There is this thing my brother does, his wife tells me, when she feels sick; he lies in bed next to her and massages her hands until she falls asleep. There is something about this that makes me ache a little bit inside. I can’t quite put my finger on it, I can't quite pinpoint the exact cause within the actions, but there is definitely something about it that makes me hurt in some hazy way, as if suffering from pains in a phantom limb. She feels sick a lot these days, waves of nausea rising in her at regular intervals. A few months ago we went to a spa and a praying mantis jumped on her cream towelling gown. The ladies massaging almond cream into our calves laughed and laughed as she tried to swat it away, telling her, “You know this means you will be pregnant soon. A Praying Mantis is always a baby.” And we in turn laughed at the quaintness of the folk lore, the fertility equivalent of ice cream leading to nightmares or playing with matches causing you to wet the bed. A month and a half later, my brother cleared his throat in that way he does when he has something of consequence to say, and told us, “So guys, a bit of news… Corlia is pregnant.” and then there was much hugging and congratulating and sly tears that leaked from the corners of our rapidly blinking eyes and Matthew hurrying to the freezer to retrieve the bottle of champagne he’d previously secretly stashed in order to quickly chill. As we sat and talked about it, laughing at the sheer absurdity of this age old occurrence that is completely and utterly miraculous with each happening, she said to me, “Remember the praying mantis?”
And now she suffers from morning sickness, that is really also afternoon sickness and night sickness and when she does, my brother lies in bed next to her and massages her hands until she falls asleep.
We went to the coast last week and at night, when I lay in bed down the hall from them and I could not sleep, I thought of who that house harboured. It was no longer just us; there was the tiny thumb sized (thumbnail sized?) human they are bringing into the world too. And I thought about how something was fundamentally changing. I can’t fully describe it, I’ve yet to find the words, but now when someone asks me what is happening, I want to say, “Everything. Everything is happening.”
The Evening Standard Final vendors and deadpan delivery piped through speakers on the Tube have stopped mocking me. No longer do I have to hear of ash clouds and airport closures – no, the skies have been declared open and one week late, to the minute, I boarded an aeroplane and skipped over the equator, to a Johannesburg I find unseasonably cold. As is customary, the travelling itself was fine and the carrying of stuff was miserable. I opted for a wheelie bag this time as to not want to top myself by the time I arrived at Heathrow, but found my mood only marginally better than the last time I had to carry stuff. I bought books at the airport with grand plans to read on the plane, but as usual found myself napping on takeoff, eating the cheese and biscuits from the evening meal, watching a movie and then falling into restless slumber. The temperature on the plane was akin to high dry desert heat and it’s the first flight that I’ve ever managed to not shiver all the way through. On the flip side of that, my t-shirt was distinctly damp and I couldn’t help but think of those trips I used to take in the car when I was a kid, where I’d fall asleep and wake up with my face stuck to the leather seats. Needless to say, the glamour of travel has always been a near mythical beast. The best thing about the flight was managing to sleep through breakfast and thus escaping the waves of nausea those little tin foil boats of congealed egg and black pudding invariably inspire.
Highlights so far: x1000 bottles of champagne. Corlia and warwick’s birthday lunch at Nice in Parkhurst. A long lazy meal in beautiful surroundings, fillet steak, bone china tea cups, crystal flutes and cake, cake, cake. Being woken up at 3am by the ruckus of the boys returning home and getting up to watch hours of shit TV with them. Jacques de Savoy 2002 Cara The frat house. I love these boys.
There’s a great scene in the Boondock Saints, where a detective stands over the heavily bandaged and previously bleeding body of a dead Russian mobster and yells in his thick Boston accent, “He ain’t goin’ nowhere! He’s goin’ fuckin’ nowhere!” He leans down, “Where you goin’? Nowhere!!”
Right now, I should be in South Africa, eating a steak and drinking red wine from a glass the size of my head. Instead, I am in London. I was supposed to fly out on Thursday night but all the planes in the UK have been grounded. There’s a giant ash cloud floating somewhere above me, the spit and guts of some bad tempered volcano in Iceland. It was my birthday yesterday and I should’ve been home for it, but like Detective Greenly so eloquently put it, I’m goin’ fuckin’ nowhere.
