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Monday 15 November 2010
Friday 24 September 2010
mind the crap; another 100 lessons learned in london.
around about this time two years ago i moved to london. around about this time one year ago, i wrote a list of a 100 lessons i had learned in that year. and around about now, you're about to read another one.
1. When you get invited to an event that promises “complimentary cocktails” you can be sure the glasses are going to be small. Very small. Its more like complimentary shots of mojito really.
2. When you go to one of those work functions where you have to wear a name tag, make sure you take it off before you get on the tube. Londoners don’t like to stare but in that case you give them no option.
3. Don’t fall for that four-letter word SALE. Just because something is 70% off it doesn’t mean you can now afford it. You may be more willing, but willing is not the same thing as able.
4. Also RENT. “rent” does not mean “rent.” “rent” means rent + bills + council tax + inventory + clean + miscellaneous other bullshit charges usually over £100.
5. (There’s a very good reason why Foxtons can offer you “free” cappuccinos and sparkling water while you wait.)
6. “Is the bed hard?” “I like a hard bed.” “Can I try it?” Three things NOT to say to a young chap from Foxtons.
7. When Foxtons asks you what your budget is, tell them £100 less than it actually is. They only end up showing you the ones that exactly match or exceed that budget. And before you know it, 400 is the new 300.
8. Don’t think of rent in weekly terms. 400 is not 100 more than 300, its 400 more.
9. Be weary of real estate lingo. It is governed by its own rules. Cosy means crap, quaint means crap, comfortable means crap. Just go from the premise that anything under £400 a week is more often than not, crap.
10. Which is to say, don’t just mind the gap, mind the crap.
11. When you’re putting in an offer on the beautiful top floor flat with a view, make sure you know people who’ll carry your shit up there.
12. There’s a reason why there are always (beautiful) top floor flats on the market.
13. Don’t sleep with your flatmates – easier said than done.
14. Actually, avoid having flatmates altogether and then you can sleep with whoever you want. So much easier.
15. Life is so much better with no flatmates. Just make sure you never have any chocolate lying around.
16. Yes, London is in England, and yes the official language is English, but that does not mean that everybody speaks it. In fact there is probably an inverse ratio between the amount you need someone to speak it, and their inability to do so. That is, all the people you generally really need to understand you, like the maid, the dry cleaner, and the guy who comes to repair your washing machine—all those handy people—they don’t speak English.
17. Learn to draw.
18. Or, learn Portuguese.
19. Rush hour is rush hour, but rush hour in Oxford Circus is a friggin’ carnival. No feathers, no cocktails, just cocks. No, don’t you worry pumpkin, you sit, I’ll stand, in my heels, with my work bag, gym bag, shopping bag, and newspaper. It’s all good.
20. Actually, I take that back. rush hour in oxford circus is not rush hour its rush hours. A seemingly endless succession of them. so, it has no bearing if you get out of work an hour early or late…you’re still. Always. Screwed.
21. Oh and speaking of carnival – the Notting Hill one that is. Erm, two words of advice. PRE-GAME. You do not want to go there sober.
22. Also, try to grow some breasts in advance.
23. And one more thing—Don’t be caught on camera doing this.
24. Wow. I’m all for letting go, I’m all about having fun, and lord knows I’m all about dance. But that? Wow.
25. If someone insists on paying, don’t insist back. Let it be. The Beatles were from London you know…and I’m pretty sure this is what they meant by that. What else could “when I find myself in times of trouble” refer to?
26. When you sign up to do a funky art review, make sure its not in like Zone 27. I mean I love art and all, but there’s only so far I’ll go.
27. Also, when you sign up to do an art review, make sure you go. The word view in review implies that you’ve seen it.
28. When it comes to distances, don’t question how willing you are to go somewhere…question how willing you’ll be to trek back. As in, when someone invites you to a cool party in bethnal green and you live in Chelsea, say no.
