The Viewing

The front door has many different keys, all looped together with a bit of ruffled string. The estate agent fumbles around for longer than feels comfortable, prodding each key into the door and muttering about the keyhole being upside down. I start to wonder if it's a sign. The various couples lining up behind her at the front door sigh and shift their weight from foot to foot, sun heating up the back of their necks. I stare blankly at the dandelions poking between the crack under the doorstep and wait for her to let us in. On account of the fact I haven’t eyed up our competition yet, I’m guessing I’m not fussed either way about this one. 

The estate agent is a large woman with jangly gold earrings that clatter rudely as she talks. She’s decided upon a loud flowery summer dress, complete with hessian flip flops that slap the back of her heels, which I take to be a less than obvious hint that she doesn’t like viewing empty properties on a Saturday morning either. As she pushes the front door open, we each have to squeeze (nose to wall) past her enormous bosoms, to escape into the cool, dark hallway of the ground floor flat. The side wall is painted a hospital ward yellow and I immediately feel claustrophobic.  Breaking off from the others, who are nodding in unison as if worshiping those jangly gold earrings, I creep off into the living room.  It doesn't look like mine- it’s very cool. Vintage LPs scatter the coffee table, square clocks with curved edges and bold numerates tick on the mantelpiece, and hundreds of hardback books stake their claim of the bookcase.  The sofa could look comfier, but I imagine it’s because of the two different bottom-sized holes dented in the fabric that it doesn’t look quite right to me. I run my toe along the gap between the polished wooden floor boards. 

It’s a grown-up apartment.

Photos with thick mounts and sharp black frames hang along the hallway. As I walk through, I sneak a peek, not daring to stare too long in case I get caught snooping. The couple are attractive, and a bit older than us. His hand drapes across her shoulders, her nose just tucks under his chin; both look into the camera and grin like idiots. I hover in the doorway to their breezy bedroom, with crisp white bed sheets, and tall Edwardian windows. Gleaming copper pots and pans hang abstract from the kitchen ceiling, fresh herbs in terracotta pots dot the window sill. The place is small, but cosy. The fridge is decorated with gig tickets, restaurant cards and even more of their photographic memories. My heart leaps as I spy a cat flap in the back door for Bess, leading out into a leafy private garden.  Just down the hall I hear Liam discussing storage space and meter readings, and I’m glad one of us remembered to do so. I look over my shoulder, but am not really worried if anyone is watching, because I have a question I felt ready to ask. I gingerly walk up to the kitchen sink and stand on my tiptoes to peer out of the window, brushing aside the pot plants gently. I gaze through the trees, allowing Liam’s voice to carry into a background whisper, until I see Bess rolling in the sun, warming her black furry belly on the patio, knowing I like to dream as I’m doing the washing up.  

I'm One Year Old Today

I don't like to say, 'it all came to me in a dream'. 

It kind of insinuates I'm sitting on the right hand side of some deity who funnels divine inspiration to me as I sleep. Now, that would be lovely, but I'm sure quite improbable. 

But the idea struck me out of nowhere, and I'm putting it down to that brilliant part of me that I don't get in touch with too often, that seems to know a hell of a lot more about who I am, and where I'm going, than I do; my subconscious. 

We moved to London on 27th September 2010. The decision hadn't been a very well thought out one. I woke up one morning and suddenly felt that London was something I should do and it was time to do it now. The problem was, I had had a love affair with Manchester from the moment I'd arrived, and it was very much my home. The people were warm, friendly and open. You could walk from one end of the city centre to the other in about half an hour. It had theatres, shopping centres, stadiums and was utterly cosmopolitan. It was where I'd first discovered Spiritualism, and had met like-minded, open people - who weren't complete nutters. It was where Liam and I had first met and fallen in love. The home of many a messy student night. It was just a bloody cool place.

I'd stolen seven banana boxes from Asda in Moss Side and crammed all my belongings into them. Just seven banana boxes, a suitcase or two full of my clothes and the cat. I felt I should have accumulated more from my five years at university. With Liam's things in there too, the white van we'd hired for the move packed out a little more, with the parental donations of a coffee table, a TV and a TV stand. Within a week, we'd taken the obligatory trip to IKEA Croydon and kitted out our little box flat with all sorts of wonderfully named Swedish cutlery trays and pillow cases. There was barely a colour scheme, but it was our home.

A week passed. I bought an Oyster card for the underground and must have been charged at least five times for not beeping through the gate correctly. I walked too slowly for Londoners- either my legs were too short (I doubted that) or Londoners walked life at a faster pace than I did. London smelt funny; dusty or sooty - I wasn't sure. 

Two weeks passed. I found myself exhausted at the end of each day, crashed out on my Solsta IKEA sofa bed. I dreaded the commute to work; wedged under a strange man's armpit, whilst he huffed morning breath down my neck on the District Line was just beyond terrible. My wallet was nearly always empty, because lunch in London for under five pounds was hard to find. 

No, me and London just weren't getting on.

"I'm fed up. It's too fast in this city. It's too dirty. Plus, everyone's so depressed!" I whinged at Liam. 

