Stories left unfinished

This weekend at dinner we were all telling stories about silly things said after epic nights of drinking.  Those hangover moments when everything hurts and you are convinced that death is nigh, or at the very least, that you will. never. drink. again.

So I told the story about a friend back home who came into work at the Best Buy one morning and looked at me as we set up the Home Office department (this means something different to me now) and very sincerely said, “Carolyn, I think I sprained my liver.  Is it possible to sprain your liver?”  And everyone around the table howled with laughter, remembering past declarations laced with shoddy knowledge of anatomy and physiology, and probably imagining those yet to come as we all limp towards middle age, aspirin bottles in hand.  And I sat there feeling guilty as I finished the story in my head:

About a month later, I said to myself, this same friend drove his motorcycle into the front end of a mini van while foolishly passing a car on a curve.  He died.  I hate motorcycles now, because I always think of him and how much he loved his and how stupid it made him.  And telling this story makes me feel tremendously guilty because even though I remember him and that moment with such total fondness, it was still told at his expense.

But of course, I didn’t say that.  It’s not the kind of thing you say at a party, no matter how true, and I already have a habit of saying awkward things at parties.  So I’ve just been thinking about that friend since then.  He was such a sweet kid.  Probably, if he was still alive I wouldn’t even know where he was now, I don’t keep in touch with many people from my days at Best Buy, but I know that they’re all out there somewhere, with families and lives and plans, whereas Justin will always be this sweet 21-year-old stuck in the limbo of 1997 and the memories of a group of people who barely know each other anymore.

Buzzy! My Man!

So it turn’s out Buzzy wasn’t a ginner. 

Nor was his day so busy. 

In fact the book is actually titled The Day Busy Buzzy Stopped Being Busy and it only took a few days of creative searching on google to figure that out. 

 

 

But I was right about the goldfish bowl and the very dangerous chair standing. 

Oh Buzzy, when will you learn?

It’s not all heroics at the bus stop.

An accounting of my weekend in list form

• On Friday I received my new coffee maker.  It has a timer and a permanent filter and I love it.  Since I received said coffee maker at the office I had to beg a large carrier bag off a co-worker and then lug my lovely, if somewhat awkward to carry coffee maker around all evening long.
• Upon leaving work I met up with Jeremy and some friends at The Boot and Flogger where we drank delicious Spanish sherry and discussed the Primavera festival at length.  Jeremy is still on the fence about attending this.  I am not.  I am ready to buy tickets now.
• After before dinner sherry we moved on our merry way to Champor Champor for delicious Malaysian food.  Well, Malaysian fusion to be precise.  Delicious is the most important part though.
• From there we went to see the play Money which is being put on by this art collective called Shunt.  I didn’t get it.  Nobody I went with got it.  We all liked it, it was cool to look at and we got a glass of champagne as part of the show.  But we didn’t get it.  Jeremy claims he read something that claimed it was based on a play by Zola.  Doesn’t matter, I still didn’t get it.
• On Saturday the chimney sweep (yes that’s right, a chimney sweep) arrived at 8am.  Jeremy thought the appointment was for 8:30.  Jeremy was wrong, therefore he was the one who had to run downstairs in his bathrobe to let the chimney sweep in.
• The chimney sweep did not dance or sing ‘Step in Time’. He also did not bring any malnourished orphans with him. Without their tiny hands involved in the process, I simply refuse to believe that my chimney has been suitably swept.
• I got a haircut later in the morning, chin length, more layers, less fringe (bangs in American).  The stylist, a nice man named Mark, informed me that if I want to maintain a messy style (I do) that I need to be sure to dry it properly, like with a hair dryer, and then to mess it up.  Not that I don’t believe in following the guidelines set forth by professionals, and not that I don’t think Mark knows what he’s talking about.  But, seriously, I master the messy look in 1995 when I cut off all my hair and started washing it with Ivory soap instead of shampoo.  A hair dryer is not required.  In fact, and this is a personal style secret, guard it with your life! the best way to achieve the messy look (if the Ivory soap starts to make your hair look more unwashed than washed (not that that’s ever happened to me)) is to shower in the evening and sleep on it wet.  Brush it when you wake up, and then walk to the bus stop without a hat.  Voila! C’est manufique! I know, I know, I’ve totally blown your mind, you thought I used all this product and five blowdryers each morning, but no, this was all a clever ruse on my part.  The secret to looking like you don’t care is largely not caring.  Or not caring after you’ve dropped a wad of cash on a haircut that can take care of itself, anyhow.
• After being lectured at the hair salon we went to Brixton and had pizza and Franca Manca a pizza place in Brixton Market.  We had to wait for about 20 minutes to get a table, but the pizza was as good as any we had in Naples.  Which is to say, the pizza was super delicious.  The experience was stressful, because it was crowded and the owner kept attacking the chef with stacks of menus and there wasn’t much room to eat.  But it was okay because the food was awesome.
• Then we went to check out The Rest is Noise where we drank a pint each and Jeremy trounced me at Battleship.  Turns out I am not so good as I used to be at this game.
• From there it was on to the Brixton Ritzy to watch Bunny and the Bull, an interesting, but sort of eh in terms of story, film.  Really stunning to watch though.  I think the website I’ve linked to gives a decent impression of how the film looks and feels.  Also we know the editor, and are therefore slightly famous by association.
• And then it was off to our friend Caz’s potluck birthday dinner.  It was a tapas themed evening and there was tons of delicious food and wine.  It felt sort of like a surprise Thanksgiving to Jeremy and I (of course, we were most thankful for Caz, obviously!) and even though I left a bit early (the cocktails came out and I saw a Sunday full of hangover in my possible future) I had a really excellent time.  It was nice to be sat around a table with lots of friends eating, and laughing and talking.
• Sunday I tried very hard to replicate my word count from the previous week but really only manged to update my Facebook status a lot.  I did plonk out about 3 pages, so that’s better than no pages, but still, frustrating.
• Finally Jeremy and I made a carrot and cashew curry (v. good), lemon rice (also v. good)and biryani spiced pumpkin (not as successful as we’d hoped) and then watched Wall-E before going to bed.
• And now after a morning spent chasing a soggy Oliver around with a towel and then exclaiming at his bloodied eyebrow and missing whiskers, oh, and drinking coffee, I am back in the file factory keeping things organised and easy to locate.