28. Sunny morning = rainy day; grey morning = sunny day; weather forecasting is not that difficult at all.
29. Actually there are a number of other surefire indicators it will rain:
a) You’re wearing suede shoes.
b) You’re wearing new shoes, suede or otherwise.
c) It’s been a long day already.
d) Its been a bad day already.
e) You’re in some strange part of the city
f) All of the above.
30. Blowdry, n. A waste of time, money and optimism.
31. Don’t get sick. Don’t get hurt. Don’t put yourself in any situation that requires you to see a doctor or come anywhere near the NHS. What? There are no free appointments until next Thursday? Oh, well alright then, I’ll just put my cough away in my pocket and come back then!
32. Again, there’s a reason why NHS healthcare is free. Most people end up not using it.
33. The A&E wing of the hospital is really not as exciting as you’d imagine, or as ER would have you believe. No gushing blood, no swinging doors, no dashing George Clooney in a white coat whizzing through them. Nope. The A&E is just full of other people like you, who didn’t want to wait for the next available appointment at their regular GP, and didn’t want to walk to the nearest “walk-in” which is really not so near after all.
34. Don’t flirt with the young suited fellow in the waiting room. His mother is like, dying down the hall.
35. When someone offers you a pound for a cigarette, offer them a savvy piece of financial advice in return to put it in a piggy bank, and when they’ve done that seven times they can buy their own packet!
36. No, wait, just sell all your cigarettes for a pound each and then you can buy 3 packs! Hello ROI!
37. Don’t go to Shirtsteam dry cleaners in South Kensington. For their rates (who knew STEAM could be so expensive!) you can just buy a new dress.
38. But don’t do that either. Just find an affordable dry cleaner and stop buying clothes that are dry clean only!
39. Just when you begin thinking the summer is ending…it already has.
40. In fact it often never even happened. It was like an hit TV-show-pilot that got you all excited and waxing…and then went down the drain.
41. Telling people on the tube to “move all the way down into the carriages” has no effect. If they didn’t obey when the conductor said it, they sure as hell won’t listen to you. Huffs, puffs, sighs and murderous gazes don’t work either. Just deal with it. Londoners do not like to stand in the middle of the carriages.
42. Don’t say things like “who do you have to sleep with to get this press release damnit” in the office. Not out loud at least.
43. Don’t have naughty skype conversations in the office…the screen is easy to hide, the face, not so much.
44. Always, always look around to see if there’s a queue formed somewhere. Nobody will believe you if you say you didn’t see.
45. If you find yourself somewhere near Green Park needing to pee, pop into Fortnum and Masons. They have all the nice soaps and moisturizers, and get this, the lady thanks you on your way out. Thanks you. Well, from the bottom of my, bladder, I daresay, you’re very welcome, m’dear!
46. If you need a place to stay that’s nicer and cheaper than a hotel…look up THINK apartments. They have them all over the city. Nice, new, big, affordable. With nice, new, big showers. Like big enough to fit more than…ohhhhh!
47. The bouncers in the East End are so much nicer than the ones in the West. They won’t tell you to “go smoke over there.”
48. What’s more, they’ll hold up the velvet rope only so that you can finish your cigarette before you go in! Dude, are you fo’ real?
49. Oh and speaking of smoking and the East End…the people there actually don’t want your cigarette because they prefer to have their rolled up ones. Like, can we be best friends?
50. Polo events really have little to do with horses, mallets and balls. Its all about the champagne.
51. The good thing is, when you’re not following the polo and someone asks you which team you’re rooting for, you can always say the Veuve Clicquot Team! I’m practically the sponsor!
52. If you go to Polo posing as press…at least have the name of the magazine you “write for” in mind, before you get there. Horse&Hound doesn’t quite work in this scenario.
53. Also, when you’re going to polo, don’t buy a new dress for it. You may feel like a Pretty Woman, you may even be a Pretty Woman, but you don’t have Richard Gere’s credit card in your pocket.
54. You know how you sometimes think it might be a nice idea to go explore a part of London you’ve never been to, like say, Brixton? Bad idea.