I don’t usually get too riled up either way when it comes to my trips back and forth and all over. I don’t get all that excited when I am heading off somewhere, just as I don’t get teary at airports when I leave. I don’t get excited when I book tickets, I don’t count down in calendars. I don’t pack a week before. I wake up on the day of travel, sort my luggage out, get a train to get to my plane to fly off to wherever it is I am going. It’s just easier that way. I just go. However, this time was a little different. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen my Mom, Dad, Brother & Sister for a few months more than I’d like. Maybe it’s because we’ve been dealing with some pretty hectic family stuff over the last few months, almost all of which I’ve had to do remotely. Meltdowns over electronic devices are hard to contain; the constant crashing of the latest (shitty) version Skype and repeated lapses in cell phone signal makes for frustrating communication. Needless to say, there is a dire need for some face time with the family and sentences that run on without long radio silences. Maybe it’s that I moved out of my last permanent residence in February and have been house sitting since then and my sense of permanence has become permeable once again – I ache for roots. So for the first time in god knows how long or how many trips, three days before I was due to fly off and away, I packedmy bags. I sorted my goods into essential and non essential items, hauling the non essentials up precarious ladders into dusty loft spaces, cob webs tickling my nose, the groaning beams sounding like ghosts, scaring me more than I knew they should’ve.
On Thursday morning I woke up ready to fly the same route I’ve done countless times. And then, at 9am, my sister called me. “Have you seen the news? You need to check your flight, there’s volcanic ash in British Airspace.” What followed was a flurry of phone calls between South Africa and England, The SAA help desk and constantly checking for updates online. No one was saying anything. I was still holding onto the hope that I would be able to fly or at worst, be delayed for a few hours. I went to go and say goodbye to Laura at her shop up the road and on my way back, stopped to by something to eat. I looked at the time on my phone. 13:01. SAA said that they would release a statement at 1pm, finalising their flight plans for the day. 13:01. I dialled their number, now imprinted in my brain. An automated voice service crackled across the line “Due to the volcanic eruption in Iceland, all SAA flights departing London today, the 15th of April, have been canceled. We apologise for the inconvenience.” And I don’t know if it was because I was dead set on being home for my birthday, or the fact that I was slightly shaky with hunger and had an express train of PMS related hormones bulleting through my body, but I just burst into tears; big, shaky, hiccupping tears, right there, in the sandwich aisle of Marks & Spencer.
I did what anyone in my position would do. I went home, ate a sandwich, picked up my bags and went to Shelley and Paul’s house in Chiswick. When in doubt, go to Chiswick. This is a failsafe option that has saved me many, many times. Sad? Go to Chiswick. Drunk at 4am and unable to get into your house? Go to Chiswick. State of occasional pseudo homelessness? Chiswick. Hungry? Chiswick. Lonely? Chiswick. So when I found out that my flights home was canceled and I was in crying in the sandwich aisle territory, I knew I needed to go to Chiswick.
The birthday that I had planned fell by the wayside, and instead it was that I woke up in Shelley and Paul’s spare room with the phantom beast that is the occasional April sunshine streaming in through the windows. Lunch was a cheeseburger at Sam’s Brasserie, quite commonly known to the very best burger to the found in London. In the evening, Magpie traipsed through to Chiswick bearing gifts of Falke tights and Mac eyeliner and we went to Sam’s (again, sometimes once a day isn’t enough) and drank rhubarb cocktails and Sgroppinos and ate plates of cheese and helpings of lamb koftas with harissa yoghurt. It wasn’t a total bust. In fact, it actually turned out to be a really good day.
I’ve rebooked my ticket twice and at the moment I plan to be flying out on Sunday night, but as it stands the Volcano continues to spit up into the sky and the wind continues to blow over England and since I’m quite safely out of the crying in the sandwich aisle territory, I’m not holding my breath. I doubt the airports will open by then. I hope to fly sometime in the next week. But until then.... I’m going fucking nowhere.