He told me to be patient, we were still adjusting and that I'd get used to it. He was right, of course. But at that time, I just could not see how I could possibly fit in. I liked open space, open people, open possibilities. 

Exactly a year ago, yesterday, I woke up suddenly - just a few minutes before my morning alarm. I’d had a very vivid dream, and immediately reached for the paper and pen I kept by my bedside table for these kind of mental emergencies, and scribbled down five words.

I'm sure you can guess what they were. 

In my dream I was standing in a very busy market street. People were trading goods with stall owners, children were skipping across the cobbles, a couple were kissing. They were all so busy that they didn't notice me. I had a hand bell in my right hand, and started ringing it to get their attention. Nothing changed. So I rang louder, and then louder still. I stood there in the cobbled streets, ringing my hand bell and laughing out loud for ages. Then suddenly a little girl turned and looked at me. And as she noticed me and began to laugh, so did her friend. It was infectious. One by one each person in the market woke up to the sound of the bell, and everyone was laughing. 

It made me think: It only takes one thought from one person for things to start happening. If that thought is a good one, people begin to notice. And before you know it, everyone's caught the thought, connecting like-minds and positive people. London might be a big smoky city, and I only one little light, but I was going to put my light out there, and see what happened.

A Mancunian love affair

 

I stepped onto the bus. It had taken me a few minutes to remember which number I needed to get to reach Fallowfield, even though I used to travel this route, twice a day for three years. I caught sight of the 142 – yes – that’s the one – and ran furiously to get to it just as the bus pulled out to leave. The driver caught my eye through the reflections on the windscreen, slowed to a stop, and the doors hissed open, almost in annoyance. 

“How much to Fallowfield and back, please?” I asked him, slightly breathless.

“That’d be £3.20 please, love.” 

He had a kind face, and his strong Manchester accent took me aback slightly, it was far friendlier than the snobby London accent I was so used to hearing in Mayfair. There had been a time when I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, and perhaps would have even spoken with a slight Northern twang myself. It sounded so familiar, and I realised I’d missed it. I fumbled in my pockets for some small change, and handed it to him, before crawling to a window seat and cringing at how out of touch I was, that I couldn’t even remember the return fare on a Stagecoach bus.

The minute Liam and I had arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station for a long weekend with friends, I had felt like I’d come back home. The many memories of standing on Platform 5, malnourished from too many university pasta dinners, waiting for the London Euston train via Milton Keynes Central to arrive to take me home for a long weekend with Mum, quickly came back to me.  I gripped Liam’s hand as we walked along the platform, half listening as he talked about which of our usual haunts we would head to for lunch, and then my mind wandered to the last time we’d been here in Manchester together. It had been in the station. He’d left with his huge rucksack on the train for three months to travel around Peru. I remembered how I had run alongside the train as he’d smiled and waved from the window.  I thought that if I ran fast enough I could delay the last moment I would see him, and it was only when his train became a dot along the tracks, amongst the sky rise buildings and overhead wires, that I had let myself cry. 

As my bus bumped and hissed its way to the junction, I opened up my handbag and searched for something like a mirror. Pulling my phone out, I used the reflection to apply a slick of pink lipstick.  I was meeting Liam in Platt Fields Park in Fallowfield; it was where we’d visited many a fairground, firework display and sat together amongst the long grass and frazzled in those rare moments when Manchester had seen the sun. In the hot stuffy bus, I squinted at my reflection in the dark black screen.  I didn’t think I looked too much older than when I’d first met him in our first year university halls, all fresh-faced and nineteen. 

We’d pulled out of the station and were trundling down Portland Street, passing Kro Bar, where I’d always treat myself to the best marshmallow hot chocolate or the wedges with chilli and sour cream dip.  As we passed China Town, I recalled  the day I spent there with my friend Helen, at Chinese New Year. We’d brought paper dragons, jade trinkets, and clapped at the street performers. The rickety bench just on my left was where we linked arms and huddled together, picking at a punnet of chips.

The bus took a sharp turn around the corner at the Palace Theatre, and we passed the Cornerhouse Cinema, where Liam had taken me to see ‘Che Part One’ after I’d had an operation a few years back. I’d spend the whole time giggling, all drowsy and dosed up on strong painkillers. Trying to focus on the subtitles, I eventually fell into a light Tramadol invoked sleep; having psychedelic dreams involving jungles and firearms.

We pulled into a bus stop. A couple of people got on, flashing their paper passes at the driver before they found themselves a seat. No one seemed rushed, no one pushed or tripped up on other peoples feet. The guy to my right had scruffy trainers on and was reading a large text book, which had been highlighted and underlined in many different colours. I’d put money on him being a student and getting off at the next stop. 

The bus drove past our rival university, Manchester Metropolitan. You could guarantee the Man Met students would always dress more fabulous than the typical University of Manchester student. Hair tied up in coloured scarves, bright red lipsticks and angular cut fringes. I’d always slightly envied them for having chosen more creative degrees and would often wander into their student union to look all the art materials up for sale in the union shop, scribble my name with the felt tip pens and wish I could find a purpose in my degree for a A3 Scrapbook or a scalpel and cutting mat.   