55. Try not to giggle every time the announcer on the Piccadilly line says Cockfosters. What are you, twelve?
56. When somebody comes up to you in the middle of a lovely al fresco lunch you’re enjoying and says, “could you spare some change, love, I just lost my job?” Don’t respond with the words, “I don’t have a job!” You may not have a job, but you are eating a £15 salad doll.
57. The Sunday Times is so much better when it gets delivered to your door in a little baggy with your name on it! Excuse me darling, that’s not The Sunday Times, that’s My Sunday Times.
58. The next time there’s a tube strike, there’s going to be a me strike. Sorry, I’m just not coming into work today. If you want me there, send a cab to pick me up. Avec sexy chauffeur please.
59. When a married man says to you, “what you need is a married man,” you can be pretty sure he’s referring to himself.
60. You know those stupid emails you get from TFL with the subject heading “Planned Closures?” Read them.
61. When you’re on the Eurostar heading back from Paris, make sure you have a bottle of champagne with you. It makes the pain of leaving Paris more bearable.
62. Also, it makes all the drunken Brits on the train more bearable.
63. Or maybe, it makes you one of them. Eh, po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
64. When you call up to get a National Insurance Number, the first question they’ll ask is why you want one. Don’t say, “is that a trick question?” Don’t say, “isn’t it your job to know why I need one?” Don’t say anything clever or sarcastic and don’t even tell them the truth, which is that you have no idea. Just make sure you use the words job and employer and you’re good to go.
65. London may be a big city, but it’s a friggin’ small world. Don’t think you won’t bump into people. You will. And its always the wrong people. Yes, at the wrong time.
66. Don’t go to the Supperclub for supper. Counterintuitive, I know. Trust me, avoid the supper, enjoy the club.
67. Don’t ever assume someone is gay. London is full of metros. Even the gays are sometimes metro.
68. You know those lonely uneventful weekends in the summer when no one’s around? You’ll miss them in September.
69. I don’t remember what its called, and I don’t remember exactly where it is, but somewhere in Clapham is the best Italian ice cream in London.
70. Before you leave the country with plans to renew your visa outside the country…make sure you check all the requirements. Applying inside the UK and applying outside the UK are two very different things.
71. Before you leave the UK to apply for your visa outside the UK make some nice friends who will take care of all your belongings, bank statements, and boyfriends for you.
72. When you’re going to a house party make sure you know who the host is. That way you wont end up convincing them to leave this dull party!
73. Also BYOB and BYOI. Ice, that is.
74. Wait, maybe just don’t go to house parties. Although, house parties are one of the few times you can smoke indoors…
75. Don’t wear heels to a house party. Nobody in London has as many chairs as friends. And friends of friends.
76. 6am is a really interesting time to walk around London. It’s the only time of day when joggers and whores cross paths.
77. Going away for the weekend can sometimes be cheaper than spending it in London.
78. Going to Windsor for the weekend doesn’t actually qualify as going away. Its only a 45 minute drive. Which in some cases is shorter than the time it takes you to get to work in the morning.
79. Don’t book hotels and pack for Windsor. Just drive back home in the evening.
80. Always make friends with the bartender. And he’ll always throw one in on the house, love!
81. Stay away from the ducks in Hyde Park. They’re not a happy bunch.
82. Boozy lunches are all well and good until you realize you have to go back to the office.
83. No, boozy lunches are all well and good until you realize you have a hangover…at 8pm.
84. Waitrose isn’t really all its cracked up to be. The little independent delis and markets are so much better. And so much more expensive. Of course.
85. Yes, in London, even vegetables can be a luxury. I’m sure that white asparagus has traces of gold.
86. And don’t even get me started on all the health foods.
87. Health foods may have long labels saying gluten-free, dairy-free, cholesterol-free, fat-free, but the price tag will tell you there’s nothing effing free about them!
88. When you get an envelope from Barclays that’s fatter than usual, you might want to open it.
89. No wait, want is precisely the opposite...you have to.
90. It’s so much easier to not spend money when you don’t have any. This may apply to anywhere in the world, but only London can really teach it to you.
