socially unacceptable ways to spend a Sunday

Today started just before midday. That ain’t bad, right? I went through and got the shock of my life when I saw a massive black and white snowman on the settee, but it turned out to be Rice Krispies wearing a king-size duvet. She said my flat is cold. What? The temperature has been positively balmy since I finally gave in to the fear of frozen pipes and put the heating on! My fingers are warm enough to write legibly and everything!

I made French toast, and we retreated to the room of freezers, where we relived how awesome last night was and laughed like drains and shrieked at the sight of more snow falling outside and she still kept the duvet on. Hmm. Maybe my thermals are giving me a false positive, but I still maintain that this temperature is maintainable.

But! Consider: every time Rice Krispies and I are seen together in public, it’s a disaster – so much so that we are now Disaster Squad. And yet, that was our first post-Disaster Squad night out and nothing went wrong! We were not mistaken for sisters once, despite her dyeing her hair nearly the same colour as mine beforehand! We were gods on the dancefloor! We had lots of guys after us and none of them were terrifyingly sleazy or persistent! (Well, apart from that guy in the Santa hat who came to talk to me about my calf muscles – who turned out not to be the same guy in the Santa hat who came to talk to Rice Krispies about my suspenders – no, that was a different guy in a Santa hat, what are the odds.) Neither of us lost our keys, nor any items of clothing! Nobody pulled anyone they shouldn’t have! Nobody pulled, in fact, though declarations of love were aplenty! Just for once, we behaved! And did I not venture nobly through the snow like Good King Wencelas beforehand to deliver mead and contact lenses, then decline wine and go home to do Sums?

Which I hope goes to make up for the fact that French toast was really all I achieved today.

Well, I did call my Chestnut-haired Old Mother on my way out the door – tonight, though I would far rather stay home and Get Stuff Done, I have a ticket to go see Shakira. Yes, ‘Shakira’. No, it is not my usual thing. In my defence, though it is my belief that people should not have to defend their taste in music (I myself have none, after all), when I came into possession of an unwanted MP3 player at the Church of Lightning in France, these many years ago, the only thing I could get it filled with was Oral Fixation. Thus I whiled away many a happy day strimming (through the poison ivy, it turned out) to gentle songs about love, as opposed to my usual fare of brutal songs about killing people, (or sometimes, just haunting, gentle songs about crimes of passion, i.e. killing people). Well, until I got caught belly-dancing while painting a fence. Oh come on, if you can’t carry on like that in the middle of nowhere, where can you carry on like that; but there you have it. Now, I feel I should go pay homage to Shakira for giving me some tunes to work to and take my mind off the poison ivy, even though she has no idea it happened, or even who I am, and wouldn’t care if she did.

Besides, she’s done, like, charity work. Which is more than I have done recently. So there.

So I put on enough clothes to be able to roll along the road, and walked through the snow – as far as the bus-stop, where I called Cake and gave her the news. Oh thank god you’re finally going out with the devastatingly gorgeous bloke! she said. Er, no. We didn’t even kiss. So, what, he just fancies you? But we’ve known that for over a year now! she said. Yeah. Things have not technically moved on any further at all. It’s hilarious. Well, it is to me. Especially since everyone else I gave the news (by text) professed extreme scepticism that nothing had happened at all. (It didn’t. I have witnesses and everything).

Did you say ‘Shakira’? I didn’t think that was your usual thing! said Cake.

And so did everyone else, only by text.

And (after a long and draughty and frankly boring wait, during which I discovered the draught beer is Off and the blue fizz costs more than the draught beer, despite being smaller and probably being made of Sellafield run-off) Shakira finally came onstage. Not in the usual way, I was pleased to note – she walked slowly through the crowd, clad in a massive, hooded dress apparently made of candyfloss and singing a song while she shook hands with people. Then she tore it off to reveal the first of a series of small chainmail tops that she wore for the rest of the evening; well, until one fell off and she just danced about in a bra.

And holy hell – all these magazines and photos and stuff of people being all airbrushed and photoshopped and looking nothing like they would if you saw them in real life? Shakira does look like that. Seriously. Even at the end. And since most of her stageshow took place on a platform I didn’t even see for the crowd, but which turned out to be only fifteen feet from me (rather embarrassing, when she was trying to get the audience to dance with her and I was terrified she was going to look in my direction and clock the Hungover Michellin Woman – ha, and only last night, I was the one looking amazing), I can say this for a fact. Wow! I had no idea anyone really did look like that. So I have to eat my words, I suppose, but it was nice to see someone looking like a shiny, happy angel in a chainmail bra cavorting around. And she looked really happy, and all her band looked really happy, and it was a really great evening, all the better for not being my usual thing, really. Hell, I paid more than twice this to go see Dolly Parton, for far less reason, and that is so far from my usual thing that I mentioned waiting for Stand by Your Man, only to be told that was Tammy Wynette. And when I said we should go see her if she’s ever in town, it turned out she’s dead. Oops. Still, seeing Dolly Parton was a very enjoyable experience; she had good banter and was very entertaining and we were stood at the side so we had the best view in the house, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, she’s blonde and very short and so is Shakira (and Rice Krispies. And. Hee, a whole weekend of blond/e bombshells!) and it was a bit odd to reflect that not twenty-four hours previously, I had been moshing to Slayer. It was also surreal because at one point Shakira handed out yellow roses to the audience while a trio of Andean musicians played Nothing Else Matters on ukuleles, and did an interpretive flamenco dance and had a kinda rave segment and… yeah actually, it was kinda like a one-woman variety show. And I like having variety in my life, and I’ve had precious little lately! If you don’t count going to London last weekend and going clubbing yesterday and, er, never mind.

And outside was still cold enough to make an icicle want to pack it in, so I was bad and got a cab home. I couldn’t face hanging around a bus-stop for over half an hour.

And guess what, I have still not finished the Sums. But I had a good time, and that is what counts. At least, in the defensive summing-up of those of us who didn’t amount to anything because we put ‘having a good time’ ahead of ‘getting stuff done’.

And now, bed.

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About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
This entry was posted in gigs, music, weather-dependent lifestyle. Bookmark the permalink.

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