In a moment, the students were gone, replaced with cafes and shabby newsagents, just before they too whizzed past me and I saw my university coming into sight. We pulled up and stopped outside the grand arches I had posed under with my family for photographs the day of my graduation, and I remembered the beautiful bunch of peonies and lisianthas Mum had given me. We passed where I’d stumbled up the middle of the road after the Summer Ball in my first year, at five in the morning; my face painted with butterflies and singing Bon Jovi tunes at the top of my voice, my best friend Natalie under one arm – a squished cheesy naan bread under the other. 

We drove up the curry mile- Rusholme- the only place in Manchester that you can guarantee the shops will have changed owners and signs since the last time you went that way. I smelt the usual waft of spices fly in through the window, and my tummy growled in appreciation. At first glance, it looked more run down than usual, but upon a closer look, I saw the glitzy saris in the shop windows, Indian gold bangles draped across velvet and people laughing over baklava and a shisha pipe in the cafes. I laughed as I remembered the 3am stop offs after boozy nights out for a curry in Al Nawaz; the only curry house on the mile which has goldfish in tanks swimming under a glass floor. 

As we neared Platt Fields, I stood up and pressed the red button waiting for it to ding! loudly. The bus pulled up and I hopped off, thanking the driver, who smiled and nodded at me. How personal. How different from London. I was only a couple of miles from the city centre, but it was quiet, with only a few cars passing on the road to my right. Crossing the road, I walked into the park through the the big iron gates, taking in the open space, and the hot sunshine beating down on my head. There was a little park bench up the way. I remembered I used to stretch my legs on it when I had that burst of enthusiasm in my first year to go running after I'd got a little pot belly from too many beers. I'd brought some trainers from JJB Sport especially, but unfortunately my burst of enthusiasm had only lasted a few weeks, and the trainers are still in a box under my bed somewhere. 

I lay down on the bench, pulled my knees up, and rested my head on my suitcase. It was comfy. I listened to the sounds around me, zoning out a little; the birds chirping, the rustle of trees and the occasional jogger who breathlessly passed me by. Children were squealing somewhere in the distance, but it didn’t bother me as it usually did. For a moment I could pretend I still lived here. In the city I loved, where I’d built up so many happy memories. I closed my eyes, until I heard a familiar low wolf-whistle coming from behind me. Squinting into the sun, I peered over my suitcase, to see Liam walking up the path towards me, grinning, looking almost exactly the same as when I first met him, those five years ago, just 100 metres down the road.

One cat, a hundred calls and three options

Tuesday 5th April

I sat on the couch in my dressing gown. Laptop on knee. Reporters notepad and pen in hand. It was 8:10am. Usually I'd be getting off at Earls Court tube stop around this time to change for the Piccadilly line. Liam was brushing his teeth after the shortest shower in history -  he had only got out of bed five minutes earlier. It was funny to see what exactly he does in the thirty minutes after I have left for work each morning - and I had concluded; not very much.


A quick email to my sympathetic, cat-loving manager secured today off as a holiday from work. I didn't think I'd be having much of a holiday, however. I glanced down at my to-do list, wistfully.

• Telephone all possible animal charities who help injured cats, and their desperate, low-incomed owners. Cats Protection, Blue Cross and the RSPCA were the ones I'd heard of... and then, if no luck, find some more.
• Telephone vets outside of London for quotes on mending a cat's broken hind leg. Perhaps, like a can of Coke, the rates would be cheaper outside the capital? 

And if all this fails:

• Start fundraising... Painting - perhaps I could sell them? Card-making - everyone likes cards. Crochet? No. Would take too long. Not everyone loves crocheted creatures... *Spider diagram needed.

Liam suddenly appeared fully dressed and ready for work in the living room. He looked far too well turned out for only having had eight or so minutes to get ready. Glancing in the mirror to flatten a fluffy bit of hair, he lifted his keys off the coffee table and leant in to kiss me goodbye.


'Take it easy.' He said, as he gave me one of his bear hugs. 'A quiet day in the flat is what you need. Keep in touch via email, and I'll ring you at lunch.'


He poked his finger through the bars of the cage, and stroked the top of Bess' furry head. She opened her eyes, but didn't raise her head off her blanket. She looked as I did when I took the occasional Tramadol for stomach pains; drunk.

As the front door slammed shut, I heard him shout 'Good luck!' I listened to the sound of his feet skip every third step down the four flights of stairs until he reached the ground floor. Pottering into the kitchen, I put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Nothing would be open until 9:00am so I had a few minutes to spare. I stood in the kitchen and stared blankly out the window, as the sound of the kettle boiling got louder and louder until the steam billowed into an upward-climbing waterfall around my kitchen cupboards.  A good night's sleep had dulled my shock, but the astronomical figures I'd heard at the vets last night still whirred about my head.
I thought I would try the charities first, and as soon as the clock hit 9:00am, I picked up my phone to dial the first number. By mid morning, nearly all of my calls, had sounded some sort of a variation of this:


Me: 'Ah. Good morning. I hope you can help me. My cat has badly broken her hind leg, and I have been quoted a large amount for the operation she needs, which I am really struggling to pay. I heard your charity might be able to help me...?'