91. If you can avoid direct debit—do. Direct debit = direct (and sneaky) blow.
92. Do not, do not, do not leave your Blackberry at home. You won’t be able to change plans with anyone, you won’t be able to Google Map anything, and you won’t have anything to play with to avoid making eye contact with that person staring at you on the tube.
93. But when you do forget your Blackberry, don’t use the payphones. They’re cute and red and symbolic and all, but erm, people piss in them. And, it costs like 2 pounds per minute or something.
94. Remember that time you popped into Oddbins and they had some competition running, and you gave them your email address? Un-sub-scribe.
95. Receiving weekly emails for special offers on champagne is masochism.
96. When you accept a job, make sure the office is not within walking distance of Selfridges. If it is, then just instruct your employer to make your paycheck out to Selfridges. That’s where it all goes anyhow.
97. Don’t put languages you don’t actually speak on your CV. They do actually test you sometimes. And the little bit of French you can speak in bed, is not the same little bit of French you can speak in the office. “N’arretes pas” is not a viable response to anything.
98. Sometimes the job interviews you think you did the worst in, are the interviews that actually get you jobs.
99. Then again, sometimes it’s the Ralph Lauren shirt you wore that got you the job.
100. And just remember, if and when London gets you down, you can always count on Lauren.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
the power of NOW vs. the power of GIN; some reflections on cynicism and idealism.
Every once in a while I wake up happy that the sun is shining on my face, the grass is growing beneath my feet and I’m overjoyed just to be alive. The other 364 days in the year I make a cup of dark and bitter coffee, light a cigarette, and just get on with it. Then I probably sit down and write an equally bitter and cynical email to someone—usually someone in New York—who gets it. Gets cynicism, that is. Contrary to what you may think, or how it may seem, I find this a very healthy and productive way to start a day. I figure if you spit life in the face first, no matter how much it throws it back at you as the day goes on, at least you’ll have the comfort of knowing you did it first. Its like saying “I told you so,” before the event. Quite the prophetic stroke of genius, I find.
***
You know when you go to those work things where they make you wear a name tag? And you know when you’re half way home and you realize you’re still wearing it? Today was one of those days. Seriously, when people are staring at you on the tube it really pays sometimes to stop and think twice as to why that is. There I am thinking they’re thinking I’m beautiful, intriguing, mesmerizing, while they’re thinking I’m so retarded I decided not only to name, but label, one of my breasts during some tedious conference call.
***
By around noon today things had already reached that point when I realized the only thing that could possibly turn them around was gin. No rocks. No dilutions. Just gin. So, as I strolled down Oxford Street (which in any bad day is nothing more than the perfect avenue to make it worse—die, tourists, die!), I began scrolling through my contacts thinking who might a) be available at that hour; b) be willing to drink gin or c) be coerced into watching me drink gin. Nope, nope, nope. Now I know why cellphone contact lists can be made up of individuals and groups, and now I know that I need to form me a new group: “Gin lovers, unemployed.” And just as I was beginning to give up on the idea and getting ready to do it on my lonesome, my phone rang. “Max Virgin” calling.
***
Now I’m not sure if Max really is a virgin, and as it turns out his name is not even actually Max, but he’s a personal trainer who works at a Virgin Active very close to where I was standing in that moment, and he’s a qualified masseur. Who cares what his name is. I don’t recall actually voicing a prayer in that moment, but as far as I was concerned, it was answered. Perfect timing, perfect location, perfect gin-slash-debauchery victim. “Hey!” I answered enthusiastically and cut to the chase, “where are you?” “Just left the gym was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee.” “Not coffee, gin, see you there in five minutes.” Things were looking up. I was envisioning a blissful afternoon with a personal trainer, a personal double gin, and call it coincidence if you like but we happened to be surrounded by hotels. Did I mention he’s a qualified masseur?
