So there I was, in a party frock, wine in one hand and scientific calculator in the other, doing sums on a train while heading to Edinburgh for some hardcore birthday-partyin’ fun. Which was probably well-deserved after a day of hard work. A week of hard work even! And the schedule called for some hardcore relaxation at the spa, come Sunday!
Shame I’ve never felt less like any of it, really. Fun? But there is work to be done! This sort of attitude is a very good sign that you are mistaking ‘accomplishing shit (which nobody but you cares about anyway)’ for ‘living’. Observe
(some swearing, but otherwise safe for work, unlike the rest of Oglaf*).
Also, there was pain. And a big old swollen face. Can I get a day off without getting ill sometime soon? Not only that, the swelling got cosy with my salivary gland, which meant I started drooling like Pavlov’s dog confronted with a skipping record of Mike Oldfield. It also made me talk like someone incredibly drunk. Woo, I am gonna be the best company ever!
As per usual, I had neglected to wonder who else I knew was going to be present, and the answer was: nobody bar the birthday girl and the Bossman, who was in about as much pain as I was, being the only person I’ve ever met who has more crappy viruses kicking around his system than I do. He was parked on the opposite corner of the table, and it was loud. Ooh, time to slur at strangers!
I stopped worrying about whether I was good company when, on my way out for a ciggie, I passed a very large man standing at the bar. He said, ‘Ooh, hel-lo!’ – to my knees, abandoned his place in the queue and followed me outside, where he proceeded to pretend I had started a conversation with him. I was not in the best frame of mind and was more than a little alarmed, which is rather pathetic in a fully-grown adult, but he did weigh about four times what I do.
After that, I kept the smoking to only when the birthday girl’s other friends went out for a fag, and thus heard about the time a vicious crayfish got loose in one of them’s flat. (I had no idea crayfish could even live out of water? But apparently they can, and also they are right scuttly bastards who hide under things like the fridge, zip across the floor and rip your toes off!)
Tragically, however, I lost my seat, so I was forced to stand against the Bossman’s. This was not good, because in order to talk to him I had to bend over and shout in his ear; while drooling all down the side of both our faces, natch. This was undignified, and we left soon afterwards to get some kip. I officially Cannae Hack It Any More.
(*Look, I linked to cool things, that makes this corner of the internet much cooler. Honest.)
Come Saturday morning, I had been awake for most of the night in great pain, say, whenever anything touched any part of my face, or the bed moved at all, and was attempting the art of the waking coma. (The plan being, to respond only as much as necessary to anything, and tell my brain it is asleep and everything is fine). This was not helped by my promise to do the Bossman’s accounts all day and then help gut out his flat, which needed a more proactive approach.
In what I feel was a completely heroic fashion, I started on the bathroom while he was still in bed; sadly, the sound of me scrubbing the walls woke him up, and he proceeded to ride my ass all the way to Bethlehem, as the saying goes. (No, not sex, alas, just nit-picking.) I really wanted to say in calm, polite tones that I did not appreciate all the fault-finding, especially under the circumstances, but I knew damn well what was going to come out would be floods of tears and ‘WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN TO MEEEEEEEE’ and I had little enough dignity left. So I bore it quietly until we went out for codeine and a vastly expensive dehumidifier I cannot afford, and lunch, which was steak for him and macaroni cheese for me and I had to flatten the macaroni and post it between my lips because I could no longer open my mouth. However, the codeine worked magic, and the Bossman congratulated me on ‘being much less grumpy now’.
It is worth remembering, it hurts him to breathe at the moment. However, I did (and do) fear we have reached that magical point in our relationship where all the things he thought were amazing about me have worn off and the things he thinks are ridiculous and annoying start, and that is the part of a relationship that never seems to end until the whole thing is eventually called off by one party or the other. Le sigh. Do I make people behave like this? Or is it the lack of painkillers talking? Let us hope it is not a trend.