Them: 'Do you receive any income support or council tax benefit?'


Me: 'Um... No... But I'm desperate - I can't meet the bill the vets have quoted me...'


Them: 'I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you aren't eligible for our services or support if you are not on benefits."


By mid morning, I was mentally exhausted, had been through four cups of tea and was willing myself unemployed. Of all the possible charities in London, not one had been able to help me - unless I could provide documentation to prove I was on benefits. I was outraged.
Last year I had struggled to find a job when I'd moved from Manchester down to London. London did not seem to be recruiting, and for just under six weeks I'd had to sign on for job seekers allowance. The amount I received was hardly enough to survive on, and once I'd paid the bus fare to take the twenty-five minute bus ride to the local Job Centre each week (you could hardly call it local) there was barely enough for food, let alone rent. Each week, the admin officer in the Job Centre would look narrowly at me, glance at my papers, (upon which I had dutifully listed all the job applications I had made that week in neat little capitals, placed carefully in the right box) and then eye me suspiciously. She would yawn and sign my paper off only once she had probed me with the same monotonous questions.

I had since fought hard to get settled in London. And now, I had finally established myself in a little flat, with a modestly paid job, and I felt as if I was getting punished for it.


By 2:00pm, I had Liam's parents ringing vets in Worcestershire, and my Mum checking the vets in Hertfordshire to compare prices for leg operations and amputations. I had posted out for help and advice using Twitter and Facebook last night, and the support I had received from all my friends and fellow bloggers was incredible. Everyone it seemed, knew at least one cat who was missing a leg, and last night Liam and I had sat together and checked out the suggested websites, and laughed a little reading the cute stories of three-legged cats who still lived life as if they had four. Each person who posted me some advice, lifted a little weight off my mind. I had the support. All I needed now, was the universe to spit out a solution (one I could afford) that could help my girl feel better.
 Bess hadn't moved much in the last hour, and I was getting worried. I knew she was still drugged from the tablets and anaesthetic, but she hadn't eaten, used her litter tray or drank much water since she'd come home. I looked at her dry cat food, splattered with anti-inflammatory drugs (a bit like ibuprofen) which smelt like marzipan. No, I wouldn't have eaten it either. I decided to go for a quick walk to Tescos to pick her up something tastier, that really stank - like mackerel or tuna. Then she might eat it. Stroking her ear, she didn't even open her eyes, which worried me, so I grabbed my bag, and hurried out the front door, phone and cigarettes in hand.


As my converse trainers padded the pavement and I puffed on my cigarette, I took a look up to the sky, and threw my worries right up there; across the park until they splattered across the skyscrapers to my far left and right. I walked with my head up, and shoulders back, because it made me feel better, less trapped, and I spoke loudly in my head to anyone 'up there' who might listen. I don't always feel the need to know who I'm talking to, but think maybe just the intention of what I need might bring it closer to me somehow. As I nattered along the pavement, I suddenly felt my pocket vibrate, and I fumbled about in my jacket to answer it. It was a strange number. I caught it just in time:


'Hello?'

'Oh, Hello.' Came a rather quiet, strained voice that I guessed belonged to someone much older than me. 'My name is Mr Farlan, I'm calling from the RSPCA in Wimbledon. I was given your number by one of my colleagues who said you were in a rather tricky situation.'


I couldn't believe it. Fast work, God.

I remembered my call to the RSPCA earlier that morning. The girl on the telephone had fully listened to my plea (unlike most of the other charities) before sounding terribly guilty that she couldn't help me, but she had asked for my telephone number, just in case she thought of anything.


'Yes, Yes... ' I said quickly, before relaying the entire story to Mr Farlan.
'Well, my colleague is quite right, y'know, you will struggle to qualify for financial help with the RSPCA. But it is an awful situation... These vets... I can't quite believe their prices. It's daylight robbery!'


I agreed, and felt my self lifted by the mere fact that someone sympathised and understood.


'Now, let me have a think.' He paused, as if he wasn't on the telephone, and had all the time in the world to chat to me. I felt like I mattered. 'I'll have a word with our treasurer in Wimbledon, I'm not promising you anything, but I'll see if I can appeal your case. But in the meantime, have you thought of taking your cat to Putney RSPCA Animal Hospital?'


'Oh, thank you so much for asking.' I replied, thinking how glad I wasn't speaking with Mr Farlan in person, or I might have kissed him rather inappropriately on the spot. 'I haven't tried Putney hospital, no. I'll get onto them right away.'


'Yes... They might take you in, y'see. They help people on low incomes, not just if you're on benefits. It might be worth a ring. Anyway, love. Good luck, and I'll ring you tomorrow to see how you're doing.'


He hung up.


When Liam came home from work, around 6:30pm, I was splayed on the floor of our living room, on the land line phone, with two mobile phones scattered around me, taking notes from a vet in Worcestershire, on the price and procedure of pinning Bess' leg rather than plating it. It had been non-stop calling all day, and I was exhausted.

When I finally got off the phone a few minutes later, Liam had made me a cup of tea. I crawled up onto the sofa, resting my head on his lap, and rested my feet on the coffee table - a habit of Liam's, which I usually tell him off for - and closed my eyes, mumbling thanks.