***
Turns out Max Virgin is also a qualified optimist, idealist, and buzzkill—a certified member of the Brady Bunch. He’s from that bizarre planet of individuals who believe that gin cannot better anything but merely worsen it, and so he sat me down somewhere in front of an orange juice and a fruit salad. After staring at the OJ rather miserably for quite some time, he in true personal trainer fashion cheered me on to having it, and I, did what we do, imagined it was gin and downed it. I think my imagination did quite a convincing job, for I then said, “I’m so glad you called me! I was just looking for someone to lunch with!” “Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” he responded. Erm, no honey, we’re sitting here having OJ and fruit salad, you’re my guardian killjoy. If you were massaging me and feeding me gin through a straw, maybe then you’d be my angel. Hell, you’d be my god.
***
What seemed like eternities later, when we had run out of fitness and sunshine talk…covered all the muscles and vitamins I could possibly stomach, I reverted to my grandmother’s old trick and asked him what book he was reading. It’s a good indicator this one. I find people usually have one of three answers. Either they’ll say something like Dan Brown, in which case I’ll proceed to give my views (read: slashing) of airport literature. Or they’ll name some obscure historical or classical piece to which I’ll attempt to respond in some intellectual fashion—“I knew a girl at school called Pandora once, never got to see her box though.” Or they’ll say they’re half way through Proust or Fleurs du mal, and I’ll say marry me. This third one hasn’t ever happened—its a pure figment of my imagination. But Mr. Virgin didn’t fit into any of these categories…instead, he said, “I’m reading a fantastic book called The Power of Now.” The Power of Now? Am I on candid camera? Could we be from more opposite planets? I mean I’m all for fitness and OJ (especially when its mixed with champagne), but seriously, did the gods just wake up this morning bored and send you to me for a chuckle?
***
A few moments later, when I asked him to tell me a little bit more about The Power of Now, I found myself standing in the middle of Hyde Park doing an “exercise.” I was instructed to close my eyes and listen to the silence. Apparently the idea is that if you tell your mind to look for silence in a noisy place, it will so actively try to seek it out that it will stop thinking about whatever else its thinking about. Here’s the thing though little Brady. I’m not sure that I want my mind to stop thinking. Its kind of what I hope to earn a living from one day. So why don’t you just stop thinking and propose that we check into the Dorchester, get tanked on Tanqueray and go play in the steam room? That’s what I call the power of now.
That’s how we cynics do idealism.
Thursday 19 August 2010
my blackberry kicked my iPhone's ASH; SIX reasons to switch to (and love) blackberry
1. (In case the title doesn’t give this one away…) It doesn’t autocorrect all the words that you type. So you can write (and swear) in any language, slang or grammar you like and there aint no phone gonna tell you that what you meant to say was “tucker.” Come to think of it…the iPhone is a severe infringement upon the freedom of speech. I wanna say it like I wanna say it DAWG. And no, I did not mean dawn. TUCKER!
2. I love that you can’t press anything by accident. Like you can scroll around and all…but to actually choose something, you have to consciously, purposefully and boldly—get it?, click on a button. You don’t have to constantly gauge the pressure of your fingertips and worry whether they will be interpreted as a drag, scroll, enlarge, or TAP! The iPhone just doesn’t get that…like you know…the difference between “ex-boyfriend” and “mom.” I’m trying to call mom damnit. Mom! Stop dialing…stop dialing…yes, I’m pressing the “end call” button, not caressing it, STOP DIALLLLLLLLING!
3. I lovelovelove that the messages you receive don’t pop up under a giant name in bold on the main screen. Instead – it’s a discreet little red star. Red star could mean…it’s mom wondering if you put socks on this morning…red star could be your boyfriend wondering if you still want to watch Inception tonight (erm, no)…red star could mean “the wife’s gone, come over.” The iPhone just doesn’t understand that there’s some information that needs to stay tucked away in the little black book. Blackberry, smartberry. Goooood wiiiitttlllle bewwwy...