Update!

The evil bus driver mentioned this week has resigned.  I don’t know if this was voluntary or not, but really I don’t care.  I’m just glad he won’t be putting more people in danger.

 

The cyclist emailed me (and the other two women) with an update, she’s still pressing charges against him.  I’ve not heard from the police yet and don’t know if I will but I’m gladd she’s moving forward with her complaint.

Nerd Alert

I spent much of last night watching The History of Christianity on BBC4.

It was all about Luther and the Reformation.  I kept giggling at it because the presenter, Professor Diarmaid MacCulloch, is sort of a goofball, but in a stereotypical old fashioned English sort of way.  I’d like to hang out with him and ask him questions over tea, because anyone who can crack jokes about the Calvinists is all right by me.

 

Holiday greetings followed by a public trans rant (another one)

First things first, Happy Thanksgiving to the Americans.  May your turkey be juicy and your stuffing delicious.  Today I am thankful that it is very unlikely that I will be receiving loads of annoying queries from the NY branch of my company.  Go pilgrims!  Never mind the religious hypocrisy and mistreatment of indigenous peoples, you have in a round about way, saved me two afternoons worth of hassle.  I salute you (in a limited fashion),

And now for yet another harrowing tale about the bus:

last night I was on the 63 heading home from the city.  At the bottom of Peckham Rye I got off the bus and tried to catch the 343.  The 343 unsurprisingly pulled away from the kerb just as I got to the door.  As I turned around to head to a less crowded spot on the pavement I saw that a woman had ridden her bike up to the bus I just gotten off of.  She stopped in front of the bus and waved at the driver yelling (to get over the noise of the bus and traffic) “You nearly knocked me over!  You nearly killed me!”  The driver opened his window and shouted for her to get out of the way, with expletives, and she took out her phone to take a photo of the front number plate.

When the driver saw her do this he stormed off the boss and began shouting more abuse at her.  Here I would like to point out that this woman was shorter than me, so maybe 5′3″ and possibly 100 lbs.  The driver was over 6 feet and not huge, but pretty damn big.  He continued to shout at her and then grabbed her arm and the front of her bike and tossed her out of the way.  Her shoes were still attached to the bicycle so she had no way of maintaining her balance. 

I had started to shout at him at this point, as had two other women, most everyone else was just minding their own business and ignoring the situation.  The cyclist picked herself up and started to step in front of the bus again.  The driver got back on the bus himself, I followed and wrote his ID number down, all the while saying “You can’t treat people like this!  It’s not right!” His considered and thoughtful response was to tell me to fuck off.

He slammed his door shut and sped off, nearly hitting the cyclist again. 

She called the cops and one of the other women ran into the shop nearby to get her some water and a soda.  The cyclist started to cry so I dug some kleenex out of my bag and another woman rubbed her shoulders and helped her with the details.  I held out my hand where I wrote down the ID number for her, and the first lady came back with a Sprite, “I thought the sugar would be good,” she said.

