Happy Sundays

Sunday started with floods of tears and deep, deep sadness. In fact, I don’t think I’ve cried so hard in quite a while. Certainly not this year. I’m almost embarrassed to share this, but… well, the reason I was crying so hard was… there’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to spit it out. Stepmom. I watched Stepmom on TV. God. I almost passed out toward the end. Couldn’t get my breath. It was like Terms of Endearment all over again.

I’m not proud.

Then I went to bed, still feeling rather emotional, and I daydreamed vigorously into an old pair of briefs.

Then on Sunday morning proper I cleaned the flat from top to tail, just in case, then went out to meet Sally at the British Museum. Was it a date? I assumed I’d find out sooner or later.

We hugged hello, then went to the café inside the museum for a coffee. Sally had read Friday’s blog entry, and the accompanying comments. ‘It’s a bit like living in The Truman Show,’ she said. She said that reading other people’s interpretations of her life gave her the fleeting desire to start her own blog, so that she could have her say. Together we imagined a world in the near future where people no longer spoke in real life, choosing instead to communicate solely through their blogs. She said something about it being really rather tragic that some people are prepared to say things anonymously online that they don’t dare say in real life. I agreed. Then I realised she was being rather pointed. ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘So is this a date or what?’

She laughed. ‘That’s more like it,’ she said. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. A bit of balls. A nice bit of spunk.’

‘Balls and spunk,’ I repeated. ‘Is that what you’re talking about?’

She nodded enthusiastically, her silver eyes flashing like tiny trophies in the sun. ‘Balls and spunk,’ she said, looking into my eyes. ‘Man spunk,’ she added. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Have you got an erection right now?’

‘Raging,’ I replied. ‘Do you have any plans to actually answer my question or not?’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Sorry, yes. Um… I don’t know what this is. I like you a lot and I like spending time with you. Which is why we’re here, right?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Spending time.’ (Vincent Gallo, Buffalo 66.) ‘Spending time.’

‘I don’t fancy you at the moment, if I might be brutally honest.’ I winced. ‘But maybe that will come in time. I’m a great believer that physical attraction is something that can grow. And it already has grown to some extent. You know? What do you think?’

What I thought was that even if nothing ever happens between us, she’s great fun, and gorgeous to boot, and I’d be insane not to want to spend time with her, given the opportunity. I told her I thought she was lovely. She told me she thought I was lovely too, and ever so gently, she touched the side of my face, elbows and all. Ever so gently, I raised the table we were sitting at with my knees, as if to suggest that I had some kind of bionic penis.

Sally laughed. And called me a dirty old man.

Then we finished our coffee and with the words, ‘Come and have a look at my etchings’, Sally took me to upstairs to The American Scene :: Prints From Hopper to Pollock.

At this point I should perhaps mention in passing how much I love London. I really couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in this country. I know there are great museums all over the country, but obviously nowhere near as many, and frankly, most of them probably nowhere near as good. This exhibition at the British Museum was fantastic and – amazingly – it was free. (I love free things. Even things I really don’t want – if they’re free, I can’t help but embrace them.)

Sally is something of an expert when it comes to art. Although photography is her bag, she also knows rather a lot (certainly more than me) about other media. So it was great seeing this exhibition with her, as she was able to explain to me how the prints and the etchings we were looking at were made, which certainly added to my enjoyment. Even without a knowledgeable sex kitten to guide you however, it’s a great exhibition. Look at these:

It’s a good size too, so that even if you really take your time, it’s not going to eat up more than a couple of hours of your day. (Because let’s face it, art’s all very well but it shouldn’t get in the way of real life.)

After the exhibition we walked into Soho, in the rain, sharing an umbrella, singing that dreadful song and imagining we were making slow tender love. That last part may have been just me. Maybe. Hungry after all that culture, we sheltered in a Wagamama, where we were shown to our table by an incredibly surly homosexual gentleman. When we were then served another (thankfully less surly) homosexual, Sally whispered behind her hand, ‘Fagamama’. I laughed. Then I reprimanded her and accused her of violent homophobia. She countered that she wasn’t even remotely phobic of homosexuals, and that not only were some of her closest friends homosexuals, but she had on occasion even shared hugs, kisses, beds and bodily fluids with certain of her homosexual friends. Gosh.

When we asked for the bill, we were attended to by a young woman with a rather provocative, heavily lipsticked mouth and a series of deep purple lovebites around the base of her neck. When she disappeared to get the card payment thing, Sally went back to whispering. ‘Slagamama,’ she said. I could feel her breath on my ear. I shook my head in grave disappointment and the table lifted of its own accord.

‘Let’s go see a film,’ she said.

I gasped with something akin to joy.

‘So are we going out together or what?’ I said.

She laughed, thankfully, and told me to chill out. ‘Don’t fence me in, Daddio,’ she said. ‘Let’s just see how things turn out,’ she said. But for now, she really wanted to see Persepolis. And whatever Sally wants, Sally gets. If I’ve got anything to do with it.



We both agreed Persepolis was alright but not especially brilliant.

We said goodbye at Clapham Common.

We kissed.

It was no big deal. I was like, whatever.*

….

In other news, Keith has gone back to the drawing board (my title) and has started drawing again. I think he’s pretty damn good, and I know my art. Alright, alright. But I do know what I like.


*This is me using psychology.