Crazy Forever

Haven't been offered anything for a while but in a week I received two. The first was tickets to see a show. Yes I'd love to, I said (without reading what it was that I was accepting - something about getting things for free - don't really care what it is, its free!) Anyway it turned out to be a raunchy erotic review transferred from Paris' Crazy Horse Club. Thought about asking Bails but decided that there was a more appropriate companion in my life who might actually really enjoy it. And he agreed to come. It only took the promise of toplessness for him to be in. Excellent. Didn't really fancy going as part of an all female couple to a titty show.

So behind the Southbank Centre they have set up a temporary building with a tent-like theatre inside - drapped in red cloth, lots of bevelled-edged mirrors and a pillar-box sized stage opening. We had platinum tickets which meant we were sitting at the very front at a table. Close enough to see everything. We were sharing the table with a woman who writes for Burlesque Beat (can't link to it becuase it seems to have a trojan infection) - she was hyper excited.

So there were "perfectly formed" women dancers, wearing virtually nothing save for some painted on pubic hairs and a variety of g-strings. Raunchy music and good choreography. Group dances and individual routines. Great lighting effects - sometimes strobe and sometimes contouring across the dancers bodies, poles, stripping and mincing walks. All greatly appreciated by the male companion. Appreciates them were the exact words. I too can appreciate them but found it strangely untitilating.

My favourite was the routine which included a mirror down the centre of the stage with the dancers pushing their hands, then arms up over the mirror so that a double-ended image happened - once the whole body was used it was sort of like some weird siamese twins trying to pull apart from each other. Slightly alien. And then a routine with a man and woman drunk and snorting coke competing with each other drumming on a table in a sort of drug addled river dance. Finally a pole dancing where the dancers were all doing the same routine in slightly different timing which was reminiscent of the dancing in Sweet Charity.

Some men behind were discussing the fact that the women's bodies looked heavily made-up. In the second half the audience loosened up and there was a bit of catcalling. But nothing like the time at Nux Vomica when the stipper of the year played the violin and melted ice-cubes in her vjj - all the men jumped onto chairs and howled like wolves. Stripping was common at Nux but usually involved artistes who were painted green or other artisitic oddities which didn't cause this reaction. After this we suggested to the organiser that maybe it would be good to have a putting-on next time alongside all the taking-off.

Anyway Crazy Forever had a good atmostphere, some interesting choreography and was greatly appreciated by the male portion of the party. Me, I thought it was a little bit tame. Or perhaps I need something else to get turned on - some men perhaps, some smells, slightly different visuals...

Free Timeout

Finally a freebie that is something I actually would have paid to read (unlike the Metro, Shortlist, Sport etc). Free Timeout shoved into my hand this morning. Haven't actually read timeout for a ages - it had me laughing out loud. Not as thick and comprehensive as the pay-for version but a good teaser for getting interested to find out more. Could be time for more exciting going out...

Morning Meeting

Waiting at Highbury and Islington to catch the train to Moorgate. Always the third carriage - because it is closer to the exit leading to the Northern line. Step on and surprisingly frequently bump into him. There is a momentary decision about whether to be cool and wait to be noticed or to be forward and prod the recognition. Those around are often surprised at what may seem like an overly familiar initial meeting. It not being clear what the relationship status is - colleagues, acquaintances, friends, lovers - who's to say initially.  The chat is mildly flirtatious and knowing. Gentle morning teasing. A slight leaning together. Sexual frisson not so common on the train to work. After three stops there is walking to the tube. A game of guess which tie he may be wearing with the shirt he has on and a quick smell for approval of the cologne he has chosen for the day. Then a swift one stop on the tube and he is off with a promise to give me a shout.

Steam Room Talk

Usually the steam room is quiet - a haven of internal thoughts and dealing with the damp heat working over the skin and into the lungs.

This evening a woman sat pontificating about the sizism at the legal firm she works in (I can't tell you the name but it's in Chancery Lane). They take on trainees but they are always blond and between sizes 6 and 10. They take on black male trainees sometimes but none of them have ever been hired. It's not like in America where the best person for the job gets it no matter what or who they are.

Other people in the steam started to look away, raising their eyebrows. She finally left. Then another woman came in and started talking about the lamb curry dinner waiting at home. She was going to open champagne to have with it. The Muslim men in the steam tutted disapprovingly. On a Monday night? Yes she giggled. Lovely. She talked about the method and ingredients she had used. One man said - it means nothing to me, I don't cook. At which she started to harangue him about expecting women to cook, clean and have babies for him - why does he expect women to do these things for him? Because all women are submissive by nature.