I am currently house sitting a large abode in Muswell Hill for a journalist that I am currently working with, a well established woman in the food and travel arenas hereafter only ever referred to as 'EE' (El Eccentrico) EE has jetted off to Barbados where stories await her, and in her absence I am to make sure that the dog is walked and fed (insert snotty 'Eloise can't look after a living creature' joke here. Because that hasn't gotten tired. At all.) and that the house basically remains in one piece. Today, after walking the dog (Insert another joke. Go on. I'm loving it. Eye roll.) I got home and made my way into my bedroom. And there was the distinct smell of something burning. Panic ensued. Okay, let's backtrack a second here..... Today is the second day of Spring. The sky is blue, the sun is shining. Sure, it's cold, but this is England and we take what we can get. So in a fit of spring madness, I flung open my blinds (Can one fling open roller blinds? Can blinds be flung? 'I rolled up my blinds with enthusiasm' doesn't have the same ring.....anyway....) and threw open the window (I am almost certain one can throw open a window. It has a certain 'Sound of Music' feel about it.) and let the sun shine in. (Cue background music from Hair) Then I took the dog for the walk. The sun continued to shine. I got back. There was burning. Are we all up to speed? So, I frantically searched all the plug points in the room to check that I did not have an electrical fire on my hands. And I didn't. Couldn't find a thing. I was perplexed. I sat down at this very computer to check that the charger hadn't blown (again) and as I reached around to the back of it, I caught a distinct whiff of smoke and then saw a thin stream of it rising, like some ethereal totem pole of doom. Something sparkled. The sun momentarily blinded me. Oh fuck. The glass paperweight on the desk had caught a beam of light, and like a magnifying lens, had concentrated the rays into one incredibly hot spot. The stack of paper that it was holding down, was now smouldering, a fiery ring spreading underneath it. OH fuck fuck fuck. Please, oh please, do not let me get caught in some situation where I inadvertently burn this house down.
Anyway. I put it out. I shut the blind. I put the paperweight in a drawer. That thing is a goddamn fire hazard.
Miserablism, that rough tongued sonofabitch, has set up home amongst my insides. It’s my own fault really. I did a Bad Thing. Bad things often lead to similar nauseating circumstances, but I must confess I did not think that the Mother of the Blueness would have come to stay for quite so long. I thought I could be done with it, that I could shrug and duck my head and it would, if not be forgotten, at least not be spoken of. No such luck. Having said that, while the repercussions of the Bad Thing have been further reaching and more damaging than I initially thought possible, this overwhelming sense of sickness does have some glimmer of hope on the horizon. Sadly, I do not speak of some sort of time travel where I can go and undo the Bad Thing. No, this is far more selfish. (One would think, after the aforementioned Bad Thing, I would seek to be less selfish. But apparently my fallibility remains wholly intact, and I do not.) Instead, I speak of the holy grail of distractions. The one thing absolutely guaranteed to hold my attention in such a way that I do not dwell quite so obsessively on this wrong that I cannot right.
That’s right. I speak of the return of the season.
It’s F1 time again and I can assertively say that it’s with a momentous sigh of relief that the cars have been unveiled, the teams announced and the drivers decided. There are big changes this year. Huge. Drivers are all over the place. Great teams no longer exist. This is also true for shit teams. Old teams of legendary status have returned. Richard Branson has poured an incredible amount of money onto the grid in what I can only foresee to be a massive hydraulically challenged waste of time. World Champion Button (or, to quote Shelley, ‘Stitch, Button, whatever that guy’s name is’) has moved to McLaren (the world’s most morally bankrupt team) to partner with Hamilton. Remember the last time McLaren signed a World Champion to drive with Lewis? Remember how well that went? I expect a similar scene. I am on the edge of my seat about it. Toys will be thrown. Tantrums will take place. Expect two very stroppy British World Champions any day now. Ayrton Senna’s nephew makes his debut. Alonso, the severely browed Spaniard, has scooted EVERYONE’S favourite party boy Kimi out of his Ferrari seat and into WRC. Does this mean I will start watching WRC? I don’t have time for this shit. Really. I’m not ruling it out though. In matters such as these, I am easily swayed. The new Renault looks like a giant, aerodynamically inclined bumblebee. The new Lotus livery is lovely, it’s been too long since there was racing green on the track. Rubens didn’t retire. Irritating. The good news is that I doubt the Williams will be fighting at the front, so we won’t have to see him cry too much on the podium. New boys are everywhere. Kobayashi got a drive with Sauber. He is insane and I like it. I am excited to see that crazy, brilliant Jap fuck with everyone’s races. (Well, not everyone. When he gets in the way of you know who I will be fuming.) No more refuelling. Pit stops down to 3 seconds. THREE SECONDS. Renault has said in practise they can change the tyres in under that, but we’ll see what happens. Test drivers back on the grid. That preemie beast, Alguersuari, he who cannot finish a race for love nor money, is back in the Torro Rosso. Vettel’s neck is thicker than ever. His head is in danger of looking like a baseball on a tree stump.