'How are my girls?' He whispered after a couple of minutes quiet.

'I've worked so hard...' My words came out all pathetic. 'But I've got us three options.'

'I called Putney RSPCA Animal Hospital this afternoon, and spoke to a really kind receptionist, who listened. She advised, if I took Bess in, with wage slips, ID and a utility bill, I might qualify for them to operate on her. But they might not save the leg, as they always go for the best, but cheapest solution... And then there's big problem, that I might not qualify for a low enough wage...and if they turn us away...'

I paused to take a look at my notepad, since my brain was so muddled with all the words I had heard and spoken that day, I couldn't think quite straight.

'...I've got us a back-up plan, just in case. There's a small vets up near your Mum. He said he would pin her leg.' I'd noticed his eyebrow raise, and that familiar wrinkle appear on his forehead, letting me know he was about to throw a hundred questions by me. 'I've checked - It's not quite as secure as the plate - but they said it would definitely work. He's quoted me around £900 for the operation including the aftercare of taking the pins out.'

'That figure sounds a bit better...' Liam trailed off as I interrupted him.

'Yes. And your Mum has offered to drive down to London tonight to pick Bess up, take her to the vets and then care for her a couple of weeks after the operation at her house... She's been so kind...'

'...But you're worried that you won't be able to look after her yourself?'

He knew me so well.

Yes, the idea of carrying on with work, my day to day life, whilst Liam's Mum cared for my cat seemed wrong somehow. She was my responsibility...

'And the third option?' Liam asked.

'The Celia Hammond Animal Trust will do an amputation. They don't tend to do operations as they are a little too specialist, but they would charge me significantly less than the vets would, just to amputate the leg...'

I knew Liam was against the idea of amputating Bess' leg, especially as the vets had advised that it was possible to save it. But we were running low on possibilities within our budget, and time was running out.

'You've done so well...' He picked my tea off the coffee table - avoiding my feet, and not saying a word about them - and passed the mug to me. 'Let's visit the RSPCA tomorrow morning, first thing, and take it from there.'

The Award, The Mexican and Me

I've been given an award! The versatile blogger award, nonetheless. And whilst I'll admit I have been very versatile in the last couple of weeks working like a nutcase and trying to fit in one hundred things a day, I haven't been such a good blogger because of this, and my posting has been a little too far and few between for my liking. All because you just get those weeks where it all piles on top of you, and you end up being something different to a whole load of people, which stops you from doing what you love, or more importantly, from having the time to be you.

Now, like Jayne from Suburban Soliloquy, I'm no good with following the rules...  But tah-dah! It must have been fate that I was nominated for the award in which you have to show and tell a few things about yourself in a post. So here I am blogging (very good) about me (hurrah!). Two birds with one stone? I think so.

But first, you absolutely must (if you haven't done so already) check out Jayne and her blog, Suburban Soliloquy. Jayne is wonderful with words and very good at regular posting (*blush*). Her writing is playful and beautifully artistic - but always real. When Jayne nominated me for this award, I felt very honoured that she'd picked me, and in a similar way to how I feel when someone stops by my blog, reads a post, or takes their time to comment on something I have written, I was rather grateful. I'd like to say thank you to Jayne - but also to all of you who stop by my blog for a read.

I have so many blogs I could recommend, but I'd never get onto the 'me' bit of this post if I listed them all. For now, four bloggers come to mind. They all write blogs in a way I can always relate to, and their posts have encouraged me to write from the heart, just as they do. As the rules sort of went out the window in the way both Jayne and myself accepted this award, I'll leave these bloggers to accept this award if and as they wish.

Phillip at the domesticated bohemian

Otherworldlyone at Calling People Names

Starlight at Crazy Thoughts

Sharon at Resistant But Persistent


I've been procrastinating. But mainly because I've found it hard to think about just what to say about me...  I've been quite shy in this blog, and haven't put up any pictures of me, or too many personal details. In fact, I think the only photograph I've included in my blog is of my Gran. And a nice one it is too. 

Before I started writing, way back in September last year... I painted. Not walls, but pictures. I wouldn't say I was good enough to call myself an artist, but I loved creating all things bright and beautiful on a blank canvas. I never really liked painting what I saw, but threw everything into what I could imagine, and just waited to see what it would turn out like. I put all of this down to the fact that my Dad made me do Politics instead of Art at A-Level. And since trying desperately to justify 'The Special Relationship' between Britain and America in a draughty exam hall sometime in February 2004, I rebelled, and I threw everything I had into being creative.

So I think I'll say the bit about me, through a few photographs I've taken.

I might live in London, but I'm a country girl at heart.
And a Hertfordshire girl in particular.

 


Bess. Named after my Great-Grandmother, Bessie.
My lucky black cat.

 



I collect crystal balls. Nope, not to see into the future.
Because they are beautiful.
This one was a present from my Mum for my sixteenth birthday - and my favourite.

 



Yes. I crochet small animals - occasionally.
It's Cheryl the Snail.

And finally...



It's my lover. And me.
He's the Mexican and I'm the Cowgirl.
In our first year university halls, where we first met and fell in love.
And nope, he doesn't have one that big in real life.

