The other day I was meandering around Cambridge with my mother and picked up the 1972 edition of a brochure describing a place that I have been talking about visiting for, well, decades.
How have I managed to live here four whole years without realizing my lifelong dream? This is quite the mystery, and it may well go unsolved since my stated goal of the summer is to finally, finally, finally make it to Moominworld.
Still, a girl can dream! Mine is to go here: Bekonscot Model Village.
Somewhere around three in the morning two fine young gentlemen decided it would be a lark to pull out the mooring pins and shove my boat out into the middle of the river.
It is lucky I was out of town. They would not have enjoyed making my acquaintance in those circumstances.
In the absence of my ferocity some boat friends scared them off and pulled the boat back to shore, for which I am eternally thankful.
I was slamming the mooring pins into beds of nettles this evening when Gordon called to see if I have truly been regressing in my phone skills. The answer is yes, though I did talk to him for fifty-eight minutes and forty-two seconds, during which I failed to Ladychat but did manage to Share and Relate.
Or at least, I confided I know, this might shock you…. but…. I kind of hate Cambridge!
He replied No, really? Then he asked if I had worn gloves for the nettle part of the evening.
Who, me? No. I was entirely truthful about the anger I feel tonight, with stinging fingers and favors owed.
Though the main point is the fact that Cambridge is not a neutral place – for every woeful low there is an incredible high, whether that is watching the moorchicks paddling around in Jesus Ditch or joining in the raging debates that erupt during dinner parties.
Right now I can’t imagine living anywhere else, which is useful, given that I am stuck for the next little while.
Today is the school fete – the last primary school event of my career as a mother – how strange and exciting! Last night we attended the Cambridgeshire Young People’s Film Festival awards ceremony, featuring several hundred children in fancy dress and an appearance by Lee Carter. The children were psyched.
Earlier in the week my son performed in the King’s College Chapel. Yes, our lives are awash with glamour. My kid even bought a new suit.
I woke at four in the morning to call and make sure my mother was ready for the car I ordered to drive her to the airport, then fell back asleep listening to the river. By the time I woke properly and stumbled off the boat to collect my child for the school run grandma was already settled at the airport.
The morning was bright and warm but fragmented with sorrow; the first act of the day was drying the tears of a child who wishes more than anything that he could move back home.
I empathize with his pain – living so far away from the familiar and beloved is like having an open wound that never heals.
Today is the fourth anniversary of moving to the United Kingdom, and I feel just as conflicted as the day I stepped on the airplane. Having my mother here for a month underscored that fact.
I know that she loves us, and enjoys the month she spends here every year, but I am an only child and I moved to the other side of the planet. There is no solution to this quandary.
My son is right to cry; it is very hard to say goodbye to someone or something you love.
Happy Independence Day.
Recently I was lurking around a wine store resisting the temptation to purchase sparkling water and the fellow at the counter asked what I’d been up to that day. I replied I went to the Arts Picturehouse to watch Imperial War Museum archival movies.
He queried D’ya mean ‘films’?
I answered Yes, whatever you call them… they are screened early in the day so it is always an auditorium full of 85 year olds – plus me!
He asked Were they all hitting on you?
I rolled my eyes and said No! Nobody would dare!
He laughed and replied Mores the pity!
Of course I scurried away rather than following wherever that conversation might go, though I was in fact telling the truth. Until very recently it was a rare unto nonexistent experience for strangers to talk to me at all, let alone feel bold enough to try their luck.
That changed during the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks, when Ana Erotica gave me the essential tool kit to understand this form of communication. Though I do not use the skills, I have at least been vaguely aware that people are staring at me. Sometimes.
If I had finished the Ladychat lessons I would presumably be much closer to my goal of becoming a truly functional human, but Sarah moved away and I have nobody to practice with!
Imagine then my profound bewilderment, after accumulating more probable pickup attempts in ten days than I have experienced in an entire adult lifetime.
Three examples:
*One hot sticky day in Prague I was standing in the dairy section of the grocery store at the end of the Charles Bridge when the person next to me asked if I speak Czech. I replied in the negative but he inquired if I could help him figure out which container of cream to buy, and I obliged, both of us squinting at the indecipherable writing on the pots. He managed to tell me all about his career and siblings and was obviously trying to go somewhere with the chat but I was still innocently shaking the bottles to evaluate viscosity. When I realized he had a working class Scottish accent I was vaguely alerted to the fact that he might be interested in more than just cream. The rest of the conversation confirmed that fact, and I predictably had no ability to cope, defaulting to my normal Um, I need to…. go …. now….
*In a professional context I fell into conversation with a very proper lady who is also a lesbian with a capital L. Given that this is the UK, most work or academic or almost any events involve ingesting vast quantities of alcohol. This does not change my behavior (I misbehave just as much with or without) but it does bring out the shall-we-say-adventurous side of the English. I’ve been privy to more alarming confidences and scathing stories at alcohol-fuelled garden parties than I would be in the middle of the night in the clubs of San Francisco – honest. During this particular encounter I was acting like myself, which might be a wee bit scandalous by British standards, but everyone else was acting wildly unlike their normal daily selves. I might not have noticed anything but the person I was talking to emphasized her point by stroking my thigh. Now, I might be obtuse, but I am not stupid! What to do, what to do? I lack not just the etiquette but also the practice to smoothly extricate myself from such things. Just then a boy sitting next to me said to someone on his other side I can’t help it, I like the cock! I flung myself in his direction and said What a coincidence – me too! We have so much in common! Later I felt fairly dreadful about this prevarication, even though it seems more polite to be unavailable due to preference than it would be to say I’m not attracted to you. You might wonder – “but couldn’t you just claim that you are ‘taken’ to avoid the whole question?” The answer is: nobody seems to mind here. Especially not after the fifth drink.
*Wandering about trying to think of a major whiz bang tourist destination to dazzle my mother, I finally gave up and stepped inside a travel agency to ask for help. The fellow at the counter had only been talking to me for about a minute when he abandoned all pretense of selling anything on his list, though he did pick up the phone and call around several places tracking information for me. He also pried out various details about my life and loves. Why is it that boys who want a date always ask what kind of music you like? I have no idea, and always refuse to answer beyond a true but misleading John Denver, Bobby Goldsboro, Gordon Lightfoot response. This one had a canny strategy – he walked me through the list of all the shows touring the country at the moment. Very clever! He also had the great advantage of looking like a hooligan while sweetly rendering assistance. I simply adore tender lovin’ thugs – they are my favorite of all urban species. Before I skittered away this fellow had managed to solve my tourist problems, show me his vacation photos, talk about his divorce, invite me to a play, and, check it, give me his phone number.
The last is of course truly a milestone. I’ve married people without knowing their phone number, for goodness sake! Not to mention the fact that nobody has ever asked me out on a date before. Not even the people I’ve married!
From my perspective I was in no way encouraging the fellow, though Iainrecently informed me that Cleavage + no ring = available.
Maybe here – but that certainly isn’t true where I come from!
There is no moral to this story: I am, simply, baffled. Why me, why now? If this is the consequence of my research projects, could I possibly resign?