At least the accounts were over quickly. The Bossman was apparently joking about me slaving away all day (I cannot distinguish between ‘things he says as jokes’ and ‘things most previous boyfriends have said completely seriously’, and fear I may never be able to do so). Which means I am short of the hours, and will apparently have to make them up in other ways, which I am fortunately already adept at because the Bossman has developed a habit of flopping down in a chair the instant we are in the door and shouting, ‘Get over here and do what I pay you for!’
A more practical person would have purchased footwear they can get out of by themselves, is all I’m saying.
Anyway, he bought lunch and he bought dinner and he did drive me around with the dehumidifier, which was very sweet, and it probably is deeply annoying to watch someone with a supposed IT degree (moi) attempting to use technology and fucking it all up with aplomb. That one, sadly, is going to be a trend for the forseeable, as it was a mickey mouse degree and everyone (except Cake, who let me change her sound cards) has always made it perfectly clear I am Not To Touch Their Tech. The natural result is that I touch all tech with great trepidation (and not a little alliteration too, tonight, ho hum).
So, are me and the Bossman doomed or what? Wait and see!
On Sunday, we had to belt back to Glasgow, as I had an appointment At The Spa, ooh la la. With the Bossman’s best mate and everything! And other mates I had never met! Woo, the opportunities to be awkward and drooly in front of strangers just keep coming! And this one involves bikinis!
Fortunately, it also involved an email from one of the other lassies reminding me to bring The Voucher Of Getting Into The Spa, or it would have been quite the fiasco.
There are three hours of spa. How can anyone spend three hours in a spa?
The use of about a dozen different steam rooms and saunas and jacuzzis and pools, it turns out. (I see I am such a prole that I am unable to spell the word ‘jaccuzi’, let us try again… nope. ) They all had very posh names, and we had very posh towels and goonies and not very posh sandals so as not to spread Feet Germs, as well as bottles of water so as not to dehydrate and die embarrassingly on the premises, and we instantly mislaid every bit of it. Which is not bad going for a relatively small hub area.
There was a Laconium, which is presumably where you go to not speak, and a sauna that claimed to be at ninety-five degrees centigrade. We said of course that was impossible, then realised that pain in our noses when we breathed in was our nose hairs crisping.
We fled like cowards, with me leading the way. We tried out the Crystal Steam Room, which was the sort of place you’d expect to find Mystic Meg, or maybe Richard O’Brien, but that was so incredibly steamy we fled that too, and spent the next three hours (yay, early arrival) playing in the jacuzzis and sporadically going to see if we could last five minutes in the nose-hair-crisper. (Barely).
I was very relaxed at the end of all that, but my hair was string from the chlorine and my fingers were prunes. Still, awkward nude moments: none. Yay!
And then there was champagne and codeine (thank every god for codeine) and we went to meet the Bossman in the pub and eat massive helpings of food. For the Bossman had taken the traditional tack when the ladies is at the spa, and gone to the Wrastling.
Who was on? I asked. B T Gunn defending his belt, turns out. Wow, what a hard-working guy, he defended it only last Sunday! Who against? Jester, apparently. But – didn’t they just do that?
And so it turns out, there are two Wrastling circuits, although both pretend the other doesn’t exist. This one was for the kiddies and the grannies – the latter were apparently hilarious in their efforts to down entire pints of Tennents in the fifteen minute interval – and although B T Gunn was still sporting the immense gash Jester had made in his forehead last week, they did their best to conceal it. Which made it unfortunate that it opened up again during the match, hee, I am told there was much panic and attempting to hide all the blood (rather than rolling around in it like last time). Interestingly enough, although Jester made a heel-face turn in the match we saw, he did not in this one, and is still a villain. I love the Wrastling SO much right now! There are two stories going on at the same time!
Anyway, with all that fun, I was all worn out, so it was nice to get home and, er, strip wallpaper.
I have one more day of codeine left, and then I must stop taking it, apparently. Or become addicted and face a diminishing effect on the pain. Corks.