I finally started my Christmas shopping today, I ran round the Galeries Lafayette food section, cheerfully chucking French delicacies into my basket and thinking 'This is what all Christmas presents should be- edible and luxurious.'
Then I came out of the big doors, laden with shopping bags, and almost fell over a blind Romany boy, lying on his back on a straw mat while his daddy sat next to him, holding out a begging bowl. I felt absolutely disgusting. I didn't even have any change on me, so I just walked past, the weight of the shopping bags pulling me down, down...
Fucking hell, I hope it is the end of everything tomorrow. It's grim as bins, this world we live in.
In a shameless attempt to lessen my guilt, I'd like to tell you all that I didn't go mad with my Christmas shopping today. I just bought small quantities of things that I knew my family would like- I hate it when people waste loads of money on crap that nobody wants, just for the sake of buying something. I think I did well with the few French delicacies I chose. I won't specify what French delicacies I bought in case my stepdad happens to be reading- most of the food stuff was for him. (He's so hard to buy for and I refuse to give anyone a pair of socks or a tie for Christmas.)
I'm 99% sure that he doesn't read my blog- ever- but the other day I got a horrible fright when I saw that he had found Left Bank Manc on Twitter and had started following me. The last thing I'd tweeted was: I wish Dial-a-Dick was real*... Needless to say, he got BLOCKED faster than you say "Your mum and I would like to talk to you... about your salacious, offensive Twitter activity."
Talking of dicks... do you want to know what happened with Mizmiz Man?
If the answer is no, stop reading now.
SO. Last week I posted a rather, ahem, gloating post about how Mizmiz Man texted me, asking me out for a drink and 'maybe a dance', after I had given him up for dead.
B had already invited me to go to an Electro Swing night at La Java on the Friday, so I asked Mizmiz Man if he wanted to come along, thinking I wouldn't be alone with him if he turned out to be a weirdo and equally, if he decided I was a weirdo and ditched me, at least I wouldn't be left on my own, propping the bar up in and looking for fat, short, hairy, bald men to take home with me just so I didn't have to spend the night alone, wondering whether it was my uneven eyebrows that put him off. (Yes, last week I went too far with the tweezers. No, I don't want to talk about it.)
Mizmiz Man said he had a family thing, but would come afterwards. He seemed keen, if anything he seemed a bit too keen- sending me question marks when I hadn't replied for a long time, telling me that he really wanted to see me- but I put that down to him being French; they do love a good barrage of text messages.
Friday came and I wasn't sure what was going to happen. I had work the next day so I didn't want it to be a really late one...
On my way home from work, I stopped at the Chinese traiteur opposite, which is a terrible new habit I've gotten into, since discovering the place a couple of weeks ago. (I don't know if it's just opened or if I'm just really unobservant.) It started with a few fifty cent nem here and there, then last Friday I went in feeling really hungry and ended up spending ten euros. I felt really guilty, which doesn't make sense because I'd think nothing of spending twenty euros on myself in a restaurant. But somehow, standing there on my own, handing over a ten euro note, I realised how far some poor families could make that tenner stretch.
When she handed me my food, the woman behind the counter gave me a knowing wink and slipped a free desert into the bag. She's trying to get me hooked with free nougat and a smiley service. I must never step foot in there again.
As soon as I finished my Chinese I knew it was going to be one of those nights where you feel sick and have to sit down all night. Maybe I'd eaten too fast, or maybe it was because I was eating so late, or maybe it was the type of food, but whatever the reason, I knew I was going to feel ill no matter what I did. I told myself I'd feel better if I just sat on my bed for a while and got ready really slowly.
I didn't get to B's until midnight, then two of her friends joined us for pre-drinks and we finally left B's at about 1.30am. (This didn't bode well for me having an early night.) By this time I'd had a few glasses of wine and I felt fine.
The music was really good at the Electro Swing night, it was a bit like some of the stuff Mr Scruff plays- saxophones and old swing records over electro beats- but unfortunately, it was too quiet. La Java is a long, narrow club and the sound didn't carry very well.
