‘Tell me why… I don’t like Mondays, tell me why… etc etc etc…’
Geez, Monday’s are a major mission. I’ve learned in recent months that it is wise to avoid talking to pretty much ANYONE in my office until at least 11 o’clock. Seriously, before the third coffee of the day, actual conversation is just not worth it. You’ll either get your head bitten off or get given a tonne of extra work to do. This is why I was so relieved to finally be able to reinstate Monday lunches with Nicole. Admittedly, on account of my current professionalism (and low funds due to the move) I’m not back on Monday Margaritas yet (although I’ve been making up for it with Tuesday… Wednesday… Thursday… you get the picture) but I’m well on the way back to the routine.
And what would a routine Monday lunch be without Nicole waving up at me as I dangle precariously over her pit of despair in a vain attempt to drag her out of it? This week’s dilemna…
“Look at me – I have lesbian hair!” Nicole declared over a jacket potato with cheese and beans.
Nicole; fabulous, gorgeous, wonderful Nicole, has gotten herself a haircut (not as drastic as she makes it sound). She’s gone from just longer than shoulder length to just shorter than shoulder length, and it looks fabulous. Now of course, she claims that this – added to other non-existent short comings – has her under the ridiculous impression that she shouldn’t even bother any more. She explained her theory to me;
“Now, listen to the whole thing before you spit your potato out at me, because it’s not me putting myself down, it’s just an observation.” she warns, a threatening fork jabbed in my general direction. “I’ve been thinking, it doesn’t matter how much effort I make, or what I look like, or how I act – the fact is that men just aren’t interested, they aren’t. So, what’s the point in caring? It’s not going to make a difference anyway.”
Oh… right. That’s not self deprecating AT ALL. I muse on this particular point for a half a moment before telling Nicole in not so many words just how much of a muppet she really is. This is not a healthy theory, but it could be. If she’d come to slightly more reasonable conclusion that I have – ie that her own hang ups about herself have made her awkward and uncomfortable and therefore this is what is keeping the men away. Learn to love yourself and the cocks start standing to attention, and whatnot. If you build it…
The drama continues.
Later, in another slightly more upmarket part of London, Maxie G and I were sharing a farewell bottle of bubbly (belonging to her soon to be ‘left’ husband by the way – oh my we are bad) before she buggers off to France tomorrow morning on the 6am ferry.
“What are you going to do over there?” I ask, enthralled by the romantic idea of being in that unique position of having no mortgage and no ties to anything in London except a car and a dog (both of which are portable).
“I’m going to pick apples and learn to speak French.” Maxie replies.
Well… that’s that then. Maybe I should kidnap Nicole when I inevitably go to visit Maxie. Maxie G’s natural fabulousness is infectious, and I’m thinking Nicole could do with a hefty dose.
Back in the South West – Twinkle’s ex army man has deleted her from facebook and is refusing to return her calls. He dumped her and now he’s trying to turn it on her, saying she hurt him and turning the whole shitty situation around to make her feel guilty!
All together now… “WHAT A TWAT!”
Can you blame me for losing all faith in the male of the species at the moment? Quite frankly, if the Broadway Producer turns out to be a homo I’m off to the Palladium on October 31st to dig a habit and a wimple out of the trash.
“Hello, Addison Lee? How far to the nearest convent?”