Silence in the steam. Lead balloon. I think you should be careful making those gross generalisations, say I. Well don't you think so? He asked. No I don't I said.

Fortunately before I could get in a fight the lifeguard came to ask the women to leave because the male only session had started.

First visit to the vets

Took the kittens to the vets for their first procedures this week. Philomena was spayed, and Leopold was castrated. Can't tell you how guilty it made me feel. However it was that or incest babies. The girl cat has to wear a cone for 10 days and the boy cat thinks she's some kind of  monster and keeps hissing at her. She keeps trying to walk backwards to get the collar off - to no avail.

Three days later they were due for a check up. Philomena has completely changed personality and went into the basket of her own free will. Leopold put up a fight, scratched and bit me. So I left him behind.

It's all a trauma. And not cheap either!

Morning Coffee

There's this arsehole in Costa's with a group of 7 management students. They are having morning coffee and he is lecturing them (Australian) with gems of cliches from what seems to be an American self help management manual. He just loves the sound of his own voice. His students make lots of notes. The men take him very seriously and the women laugh at his jokes.

At another table a man shows his friend videos of his golfing in Scotland holiday. 

Morning make over

She's 40ish wearing a blue suit and doing her makeup on the train. So far she has the panda eyeshadow done and is colouring in her eyebrows.

One of those floating seeds drifts past. She catches it, closes her eyes, makes a wish and releases it.

Then the mascara, looking like torture, flick flicking the brush over the lashes. Curling them with the tongs, eyelid peeled slightly revealing the eye white. Things that should be confined to the bathroom. After that consealer, and then lipstick.

Olympic Hangover

I miss the Olympics. I miss the buzz in the city - all the upbeat happy people sitting around the parks watching big screens. It felt like being on holiday even though I was working. The weather is overcast rather than sunny. I miss the back to back coverage and all the sporting cliches. And the athletes and their amazing feats, wins and losses, emotions. It's sort of lonely in the city now.

Square head

Three Italian people sit down at the cafe next to me. See this man, one woman says, he has a square head. The Russian would have had a square head like that. I look. He certainly does have a square head. I giggle. She notices and laughs embarrassed at being caught bitching. Its a description, isnt it? I can only agree. They carried on talking. He had pale but broad big shoulders, nice legs, very muscly. Nice man. Big square head. Sounds lovely!

What Olympic sport are you built for?

Getting into the Olympic spirit wondering what sport would be easiest for someone in their late thirties to get into. Something less punishing like... Shooting or archery? No need lots of skill. Boxing? Not at this age. Weight lifting? Need strength.

The only sport I was ever any good at was swimming but not in a competitive way.  Never was fast enough - graceful of stroke but no speed. So not built for speed. Handed a massively heavy weight and told to curl it - it was all I could muster not to drop it on my foot. Not built for stength either then. 

What are you built for then?

I could only come up with pleasure. I can be witty, passionate, demonstrative, generous, willing and find quite stupid jokes funny. Might also be built for creation - I like making things, am fairly good with my hands, designing stuff. And although I haven't had any children I have been told by a couple of older people that I was lucky to have good child-bearing hips (one man told me that it was the most common cause of death for younger women in his village - the difficulty of childbirth from narrow hips). Nice to have some appreciation of my wide arse! 

Also I've always been missing that competitive drive that sports people need to make them strive to be the best. Don't know what happened to my dose of it. 

Dirty Books

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Sport, sport, sport

OMG - the Olympics is great. So many great results for team GB. So many crazy sports that I'm suddenly into. Like the kieron (with the wind up motor scootist leading the field), or the omnium elimination where a massive crowd of bikes try not to be last over the line. And Phelps in the pool. And all the posh rowers and sailors. GB women being fantastic. Amazing track and field last night - Jess Ennis, Mo Farah and Greg Rutherford, golds.  And now that great posturing macho testosterone charged 10 second  explosion - the 100 metres. Love it.

It's so exciting.

Update 2210

All hail his awesomeness the fastest man on the planet. Bolt.

Après Work

Friday. Love Friday. The sun was shining, warm afternoon glow. Me and a mass of tourists were hanging in the Southbank. I bought some books in Foyles in the basement of the Southbank Centre and then headed to Los Iguanas to wait for Bails. Ordered a Cuba Libra which unfortunately came as two-for-one. I sat with my two drinks at the window looking across the outside dining tables. Waiting.