I'm sure I could have danced all night, but after we'd been to the loo and put our coats in the vestiaire, then queued at the bar and finally made our way to the dance floor, I felt really ill. I managed about fifteen minutes of dancing before I had to find a chair and sit down. I sat down for half an hour, hoping that my rum and coke would perform magic tricks on my stomach, but I just felt worse and worse as the night wore on. I knew I had to take myself home.
I've never been on the night bus on my own before. It took me about half an hour to find the right bus stop, which turned out to be a vandalised stump by the side of the road, but once I was on the bus it was fine. I felt confident that if anyone tried to sexually assault me, or touch me in any way, I would instantly vomit all over them.
When I finally got home to my bed, I knew I'd made the right decision- I still felt really ill and the only thing that could stop me from throwing up was going to sleep. It was only when I got under the covers that I realised Mizmiz Man hadn't contacted me all night.
The next afternoon was our Christmas dinner at Julia's. I told Kayt, Julia and her friend Elodie how Mizmiz Man hadn't shown up or contacted me to say why he wasn't coming. Julia said I should just text him, if only to satisfy my own curiosity. I sent him a casual text to say hi and he replied saying sorry, he'd gotten really drunk at his family thing. He asked me if we could meet up that night instead. I told him I was going for drinks at Menilmontant, because me and B were actually planning on going to Le Mizmiz again- it was the same 'Future Garage' night, Street Bass, where I met Mizmiz Man. (When I say 'met' I mean chased down the road and asked for his number, obvs.)
He said he was going to Disneyland the next day and had to be up early, but could come and meet me for one drink because he didn't live too far away... I don't know why but I felt a embarrassed. I don't like the idea of people being too excited, it makes me cringe, and I instantly pictured him on a ride, enjoying himself and going 'waaheeey I'm in Disneyland'. It made me shudder with embarrassment for him.
In the end, B didn't come out and I went to Nouveau Casino with Kayt, Ruth and some of Ruth's friends. They knew the guys playing that night- Hoosky. Ruth told me it was going to be 'electro hip hop'. The DJ duo before Hoosky were certainly not electro hip hop. They were that crap, 'wannabe dubstep' kind of electro music, all jarring basslines and eletronic beats that sound like robots fighting, or dogs barking. I'm not being a music snob but their music actually hurt my ears and made me wince- that ain't good.
Me and Kayt still managed to have the time of our lives, sitting out the robot dogs upstairs, laughing at everything for No Reason.
When the Gruesome Twosome (I don't want to name names in case they somehow find this blog post,
hunt me down and say 'YOU DJ in front of hundreds of people then,
smartarse') FINALLY left the stage, Hoosky came on and were really good, although not as hip hop as I was expecting. Oh my God, I've just found this track of theirs on Youtube, I wish they had thrown in some Bollywood-esque music on Saturday!
Our ears had been abused for so long though, that thirty minutes into their set me and Kayt decided to go home- we were stone cold sober and suddenly no longer in the mood for raving.
As you might have guessed, Mizmiz Man didn't contact me all night, again.
I'm baffled. Why bother texting me if you don't want to meet up? How about... you just don't text me?
Boys are incomprehensible.
I really, really don't get it. This time, I didn't even need to pretend he was dead because I wasn't embarrassed, just... mildly baffled.
What is wrong with people?
Two days ago he sent me a text, not mentioning the weekend but saying that we should go for a drink this Friday at 10pm. He said he knows a nice bar we could go to. Obviously I didn't bother replying... but then the next day, curiosity got the better of me and I told him I'd go. Now I feel like I need to have this bloody drink with him to prove he really exists and that I'm not just schizophrenically texting myself from another phone.
Also, that Bollywood-esque Hoosky track just reminded of a video B introduced me to. I plan to learn all the words, then mime along to the song without the English subtitles, so that I people will be tricked into thinking I can sing in Hindi and that I am a Bollywood Superstar:
*I just felt like being ridiculously crude and was referring to the Sex
and the City episode where Samantha says they should create a
no-frills, male gigolo service.