After a sober and early Friday night doing housework and remedial Sums, today was the proper start of the Big Weekend Of Doom. For reasons that seemed perfectly good at the time, I have shoehorned in a three-hour trapeze lesson, followed by the fightclub Christmas pissup, followed by an up-at-the-crack-of-dawn flight down to London to go to a reunion of my fellow Serfs from the Church of Lightning. With a plan as terribly complicated as this, including Booze and icy roads, what could possibly go wrong? Also, there is wine to bottle and wrap, and I haven’t finished the Sums at all.
Rather than walking sixteen miles today I figured it was time to belt up and take a bus. So I was hideously early, as well as hideously apprehensive about the trapeze lesson; for the Well-Ard Chick, who suggested we go today, has since changed her booking for January. Oops. Well, there we go, and if I had confirmed to her I was going as well, I’m sure she might have mentioned that, so I can’t blame anyone but myself!
Still, by the time I arrived, I had talked myself into rather looking forward to this Adventure, which would be even more daring and intrepid since I was going to try a big long kill-you-stone-dead workout all alone!
So I was even more hideously disappointed when I arrived at the place and it was all locked up, with no sign at all of the equipment that was there when Lirazel and I went for the taster course away back when. Oh. Well, I guess it is quite ferociously cold and that building is draughty, as you might expect from the doors being more like wrought-iron gates. Maybe it got cancelled in case the sub-zero temperatures damaged the silks or something. Still, they might have said. And guess who forgot to take a contact number with them.
I wasn’t disappointed so much as feeling like an enormous idiot for being caught out, which was kinda worse and resulted in me surreptitiously looking all round to see who was watching; like a cat that’s just fallen off something and is checking to see that nobody noticed. Or, like someone on the receiving end of a Beadle-esque ‘jape’. Could someone have moved everything, just to make me look like an enormous idiot?
Probably not. Still, dammit, I paid good money to get here for nothing! And I gave a couple of quid to a wee beggar as well. Most expensive non-event ever – and I have a whole weekend of Expensive ahead!
I bet this is somehow a punishment for not having walked here, I thought, attempting to walk back in case anything worse happened. I have far more complicated plans than this, and I have Failed at the simple one, let’s not take chances! But it was sheet ice all round the courts, so I fled to a bus-stop. And if I hadn’t, I would have been looking where I was putting my feet, not up and out of the bus window, and I wouldn’t have seen a bloke who looked remarkably similar to Hicks Outta Aliens peering out from behind a big curtain on the first floor. Hurrah! I thought, and also, Why is he peering down at the street from behind a big curtain?
Because he’s not wearing any clothes and he’s checking nobody’s looking! I thought, and I was right. And he was wrong, because he only scanned the pavements, failed to see me, grinned happily to himself, came out from behind the curtain and started typing away at this laptop at the window. Hurrah! And indeed, with a physique like that, why the hell was he hiding?
Also, I am in full thermals and gloves, on a marginally heated piece of public transport and I am cold. And that is a tenement window. What the hell is his heating bill like?
Get a note of what number that flat is! advised my brain, but that was a bit stalkery and would take precious seconds away from the view, so I didn’t. Go me. Or something.
So, woo, that random incident buouyed me up enough to spend the afternoon doing Sums. But I still felt like an utter idiot. Even though I got in and checked the trapeze website and there is no contact number, so I emailed instead, mainly to enquire if I could possibly get along to a later class on the money I paid for that one.
Well, and I could – if I had read the return email earlier, rather than being buoyed up and doing Sums instead. Go figure. The guy replying said, they had moved all the equipment further into the building (oh) and there was a door round the side with a phone number taped to it. Oh. And I was welcome to come along for the two o’clock class. Which email I read at ten to two. Bugger!
On the other hand, if I had gone, I would have arrived at the fightclub Christmas pissup looking all sweaty and ‘orrible, and probably gone on to fall down after one shandy, since it turns out ferocious exercise will do that to me.But I was still back to feeling like an idiot, which is not a good mindset to go and socialise in.
Still. The pissup, I actually found. And I was all prepared – finally had that drawing to bring in for the Well-Ard Chick, had me Secret Santa all wrapped, had a set amount of funds and a bus ticket home for when they ran out. And a bag pre-packed for tomorrow morning. I got in and was leapt at by Cava, who bought me a drink and gave me a Christmas card (whoops, social faux pas number one clocked already, despite all my prep) and complimented my makeup, and she’s a Professional at makeup, so that was nice. And the Secret Santa… appeared to be off. Ah, I always over-prepare for all the wrong things. But I finally handed over the drawing. Yay!
The scene was set for several potentially kicking-off interactions, however; but since none of them involved me in any major way, it isn’t my place to be spreading it all over the internet. And no kicking-off actually occurred, at least when I was there – though in a way, that was a bit of a shame because a free-for-all fight, between everyone at fightclub? Would have been EPIC. But I successfully made chat, got hugs, avoided the dancefloor, watched the Cagefighter strutting about the dancefloor, bought drinks for those who had bought for me and left within budget and half an hour of scheduling. These days, this counts as a successful night out. Am I not engineering material? That is almost exactly what Scott Adams says an engineer’s successful social interaction consists of!
Sadly, this was not in a Dilbert strip. So I’ll link to the closest available alternative.
Also, hurrah, this lives somewhere on a street close to my home. Only with less bandages.