Saturday, 16 May 2009

Saturbla... bla...

And we're up.

Wondering what today will bring? I know not but it'll probably be slightly dull.

At least there is a date tonight with Francois which means it can't be that bad.
Time to shop.

Do you want to see something revolting?

Look, dead and rotten rat on the tracks at Finchley Road tube station. Now imagine licking that!

Urgh. The thought has actually made me feel a little ill.

Hello and welcome to the Apple Store, Regent Street!

Apple Store, Regent Street London

In the Waterstones on Piccadilly.

Yep, this made me do a double-take as well...

Am thumbing through the GT magazine and if you've been to the Waterstones I'm in, you'll know (maybe) that the Mills & Boon section is right next to the LGBT section. Please see evidence of this...

Suddenly, there's a gasp and a short intake of breath behind me.

I turn around and some poor dear who's probably pushing 80 obviously thinks that her beloved Mills & Boon are going for a slightly more diverse audience.

Someone has put Lesbian Kama Sutra amongst the rather more subdued novels of romance and dashing gentlemen from the country.

This amuses me.

In Armani Exchange and I buy the sweater I first saw in Westfield. In case you care - it's here...

Back home and snooze time.

Wake up time.

Am standing at the window and hear some commotion out to the left. I turn and see a guy with a black cap on grabbing at this woman's handbag.

The woman's friend is standing screaming and at first I don't realise what I am witnessing.

The man has a hammer which he is wielding above the woman whose bag he is pulling at.

It appears he hits her on the arm with the hammer and she lets go of the bag.

He runs across the road to a posh Mercedes, jumps in the passenger side and it speeds off.

I remember the registration plate: LX05SGF.

I shout out of the window, still in disbelief, asking the woman if she's just been mugged?

I offer her and her friend tea with lots of sugar but they're okay. And they only live two doors down. Attacked on your doorstep. That's a bit shit.

The police have arrived. Boy, have they arrived. Three cars, two motorbikes and four men in two unmarked police cars.

The car is stolen. The registration is fake. There have been at least two other drive-by muggings.

Surely today can't get any worse.

In a cab heading for Soho where I'm going to meet Francois for what we're calling a date. I am a little nervous. On edge is a better way to describe it.

Francois is upstairs. He is just so lovely. We are drinking white wine from Australia.

Francois has lost his phone which is incredibly important because it's a work phone. Tomorrow he has to travel to Paris for work and so he is understandably upset.

We're outside and I'm thinking something ridiculous and I should not have said it but I have a problem in that I engage my mouth before my brain.

"Look, if you want to cut this short then I understand but I just want to know if you've really lost it?"

Gulp. Fuck. That's bad. Fuck fuck fuck. Why the cock-sucking fuck did I say that? Shit.

And on a day that has been the shittiest for a very long time, we have officially reached the lowest point.

Instead of trying to help I have been a cynical arsehole and have accused him of basically telling a massive fib to get out of meeting me.

A guy who probably has 10,000 people he'd rather be seeing has instead given up his Saturday night to endure my nasty accusations.

Sometimes I really only have myself to blame.

This. is. bad. Really. really. bad.

I persuade him that I'm sorry and I really am. We go inside to have a drink.

Still though, I think I fucked it up.

He needs to get home because he has to be up early for work so we're on the last Tube home.

I have travelled with him to Bank station but I should have gone in the opposite direction.

I think this is because I didn't want to say good-bye. Part of it is because I'm still really sorry for what I said.

I can't apologise again because it will look stupid.

We are standing near the doors and the carriage is quite full. I quietly reach out and hold his hand. He holds mine.

Maybe I didn't fuck it up that much. Or maybe he's just being polite. (There's that bloody cynicism again...)

On the platform we say good-bye.

I really want to see him again.

Back on the Tube and heading to Oxford Circus deflated and upset.

Nice guys go with other nice guys. Not jaded and cynical bastards like me.


MadeInScotland said...

Robster, have you hurt your neck; or are you going all holy on us?

Maybe it's an Angels & Demons limited edition blog header?

You did Saturday *without* Eurovision? Wow. Still, as a homosexualist, nul points to you!


Jamie said...

Were you in Green Carnation?

Anonymous said...

Really Armani Exhange ??? EEEUW !
had he lost his phone before are after he had seen you in this "knitwear" garment ??

Bobby Cox said...

Scotch: I have a sore head. Not sore neck!

Jamie: Er. Yes. Why? Did you pick up the phone?
(and why didn't say hello?)

Anon: Afterwards. What the hell are you saying?