Praha: 3 - Gay bars and birthday queens

Have you ever been to a gay bar?
I have. They are the single (or not so single) woman's hideout for a fun, drink-fuelled night out without the worry of being groped by a lout. They are full of hundreds of men who dress better than Madonna, dance better than her backing dancers, and will openly declare their adoration for Madonna herself. If it's not Madonna, it'll be Kylie, Cher, Gaga, or (who my friend David would swear by), Barbra Streisand.
The gays love the glamour, and flamboyance of such stars, and guaranteed, they will never fail to tell you what they think of your chosen outfit, with complete honesty.


One night I remember, about three years ago, I was walking down Canal Street (the famous street in the heart of Manchester's Gay Village). I'd donned the three inch heels, red polka dot pencil-skirted dress, and backcombed my hair to high heaven, drawing thick black flicks of eyeliner over my eyelids. I thought I looked fabulous. It didn't matter that the slit up the back of my dress perhaps crept a little too close to displaying my knickers - because I was linked arms with two gay guys, and together we rocked the cobbles, strutting our way down Canal Street.
Suddenly from out of nowhere, I heard:


"Oh, my GOD."


I looked to where the shriek had come from. A man dressed in ripped jeans, and a tight white T-shirt was pointing at me and expressing wildly to his friends. His friends were all dressed like him - just in different coloured T-shirts, and all with toned abs and (verging on orange) perma-tans.


"Darling, I can't believe it, it's Amy Winehouse! Look at her face!"


I was slightly taken aback, and unsure whether to be pleased or horrified at his comparison (especially as he'd pointed out my face, not my beehive hair), but I didn't have time to respond, as they had already strutted past me, eyeing up the next person walking towards them.


Apparently there is a gay scene in Prague, and I wasn't at all surprised to hear that Graeme had already found it and was working on where we'd be going that evening for his birthday night out, before I'd even made myself a much needed coffee upon arriving at our apartment.
He had a map of Prague spread out on the table, with his iPhone in his hand, mumbling about roaming charges, and simultaneously asking if anyone had a pen.
Our apartment was modern, kitted out from top to toe in Ikea furniture, and located high up on the 6th floor of an old building, giving us beautiful views of the Vltava river. Having arrived a day later than the others, I was naturally last in the pecking order for choosing rooms. My bed was one of the two singles on the open mezzane, so I dragged my bag up the wooden staircase which rose from the corner of the open plan living room and kitchen. I chose one of the beds, and started unpacking my things carefully on the side table whilst subconsciously aware of Graeme shouting bar suggestions and random locations in Prague to no one in particular.
As usual, I was the one who had the biggest suitcase; the only one of the eight who'd checked my bag in at the airport, rather than carry it on as hand luggage.
This is because I tend to pack 'just in case'. I must make sure I bring enough shoes and clothes to suit all possible situations. So for my long weekend in Prague, I'd packed two pairs of boots (brown and black), two pairs of ballet pumps, my converse (so comfy), and finally, one pair of heels - but after witnessing the amount of cobbles I'd passed on the way to the apartment, I was guessing I wouldn't be needing those. And that was just shoes, never mind clothes.
Laying all my possible 'going out' clothes on the bed, I leant over, and casually asked anyone who might hear me in the living room below, "So, what are you all wearing tonight?"
Considering I was hitting Prague with four gay guys and four girls, I figured only fabulous would do, so my eyes lingered over my new wet-look leggings and a silky black top.
"Something warm!" came the unanimous reply from the living room.
"Really?"
I poked my head over the banisters, just to check they weren't kidding.
Of course. No, it is below freezing outside. Silky won't do.

We had split into two taxis, and Graeme had given both the drivers directions to a location on the opposite side of the city. We drove over one of the bridges and I looked out the window, watching the neon lights reflecting and jumping across the water. The traffic was busy, and the taxi often jolted as the driver braked suddenly, which reminded us to stop laughing too loudly and allow the driver to concentrate on the seemingly free-for-all roads in central Prague. It was only a ten minute drive, but the further from our apartment we went, the quieter the streets were, and the less people we saw walking them. It started to snow - not like the flaky barely-there snow I'd seen at the airport - but really pretty, catch-on-your-eyelashes snow.
The taxi driver nodded at us, indicating we'd reached our destination. "Here. You pay 100 koruna."


I got out of the taxi after handing the driver a handful of coins. We'd pulled into what looked like a residential street. I looked to Graeme, as if his looking at maps all afternoon meant he might have some idea whether we were in the middle of the gay scene, or not. If we had reached gay Prague, it certainly didn't look like it.


There was a bar on the corner, only distinguishable by the Pilsner sign lit up on the side of the wall and various beer mats taped to the window. As my black ballet pumps hit the freshly fallen snow lying on the pavement, I wiggled my shoe to the side, making the new snow squeak beneath my feet, creating pretty patterns along the path. The others in the second taxi weren't here yet. Not a good sign. It was still snowing  and I congratulated myself on ditching the wet-look leggings, and opting for thick wooly tights and a skirt instead. I bent my knees repetitively, doing a little dance in the deserted street to keep warm.