As I waited an unseen pigeon that must have been on a ledge of the bridge (restaurant is nestled into a bridge arch at Hungerford Bridge) pooped onto the cutlery laid on a napkin of the table in the corner. Bad table, I thought. I wouldn't want to sit there. Mental note to self.

Later when I was starting my second drink and Bails had arrived we were watching the second group of people on the poopy table. A woman and two male companions. Divided only by a large window it was almost as if we were sitting at their table. They pretended not to notice us. Until the woman, swirling her drink managed to flick a chip of ice into the neck of her shirt. Ooo cold. Attempting to pull it out, all five of us laughed. Shortly afterwards one of her friends was pooped on by a pigeon. Gross. She laughed. He laughed. I thought he took it well. Better than I would have. Bails said at least it wasn't a seagull - from personal experience she says their poops are huge. Double gross.

When we were leaving the woman wrote a note on her phone and showed us through the window: bet you weren't expecting the entertainment. No indeed. Up for a laugh some of these tourists.

Mens Water Cooler Moment

Have you been watching the Olympics?
I sat down on the first day and watched six hours of cycling. I'm thinking what am I doing, I don't even like cycling. And it's carried on pretty much like that. I've come  into work for a rest to be honest with you. I'm watching sports I have no interest in, never had. I mean archery. What am I doing watching archery?
How much of the beach volleyball have you watched? *Nudge nudge*

Evening Chill

Walking along old street from the roundabout, it's a warm summer Olympic evening. A couple pass me - he's tall and broad wearing half a suit, in his shirtsleeves. She at first appears to have very broad sloping shoulders until I pass close enough to see he has lent her his suit jacket, which fits her like an oversized coat. 

Longing

The sun goes down in a clear sky - orange orb with an orange glow. Dipping below the trees across a park's paddock, recently mowed, sparsely populated with a couple of groups of people. In the sky planes cross like comets trailed by their exhaust. I'd like to be on one. Going somewhere. Anywhere exotic would do. With a beach and some sea. No pressures.

Loafing

Three young men hanging out in the Brunswick Centre (it has now lost the centre from its name - probably in a rebranding exercise - calls itself The Brunswick). They chat. One of them ogles the legs of a woman (30ish) wearing short shorts and high heels. Surrepticiously. She may not notice the individuals noticing but I am sure she knows she has the power.

Lunchtime seduction

A man and a woman meet in Costas for lunch. He arrives first and chooses a table, securing it with his suit jacket slung over the seat back. He joins the queue. She arrives, he directs her to their table. She has brought in a sandwich from Pret a Manger. She takes off her jacket and sits down. He brings over hot drinks and moves his chair closer than 180 degrees around the table. They talk. He seems keen. He reaches out a hand and strokes her thigh under the table, comments on her dress, moves his knee into a position where she will feel his heat through their clothing. She doesn't touch him at all. She seems contained. She puts her hands together in her lap. He looks into her eyes while they talk, taking large bites of his sandwich. And all too soon it is time to leave and get back to work. She brushes crumbs from his trouser leg before they get up. And then they go.

Beatroot

Eating small box of food in Beatroot on Berwick Street. It's a pathway. Lots of people passing in both directions between Soho and Oxford Street. Records shop fans, gays and tourists. The fruit and veg men are rearranging their stall.

A couple - bears (big moustaches and bald) each carrying a chiwauwa. An older man in shorts and walking shoes with bare legs telling his companion that you can also buy false eyelashes there (wherever there is). Three youths walk past, double take, walk into Beatroot and come straight out again (probably carnivorous). An old lady in purple and white ankle boots and white fur collared coat.

Yo! Where is everyone?

It's 10 o'clock. Working late. Popped in on the way home to save cooking.

2 cucumber maki
1 vegetable yakisoba
And a pumpkin karaoke

Just me, five staff and 10 sad plates of food going round. They are going to be chucked. 

It's hard eating slippery noodles with chopsticks. But they are hot and freshly made by a very attentive chef (nothing else to do but wait for closing). 

Used to go to the first one in Poland street and after go to yo below which had the added advantage of ashtrays that sucked the smoke inside them - great in the days of smoke filled bars (remember them - coming home stinking of fags and having to wash your hair before bed because the smell coming off it kept you awake).