little fella is from the Amazon… maybe he likes the idea of a giant woman…

Fairy cake to the first person who translates the title correctly…