And then there’s Merc GP.
Oh Mercedes. I want to weep with joy when I see you. Ross Brawn, the strategic genius. The return of Schumacher. And of course, be still my wildly beating heart, Nico Rosberg. I’m pleased to report that Nico has been kicking ass and taking names (that’s right, I went there) in winter testing and I do believe that the 2010/2011 season will be that of his inaugural grand prix win. I am willing to put money on it. I really am. I’m not prone to gambling, I’m just THAT confident. For those Schumacher haters out there (and you know who you are) I am not saying that this team is without fault. I mean, did you SEE the press pictures? Tragic. But let’s be honest. They are a formidable team. There was a lot of shoulder shrugging and confused looks when Button was looking to leave his world championship winning team at the end of last season and it was only when the rumours of a Merc buyout surfaced that the whisperings of an all German team were heard. The rumour mill was pretty spot on and the return of Schumacher has caused much consternation amongst those who care about these particular cars. Will he still be great? Can he do it? Is he too old?I’m not sure really. He’s a fiercely competitive driver who has not yet stopped looking for occasions to go as fast as possible. And let's face it. He is SCHUMACHER. The Mercedes engines, last year at least, were unsurpassed. Brawn in a genius. And Nico.... well, we all know how I feel about that beast. So a German team running German engines with German drivers it is then. I just hope this doesn’t go the same way the last time the Germans attempted world domination.
From now until November, I am no longer available on Sundays. Not even to talk on the phone. That is unless you’re calling to talk about the illegal overtaking on corner 9.
*I am fully aware of automotively’s meagre credentials as a bona-fide word. In this particular instance, I don’t care.
It started with long winded emails that invariably described in unnecessarily loquacious detail the exceptional turn of a hair pin bend in a winding road in yet another far off place that I had gone to; another place to lay my hat in some vague attempt to find my home. You said, 'Write this stuff online.' So I did. And so, sometimes when I am somewhere between here and there, I write down small bits and pieces of my fragmented days; the funnier things, the things that don't tell too much about the long and lonely hours and the gaps in time and the large cold question mark that follows me to bed, sleeps with me like a lover, its cold bones pressing along my spine. I am the small spoon to my own self doubt.
You said, write it online. So I did. As if I were telling you the story. Just like all those emails I'd written you. But it's not quite the same. My computer is a battered piece of weathered goods and if it weren't for my withering detest for the carrying of stuff, I'd get my typewriter out of storage and work on that instead. There is also the small issue of being unable to source ribbon for the antique. The last time I wrote on it my prose was blind embossed into the page. I prefer letters, real ones, written on paper, sealed with wax. They are tangible. Handwritten letters, like typewritten prose, exist in a way these words on these screens do not. If it exists on paper, I treat it differently. I am a fastidious writer. But I don't consider this real writing, this internet thing. I leave spelling mistakes as is. Grammatical errors. Missing words stay lost, clumsy sentences continue to clunk along, tripping over their heavy feet. I'd prefer the paper mail and wax seals, but in truth I am not a particularly dedicated letter writer. I begin with the best of intentions, but after several courses of correspondence, I find my dedication flags, and the one week response rate slows to two then three then a sluggish four and soon the letter and the blank paper and the unaddressed envelopes and my very intent is buried under a pile of debris on my desk.
So it seems that no means of correspondence suits me quite completely, but we continue in whatever form of it we can lay our hands on. These are the breaks when you live across oceans from your family. On a Monday, I'll send you an email. You'll catch me on skype for four minutes three days later. Sometime before the weekend, I'd get a facebook message from you. I'll respond in a text message. So many words that don't exist. No typewritten letters, the x always a little low on the line, on ivory coloured linen paper. No wax seals or personalised stationary or calling cards.
In some ways though, these words that don't exist do have their benefits. The ability to instantly connect. The way that when I'm walking down the street in some dilapidated European city and see a foreign language magazine in a newsagent with a brooding australian actor looking painfully serious on the cover I can pull out my phone and send you a quick message and within a few minutes you'll be agreeing with me that the beast does indeed belong on the list of those whom get their dark shipped all the way in. And so it will be, momentarily at least, that I don't feel we are quite so far apart as we really are. And then there is the way that I can write a letter like this one, and put it up here, in the space where words don't really exist.
