When Gabriel moved out of my Portland house I found a new foster home for the record collection and houseplants, though I forgot to arrange care for the taxidermy.
Why? Because apparently I have “issues.” Like wanting to move back to Portland.
Right now.
Seven years away and the feeling hasn’t dissipated. Too bad about that whole lack-of-equitable-health-care thing.
I feel an urgent desire to scurry off to Paris.
Except I need to renew my passport. Poor me!
To sublimate a thwarted need for perpetual motion I am making chili con carne & corn bread while listening to Berlin.
It is like I’m back in 1982 all of a sudden.
Observation: the worst part of having your picture in the newspaper? It becomes very clear who reads newspapers.
I am sufficiently exasperated by Cambridge that I no longer wish to enumerate the reasons. However, I would like to offer a tip to locals: if you have been rude, or dismissive, or ignored me every day for, hmm, five years…. I noticed. Whether your attitude derived from the fact that I am tattered, tattooed, and/or not affiliated with the university, know what? I’m not offended; I don’t care.
I simply do not want to know you. To be precise and succinct: you are not interesting.
First day of school, and first day cold enough to build a fire: autumn has arrived!
Good thing I like teenage ruffians ’cause they always love me.
This week, at least, I’m talking about cygnets. Obviously.
We’re at Station 43 aka Audley End House learning about the SOE.
Observation of the day: small town girls are scary!
My kid calmly retorts “but you are one.”
Too true.
I retrieved my kid from his stateside sojourn, and now we’re back in Cambridge making frijoles de la olla, mole poblano, and tortillas from scratch.
Finding the constituent ingredients was, of course, harrowing.
I had a lovely dinner with my agent, during which I studiously avoided questions like “what are you working on?”
Later in the week I was thwarted by capitalism yet again, and retaliated by purchasing another Comme des Garcons bag.
Now I’m reading vintage house porn during the waning hours of this holiday….
London, it has been fun. Lets do this again soon.
Lolling around London Fields I observed intrepid young entrepreneurs selling homemade cocktails to a thirsty public, and other people wandering around chatting with strangers.
Someone approached and asked “Can I have your number?”
“No.”
“Name?”
“Bee.”
“For beautiful?”
“No – for the insect that stings.”
Back in the land of responsibility, today I learned that it is impossible to order school uniforms unless you know the relevant “house colour.”
Though the school provides no guidelines as to what that phrase means in relation to the age or grade of my kid, and there is no sorting hat to decide.
Earlier in the week I spent the whole night in a Soho members-only club. Last night I got trapped in the mosh pit at the antifolk festival. Both evenings ended on the highly entertaining nightbus. I love it; I make so many new …. friends.
I’m supposed to go out again shortly but really, am I too tired for another London all nighter? Or perhaps just too … lazy?
If I do go out, I have to decide what to wear and I’m not used to thinking about that. Life is so treacherous!
Countdown: ten days til real life resumes!
Cover blown. One of the regular customers at my favorite cafe asked “so, you are a journalist?”
Oh no!