4. Just the word is so much sexier. Blackberry. Buh-lack-be-rry. It sounds like it could be the caption to picture no. 76 of the kamasutra. Or perhaps as code for something naughty—like, hey the kids are busy playing, should we go blackberry in the next room? It sounds like something someone could potentially lick off of…anyway, you get the point. The word is sexy, its sensual, its interesting. It rolls off the tongue in all sorts of arousing and slippery ways. iPhone on the other hand? Blah. What kind of word is that? It sounds like…drone…loan…moan…BooooooorinG! iMOAN indeed. And not in the good way.
5. And on the topic of what it calls itself. Isn’t the whole i-thing a bit egotistical? Psshhh…the blackberry is so cool it doesn’t even need to make reference to itself. (I’m sure a good yo-mama joke could be made out of this…but its not coming to me…something like, yo mama’s so embarrassed to be yo mama she calls herself iMAMA. No never mind, moving on...)
6. Actually I think I prefer the Blackberry because it’s like a man. There’s no better way to explain it. The iPhone is a woman…its like all pretty and made-up and stuff, but its also temperamental…sometimes you open an application, are about to read some exciting notification someone posted on your Facebook wall…and whoop! The application is closed. Sorry…I’m moody. Not happening right now. The blackberry is steady. It’s like…you want Facebook? I’ll give you Facebook. Just push my button. And play with it as long as you like…
Sunday 8 August 2010
with love, from barclays
"I'm living so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart."
- e.e.cummings
When you get a letter from your bank that begins with the words “it would appear that the activity on your account is…” you are bound to complete the sentence yourself a hundred times before you get to the end. What. The activity on my account is…
You may then imagine that what follows this is something like:
To avoid investigation or prosecution, please explain why:
a) you receive money on a regular basis from an older man in a foreign country
b) you buy books about new york, make hotel reservations in paris, and buy plane tickets to italy
c) you only shop at waitrose
d) you keep buying umbrellas
e) you change your billing address every 5½ weeks
f) you buy boxes, labels and markers once a month
g) (further, why) you have never considered storage?
h) you never go to the atm and pay for everything with your card
i) you don’t just buy a monthly oyster card?
In addition, please explain how:
a) you manage to spend four hours in selfridges making a purchase every 27 minutes
b) you succeed in covering the entire borough of chelsea and kensington before 9.30am
c) you envision carrying on in this manner. That is, start saving, bitch.
And so, you begin imagining how you might reply...
Dear Sir/Madam, in response to your recent queries:
***
So, all of this is bound to go through your head upon reading the first line. At least its what went through mine. But when I carried on reading, I learnt that their concerns had little to do with Paris or Selfridges, and were more focused on that three-letter word that ends with x. Much to my dismay, not the one that begins with an s. The letter was about tax. I don’t speak bureaucracy very well, but I think what it was trying to say was: “you earn interest on your savings, and you need to pay tax on this interest, which you don’t. you may be exempt from paying this tax if you fall under one of the 476 categories on the following page. If you do indeed fall under one of these categories, then you need to fill out the attached 837 forms to prove it.”
Turns out I am indeed exempt, and so need to fill out the forms. What I’d rather do however, is send this:
Dear Mr. B,
Thank you very much for your recent letter ref: 3452872333 regarding the tax on my savings. I greatly appreciate your heartfelt concerns, and I sincerely apologize for my negligence on the matter. I would however like to pose a question. As you yourself noted, my saving tendencies are not very strong, and are only getting worse. Which is to say I have never had much in savings, and will soon have nothing at all. So, do we really need to go through all this bullshit, I mean bureaucracy, for the, what, 17 pence in interest my “savings” have earned? What’s the tax on that, like, a penny? Tell you what. You hate paperwork, I hate paperwork…paperwork, is the real bitch here. So why don’t we just avoid all this exemption business and I’ll happily pay the tax. In fact, I’ll pay double, make that two whole pennies. And…d’ya mind just charging that to my card?
Thanks doll.
Friday 6 August 2010
enough is more! basta pasta, the sequel.