This is the way it is for us. Everyday I make a choice, and that choice leaves me with phones and wires and cables and screens and shitty wifi connection. And that's the way it is. Those are the breaks. But I wonder if one day I'll be able to write small notes, in quink, on thick linen folded cards, my initials embossed subtly in the corner and drop them through your front door when I am passing through the neighbourhood and find you're not home. Or send you handwritten invitations to dinner, or thank you cards. I wonder if we'd live close enough that these words that don't exist ceased to be, and instead it would be my looped handwriting in a day planner and a glass of wine and something tangible, and I'd say, "Let me tell you about this thing I saw today...."
And I don't know if that's how it will ever be... But I hope so.
My cousin Shanna is a rock star. I went to go have a glass of wine with her last night and she presented me with this:
Which I opened, to find this:
"It's your survival kit," she told me. "as it's only a matter of time before you run off to some far away city and can't afford to eat.... again." In the little suitcase (which, by the way, belonged to her as a pre schooler and I have coveted since we were 5 years old) was some Sanctuary bath soak and body butter
a bar of micky mouse soap
a nail file and band aids
an easy open tin of baked beans
for which this fold up spoon was provided
and naturally, a packet of rice.
No writer can ever be without a pocket sized bottle of whiskey, complete with teeny tiny hip flask.
For when I am in need of something sweet, there are shortcake biscuits on hand
and bite sized rolls of sweets
Just because I will not always be in a position to drink Chateau Lafite, does not mean that my carry on wine stopper should be anything less than crystal
and obviously I will need to keep a bottle opener at hand for when I need to open beers. (You know, when the crystal stopper is in the in the Lafite.
And of course, a lighter with which to light my Marlboro Reds.
and most importantly, the piece de resistance of the writer's survival kit, as rice, whiskey, body butter and biscuits can only get one so far...... my beloved moleskin notebooks
As I said, my cousin is a rock star. Thanks Shan. YOU ARE THE BEST.
(there was also a tiny bag of chocolate coins. I must confess I molested those before I even found my camera. But know, they existed.)
The trouble with fashion is that certain pieces don’t always translate. The smooth long vowels of one language become jarred and awkward in another setting, and soon enough all that was great about a certain thing gets lost in what comes from being a slightly different you, in a very different place. As someone who moves around a fair amount, I am very aware of this. The yards of brown string and wooden beads, while perfectly fitting on a Kenyan beach, will lose any appeal under a grey London sky. London shoes are not Berlin shoes. A Parisian outfit in Cape Town will suddenly look overdone. And I know this. I really do. Which is why The Skirt has taken to a shelf since my return to London. In Berlin, The Skirtwas in its element. It was a perfect piece. It solved all of my skirt dilemmas. I was absolutely content in my skirt wearing. Oh, how I loved that skirt. However, when I got back to London, something about The Skirt wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something certainly was amiss. Some days I would put the skirt on, um and ah, and invariably, just before leaving the house, throw on an alternate leg covering instead. Needless to say, The Skirt hasn’t exactly been on centre stage since its Berlin heyday.
But last night, that all changed. I decided I was going to embrace the long lost love of said skirt. I wore it to work. Obviously, as it a SMALL skirt, made of LEATHER, one walks a fine line with it. Things that are not recommended as a pairing, unless Eastern Bloc Prostitute is the look one is trying to achieve: Stilettos, very low cut tops, extremely tight tops, any other form of leather clothing (not shoes, read: bustier, jacket, waistcoat, etc.) In light of this, I wore my skirt with a pair of light beige ankle boots, an oversized sailor striped t-shirt and my customary top knot. It’s a casual look. IT WAS CASUAL. Anyhow, happy enough that my skirt was back in the game, I picked up my record case, donned my fur coat and headed out the door. Now, in retrospect maybe the fur wasn’t the best idea, sartorially speaking. Maybe, when the casual sailor shirt was hidden under the hip length fur, the look was decidedly less..... dare I say casual again? But it was cold and it’s my warmest coat, so I wore it.