We heard the others laughing and shrieking, their voices getting louder from two streets away. I couldn't believe there was a gay club on this quiet street. But apparently there was, and we found it within five minutes. No one was queuing outside. There were no transvestites on metre high stilts promoting the club, nor jeering at the queue, as they usually do in Manchester. The sign was lit up - but it wasn’t outrageous - propped above a large, heavy wooden door. They had no bouncers standing outside. It looked as if it could have been someone’s home. All eight of us paused outside, shivering into our coats, before Graeme plucked up the courage to enter, and picked up the heavy hooped door handle, and pushed.


The heat blasted our faces, and music from the Black Eyed Peas filled our ears. Coloured lights danced up the walls, and the bouncers (who had in fact sensibly chosen to stand inside) looked stern with knitted eyebrows and black suits. We handed our coats in at the cloakroom and edged down a spiral staircase into the club which was located in the basement. So that’s why it was so quiet outside. The lights got brighter, and I saw those men again in skin-tight T-shirts, edging past us on the stairs, with abs that could have challenged those of Hercules. I wished I’d worn heels – I am hardy small at 5.5' - but these men were huge and I came face to face with biceps, shoulder blades, beers and cigarettes. Edging around them to reach the busy bar was proving difficult. I gave a little poke to the muscles on their backs, took a deep breath, and whilst trying to speak politely over the music, I said; “Excuse me? Do you mind letting me past?”
They didn’t even turn around. So I made like a little rhino and barged my way up to the bar; and (because I didn’t know the Czech for anything other than beer) I ordered a Pilsner.


We charged the dance floor, all eight of us, as the DJ played (true to form) Kylie Minogue’s Dance.  Boy, we showed those Czech’s how to dance. Pints of beer in the air, arms waving, bums wiggling, gays grinding. It was brilliant.
The smoking ban in England has been in place for nearly four years. Four years is long enough to forget how smokey nightclubs can get by about midnight. I’d forgotten all about the cigarette burns you get on the dance floor from those incredibly pissed, over enthusiastic dancers, who express themselves by pointing their cigarettes into your limbs. I’d forgotten how your hair, your clothes, your skin smells of smoke, when you haven’t even had the pleasure of one cigarette. That club was foggy, it was so smoky.
Graeme had been plied with one too many toxic Czech shots and cheap champagne. He was looking starry eyed and was draped over the shoulders of two seriously camp French guys. They were looking him up and down, poking his belly and shrieking “He is GOOD quality!” in time with the music. We were all merry, and Lady Gaga had been played an acceptable amount of times.


It was a better than average night in a typical gar bar. All except for one thing. These gays did not appear to be 100% gay...
The doubts began as I noticed a tall, dark, lurking sort of a man (who sounds attractive, but really wasn't) staring at us girls and generally lurking a little too close to Denise, whilst looking me up and down. I nudged Lucy:


"Um. Is lurker over there, staring at us, or Graeme?"


It was quite feasible that he was staring at Graeme, who was giving people something to look at by spilling  his drink over everyone around him as he whirled and twirled across the dance floor.


"Hmm. I'm not sure. Here, lets move over to Pete - see if he follows."


We wiggled our way over to Pete. Lurker followed. At which point Pete piped up:


"Hey, watch that bloke over there; I think he's after your handbags."


Me and Lucy looked at each other sheepishly - of course. Theft seemed more plausible than a come-on in a gay bar.
Then again, maybe not.
A small, shy Czech guy who had been dancing on the outskirts of our group, plucked up the courage to approach Josie. He grabbed her hand and started dancing with her, then me, then Lucy - a little too seductively for my liking. The not-so shy Czech then turned full circle and started to grind Graeme.
It was at the point of Czech boy kissing Graeme and Lurker trying to buy Josie a drink that I realised we weren't in Kansas anymore. 


I noticed the big mirrored walls around the dance floor, and the space suddenly looked much smaller than it had seemed before. Attributing to this was the fact the club had got busier, with people getting more drunk, pushing to get through and almost everybody trying to check each other out in the mirrors. The smoke was so foggy now, my contact lenses felt like little pieces of glass in my eyes.
Pete grabbed me, noticing my dancing arms were more flailing now it had hit 3am, and hissed loudly in my ear:


 "You ready to go then?"


I was so hot from dancing, and the sheer mass of moving bodies in the room, had made the air stifling. I fought my way through the crowds, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, trying to get to the stairs.
Fumbling for the paper cloakroom ticket I'd stuffed for safekeeping in my bra, I raced up the stairs, and joined a queue of those who looked like they too had finished their night about twenty minutes ago. My top clung to my back with the heat, and my hair was sticky. I felt like ripping my woolly tights off right there and then. With my coat under my arm I passed the bouncer, who nodded sternly, and pushed open the heavy wooden door for me.  Rushing outside, I leant forward, resting my hands on my knees and took in a deep breath of the freezing cold air. The bitter wind shot through my vest top, hitting the bare skin on my arms and racing through my hair. As my head cleared a little, I glanced up to see a long line of men waiting quietly outside the club wearing thick sheepskin coats, gloves and hats and looking at me as if I was crazy. The girls were piling out of the club now, followed by Pete who was telling Graeme to hurry up. The not-so-shy Czech was still very much attached to Graeme, and by the look on Pete's face, looked like he wasn't heading off home anytime soon.
I waved my arms at two lit up taxis who were parked a little way up the road and threw my jacket around my bare shoulders to keep off the wind. As they pulled up close to the kerb, and I went to reach for the door handle, Pete ran up to me looking as if he had something to tell me - that I wasn't going to like. 