I’m kind of starting to regret writing the BASTA PASTA blog. I haven't stopped receiving text messages and calls from friends and family that begin with the words, “you won’t believe what happened” and end, in one way or another, with the word “Italian.” Either they just met an Italian, or they’re eating Italian, or they saw something that in someway vaguely relates to something Italian. I’ve become sort some of customer service hotline: “call us toll-free to rate your Italian experience!” Take it easy kids, it was just a little blog not a season of Italian Idol. What I mean to say is, dear friends and family, I greatly appreciate that you read my blog, and even more that you enjoy it. But you really don’t have to tell me every time you have a plate of meatballs.
That’s the thing though: “Basta” doesn’t mean enough. It means “more, please.” As in when you say, “BASTA PASTA!” what you’re asking for is more spaghetti. We know that already. What I didn’t know is that when you write a blog called BASTA PASTA, what you’re asking for is...MORE ROCCO. (Again, technically, its not what you’re asking for, but it is whatcha gonna get).
Yep. I bumped into Rocco again. (Why I ever thought I couldn’t blog everyday is a mystery to me—there’s just so much material out there! Or maybe just so much Rocco?) “AnjaRELLLLLLAAAAA” he screamed from across the street. I’d just gotten the hang of not turning around to hooting cars and whistles damnit…now I have to start not turning around to my name?
“Where have you been!” he exclaimed as he ran across. What, like in the last 48 hours? Wherever I’ve been Rocco, I’ve been thanking God that its nowhere you’ve been.
“I’ve been waiting for you in front of your office everyday between 10 and 11!”
I really wish I could translate the expression this put on my face into words, but I can’t. Instead: !?
Wait that’s not enough.
!!!!!???????????????????
There. That’s better.
First of all, Rocco, that’s not my office (yet), I was just in there on that day for an interview. Second of all, doofus, if it were my office, I hardly doubt I’d be leaving it everyday at 10am. And third of all, I thought we agreed on “maybe bumping into each other again” and correct me if I’m wrong, but waiting, in front of “my” office, everyday, does not qualify as “bumping in.” I think the more appropriate term here would be…what’s that word again? Oh, right. Stalking. (Then again, who am I to talk about the meaning of words. I foolishly believed enough meant enough).
“Where are you going…the gym?”
"Yes."
“That one over there?”
“Yes.” (Are we done here?)
(Nope). “What a coincidence!” he said.
Considering you’re a stalker, pumpkin, I really don’t think the word “coincidence” should be part of your vocabulary. When it comes to me on the other hand, damn straight. My life is one big coincidence. One. Big. (ROC)COINCIDENCE.
“My friend just told me I should join that gym yesterday!” he continued. “And now…” and with one long look at every inch of my lycra he concluded, “now I definitely will join!”
***
Great. Just to recap, so far, I need to:
a) stop turning around when somebody calls my name in the street
b) stop going to the gym
c) stop wearing lycra
d) MOVE.
(I knew it! I knew my apartment was too good to be true. Perfect location, perfect size, perfect price. I’d been wondering since I moved in, where’s the catch? Rocco. Rocco is the catch. You know, like the weeds in your beautiful garden).
Oh, and one more thing:
Or maybe I should just work at the gym? I could run some sort of referral service…and hey! I could call it BASTA PASTA! Basta pasta more stairmasta!
***
“So can I have your number?”
“Whaddaya need my number for!?” Don’t we see each other enough?
“Because-eh…..because-eh……I want to take you to the BEST ITALIAN RESTAURANT IN TOWN!”
I know I shouldn’t be thinking Benigni…but that, the way he said that, as though he were addressing the Gods, that, was so, Benigni. Then again, maybe I should be the one addressing the Gods: “Hi there, don’t mean to interrupt, but maybe my request wasn’t clear enough the first time:
BASTA FUCKING PASTAAAAAAAAAA!!!
KAAAAPPPPIIIIIISSSSHHHHHH?"
No wait, basta doesn’t mean enough. What I should say, is:
“Please sir, may I have some more?”
If I remember correctly, Oliver Twist never got some more.
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