On my way to the bus stop, an SUV that was driving by slowed down and pulled up next to me. In the style of every bad film noir movie ever made, the driver’s window slid ominously down. In the car, two huge Russians leered at me. In Russian, they had a brief exchange. The driver leaned out of the window, his one arm reaching toward me. His lip curled. And then he asked the question that no girl ever, ever ever ever wants to be asked. ‘How Much?’ I literally stopped walking I was so shocked. Appalled even. Insulted. And a bit hurt. I could do nothing but gape. I didn’t even have a caustic remark, not even an acrid sound to defend myself. A few days ago, when I was having a particularly trying day, a drunk man on the tube made a snotty comment about my top knot, likening it to a pineapple on my head, and I actually hissed at him. What I would’ve given just then to find within myself the sharp, snake like sound that would be an all encompassing portrayal of my reaction to the question, the hiss that would not only say, ‘No, I am not a prostitute’ but would also convey the sentiments of ‘Fuck You Very Much.’ But no. There was no sound in me. Instead, I shut my mouth that had previously fallen agape, gave the driver a withering look and shook my head in bewilderment, mostly to myself. And on I continued to work, every so often looking down at The Skirt and berating its existence. ‘I thought we were in this together.’ I told it. ‘How can you betray me like that?’ And ‘It’s all your fault you know. If I had just left you at home and worn one of your more sensible wardrobe buddies that never would’ve happened.’ The Skirt said nothing. It didn’t even try and defend itself. So as far as it all goes, I don’t know if London is ready for The Skirt. Maybe it’s a Berlin thing after all.
Later that night, when I told Laura the story, in all the horror of being so easily mistaken for a prostitute, she linked her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “On the bright side,” she said, “you look so hot that they wanted to pay to have sex with you.”
I could spend hours sitting in the perpetual dusky twilight of a hotel bar. I love hotel bars, good hotel bars, fancy ones with monogrammed coasters and deep buttoned sofas and flocked wallpaper and ancient books and cocktail menus and wine lists thick and heavy; weighty tomes. I love the dark light that seems to live in them, the palpable air, the rows and rows of single malts, the steady hum of the day passing unbeknownst to the quiet souls within it. Yesterday, Tam and I, in celebration of her birthday, spent much of the afternoon nestled in the nook of one, glasses of red wine winking up at us in the moody light.
First, we went for lunch at Kitchen W8 – a superb pick of Tam’s that did not disappoint. I had a rib eye so meltingly tender and utterly delicious it made me re-evaluate my whole ‘last meal on earth’ dinner plan all over again, and go back to the original menu, of which steak was the star of the show. There was also the added benefit of after having felt a bit peaky and somewhat wan for the last few weeks, the steak made me feel as if I had mainlined iron. Lunch was long and leisurely and there were guest appearances by chanterelles and wild mushroom foam, foie gras mousse, Roast John Dory and dark chocolate truffles. After lunch, we took a stroll up High Street Kensington, popping into a shoe store so that Tam could purchase a pair of lovely tan brogues and I could stroke the soft leather of as many pairs of boots as possible without being frogmarched from the shop by world weary shop assistants, desperate for a commission and tired of the sighs and gasps and lip quivers of terminal window shoppers, such as myself. As we exited she shop, we partook in a bit of Chelsea beast spotting (yes, you, in the grey jumper. I’m talking about you.)and made our way to The Gore.
The Gore is a small hotel moments away from Hyde Park, hidden inconspicuously down a very Kensington looking street without much to-do. Through the austere stone pillars, typical of the area, a little bit of wood paneled heaven awaits. The Gore is opulent, but not ostentatious. There are huge gold gilt mirrors, oils of not entirely attractive women hang proudly on the wood paneled walls, elaborately carved staircases lead, white rabbit like, up tantalising plush red stairs. There are bronzed bits and pieces all over the place, soft carpets underfoot, wrought iron candelabras that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval castle, and beams of coloured light that peek through the stained glass windows. Quite simply, old world charm personified. After seeing pictures of The Gore on the Lisa Borgnes Giramonti’s breathtaking blog, A Bloomsbury life, I knew that the bar and I simply had to get acquainted. Oh, and how we did. Tam and I ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and reclined into the oddly deep leather armchairs and sat for hours and hours and talked and joked and laughed, and spent the afternoon in the comfortable confines of the chasm of time that exists solely in hotel bars.
I move around a lot and am not the world's best group emailer. In theory, this should nullify the need for those emails altogether. Here's hoping.
It also serves the added purpose of getting my blog obsessed sister off my back. No longer will i have to hear her list the reasons why I should have one. I now do. Corlia, this is mostly for you.
If I don't know you and you are reading this, you are reading what is basically a family newsletter. Occasionally, I discuss clothes and cars. I often talk about food.