"Right. We've got a problem. Graeme wants to bring the Czech home with him, and I am not sharing a room with them."


"No, of course not." I replied. "Why don't you come up on the mezzane with me? There's a spare single bed up there?"


"No. I'm not moving. He's the one who's moving. He can go up on the mezzane, and you can sleep in Graeme's bed."


As much as I love Graeme, there was no way he was going to have sex with a Czech in my bed. I was so looking forward to my little bed on the mezzane, with it's clean sheets, and fluffy duck down pillows. I wanted to wake up in the morning to the skylight window slightly open and sun beaming down on my face, with a clear view of the river from my pillow.


However, the trouble with being a Libran is that the need for peace, harmony and balance in your life can sometimes get the better of you. I was cursing this fact as I balanced my single mattress on my back at 4:30am, grabbing the banisters of the stairs so I wouldn't topple over, with my suitcase hanging from one arm, my duck down pillows tucked under the other, and my duvet wedged between my knees. As I dragged my bed and belongings down the stairs, I squeezed past the birthday boy kissing his Czech lover on the stairs and glared at them both with my meanest look.
Graeme wasn't fazed. It was his birthday. He'd pulled.


Oh, well. He was turning thirty, I suppose. I'll give the boy a break.

A hermit and her cat

L was packing his suitcase - and as usual everything was done at the last minute. I sat on the couch, watching him in my big fluffy dressing gown, chewing at the sleeve. It was early Saturday morning and his cup of tea I had just made for him was going cold on the side. You see, L doesn't like tea, quite like I like tea.

"It's not going to be long. I'll be back before you know it." He said as he glanced up, before quickly stuffing a handful of socks into a side pocket. It was his first trip away since we'd moved into the new flat in September.


L's new job in London, unlike my job in London, is most definitely his 'career' job. He's lucky enough to jet across the world once a month and call it work, (though I would call it pleasure, not business, to have your passport stamped in pretty colours....) I didn't really like the travelling side of his job for purely selfish reasons. For instance, when L was away, I would have to make sure:


1) I remembered to lock the front door at night (usually L's job).
2) Be back by 6pm to let the cat out - definitely no after work drinks allowed - as no cat-sitter.
3) I definitely remembered to turn the heating off before I leave the flat - as not made of money.
4) I did the washing up. As there was  nobody to wash up the dirty dishes after I have cooked the dinner.


And of course, I would miss him.


But for one week a month - or two - I would have to be the responsible one. 


It was only five minutes later and the taxi had already pulled up, I got a quick kiss, then the door slammed shut and L was on his way to Barcelona. The flat was suddenly uncharacteristically quiet. I could hear the click, click, whuuurrrr of the boiler as it jumped into action. The cat stretched herself, clawing her scratch post and mewing in satisfaction. I felt lost for a brief moment. But as I dragged the duvet over to the couch, made myself another cup of tea, then flicked through the TV channels at a rate of knots, I thought that having the flat to myself for a week, might not be half bad...


I thought about all the things that I love to do, which usually annoy L - and then I did them.


1) I slept like a star in our large double bed - pointing my toes and flailing my arms in my sleep.
2) I cooked vegetable Quinoa on Tuesday (and nobody moaned about eating seeds).
3) I got to use the whole of the heated towel rail, a luxury compared to squishing my towel up into the grooves half way down, ensuring damp for the next morning.
4) I was on the edge of my seat throughout the Corrie special, and there was no complaining about watching Question Time instead.
5) I left my make-up thrown all over the bathroom, my hairdryer plugged in, and my clothes on the bedroom floor, slobbishly.


Today is Thursday. It's been six days and the quiet in my home has gotten too loud. The cat is starting to go a bit loopy. Last night she stole some of my water, but got her head stuck in the glass. I laughed so much (obviously after saving her) until I realised I was laughing out loud to myself, and then thought that I probably looked a little nuts too. It must be because she's missing L. I don't play with her catnip-string-toy quite as excitingly as L does; he wiggles the string up the wall, over the bed and across the couch making her jump at shadows. She really loves that.


L phoned me last night from Barcelona. There was a three second silence when I answered the phone as the two lines found the connection despite thousands of miles between them. His voice came through intermittently. But it was definitely his voice, and I felt a wave of relief run through me. Then the line cleared:


"I've missed you." He said.

"It's been a little bit quiet here" I whispered. "It doesn't feel quite right."

"It's because we are like one person, really." Was his response.


You big cheese ball. I love you.


I have never liked the phrase 'my other half' when referring to a partner; to me, it conjured up individual inadequacy. But, I understood what L meant.
Our home only felt like a home with L in it, without him, it was just a flat with all our things in. It is so true - home is where the heart is.