We all gave her our contact info in case the police wanted it.  When I got home I called TfL and made a complaint directly to them.  The whole situation infuriates me in two big ways

1. The driver’s behaviour was ridiculous and frightening.  This man needs to be fired and sent to an anger management class at the very least.  How could he even think this was a remotely acceptable way to handle the situation?
2. The reaction of the other witnesses.  No one else tried to confront or stop the driver, they just stood by and let him attack a much smaller woman.  If even two more people had tried to step in this may not have happened.  It’s shameful, I know that makes me sound like an old woma, but it’s true.

Commuting on the bus is bad enough, it just gets worse when you witness an assault on our way home and are then yelled at by an asshole driver.  I don’t often miss having a car and driving into work, but last night I definitely did.

Oh my goodness

It’s like God took a look at the festival season and said to him/herself:  What would make Carolyn happy this summer?  Oh I know this!

I think I need to go to Primavera Sound.  I think it’s going to be very, very awesome. 

Don’t worry, I’ll keep my distance from the eggs.  That lesson has been well and truly learned.

Buzzy’s Busy Weekend

When I was a kid I am almost positive we had a book called Buzzy’s Busy Day about this little ginger kid on his first day of kindergarten and everything we did.  His name was Buzzy.  Ever since then whenever I have a lot going on I like to preface the time period within which I will be doing a lot with the phrase Buzzy’s Busy.  I tried to find a picture of good old Buzzy.  If I remember the cover right he was standing on a chair with his hand in a fishbowl that he was about to knock over, but I couldn’t find any google related proof of this book.  It’s possible I made it up.  I don’t think I did, but who knows.

Anyhow, this Buzzy, she had a lot to do this weekend.

On Saturday we made it to the current exhibit at the National Gallery and I LOVED it more than anything.  There was a John the Baptist head!  With a very realistic neck cross-section!  It was so good. 

After that we walked all over the South Bank and got some dinner.  I came home after that and got all my writerly gear together while Jeremy and his dad went to the Tate Modern.

On Sunday, I went to an Urban Writers Retreat.  I got there at 10 in the morning and I left at about quarter after 5 in the evening with a 45 minute lunch break.  I drank at least 6 cups of coffee, ate 2 brownies, listened to just about every song in my iTunes (some twice, hello Mountain Goats and Neko Case playlists) and wrote just over 4600 words which equals about 15 full pages.  At the end of the day I thought my brain was going to leak out my stupid ears.  Happily my brain stayed in place.  I’m still not positive that what I wrote was any good, but it did move the plot along and I have faith in some of the moments created. 

On the bus ride back to South London I overheard possibly the most awesome(ly bad) conversation of all time as a boy (maybe 17 or so) informed his friends of the following: “Listen, bruv, you can’t trust any girl who says she’s a virgin!  They all lie man, they all lie.  They think just because they got a tight poonani that you can’t tell, but it’s all lies.  They bring ketchup with them, man.”

Seriously, that’s what the kid said.  When he brought up the ketchup I just lost it.  I stopped trying to hide the fact that I was listening in and just cracked up, then turned around and said, “Yeah man, I never go to bed with anyone without a bottle of ketchup at my side.” 

It was a special moment indeed on the southbound 63.

After learning about the intricacies of the dating world, I found my way to the Gowlett to listen to Jeremy and our friend Harvey play records.  While there I ate some pizza and drank some beer and had a really lovely time.

On Monday we saw Jeremy’s dad off and then spent the day lazily wandering around East Dulwich and watching movies before heading up towards London Bridge so I could be on the radio as one of the guests of The Voice of Americans with Lewis Schaffer of Nunhead on Resonance FM.  The podcast should be available later this week if you missed it so don’t worry.  Jeremy claims I was very charming, but then he has to say that as he’s my husband and all.

I’m still feeling a little slow and prone to typos today, but overall am happy with the last 72 hours.  Especially those seven on Sunday when I felt like a real writer agin for the first time in a while.

Oh Yeah!

I forgot to mention that Sunday may be the last My Awesome Mixtape night at the Gowlett.

I will be there after self exiling myself at a writing retreat in Islington but Jeremy and harvey should be there from 6:30.  If you are in London and you don’t suck you should check it out.  There is also delicious pizza.  And beer.

 

AND!

The coffee machine is making totally grody coffee so I had to buy a coffee.

Why is my life so hard all the time?  Isn’t there something in the Magna Carta about being entitled to free and tasty coffee at work?  It might be time for another revolution.

Also the spag bol I had for lunch tasted sort of weird, also also I am still in a weird bad mood.  Obviously.

Maybe I will blame Cheryl Cole.