The moon in the gutter

Late last Guido got his big hose out. Don’t go there.

He was washing out our courtyard when he made a big puddle in the gutter. The moon came out and shone there so it felt like suddenly the sky was upside down.

Then the telephone went, ring ring. It was my mother, Cruella.

“Darling, I need some urgent help,” she asked me breathlessly from her end of the line. “I’m in a suite at The Park Plaza Hotel in the middle of a completely delicious love affair. I’ve met a muscular thirty-three year old American vacuum cleaner salesman. He’s from a place called, Brookings.”

All I heard were the words – vacuum cleaner salesman – which came as a shock because the last I’d heard she was dating a Sheikh.

“He keeps telling me how wonderful Brookings is but I don’t know what to say about it,” she said, perplexed.

I chewed my lip. I assumed the hunk was laying some place nearby, completely exhausted.

“I’m not sure where that is,” I said, “but I think it might possibly be Montana.”

There was an awkward short silence from my mother. It was obvious she didn’t know where Montana was either.

“Look,” I said,”just tell him you have a love of wide open spaces and the great outdoors.”

There was a click on the line as she instantly hung up.

I did that Google Map thing. Brookings turned out to be a city in South Dakota. As you can tell issues with geography are hereditary.

The telephone went, ring ring again.

This time it was my friend Marc. In the past he’s had an intense relationship with an Italian guy called Secondo. The bust ups and make ups have been legendary. They split up in London a few months ago but now they’re apparently planning a passionate rekindle in Naples.

“Boxer shorts or thong?” asked Marc excitedly, “I don’t know which is best to wear for the big reveal?”

I had a feeling the question was rhetorical. I suggested whichever he thought was easiest to pull off. Then he hung up too.

“I’m worried about my mother,” I said to Guido. “She keeps having affairs with men half her age.”

Guido crunched a Dorito.

“I’m worried about Marc,” I said. “He’s going to try to find love with a mad Italian but in the final analysis I think he’s pinning too much on a thong.”

Guido crunched another Dorito.

“Well,” said Guido, “maybe that’s what it’s all about. The journey, the trying to figure it out. Perhaps in the end there is no answer to life’s great romantic questions except that not everyone ends up with who you think they should.”

I tried not to visualise my mother in bed. I couldn’t help wondering if the hunk was trying to explain the finer details of vacuum suction as she blabbed bizarrely on about the wild beauty of Montana.

Not to mention the twists and turns of Marc’s love life. For some reason it reminded me of a plate of spaghetti vongole – easy to throw together but prone to end up a horrible tangled mess.

Maybe Guido was right.

I looked at the gutter again. The moon was still there. Perhaps the world was upside down after all.

Soup for one

I heard a pretty funny joke about the sanctity of marriage this week. Well, it made me laugh. I’m not that great at humor but I think I remember the punchline.

“The reason my relationship has lasted this long is that my husband and I dine out on a romantic supper twice a week. There’s music, flickering candles, great tasting wine, followed by a whole lot of flattery and then some amazing sex afterwards. I go out on a Friday and my husband goes out on a Monday.”

Stick with me, there is a point to this blog post.

I’ve been out of town working all week. The evenings away get kind of lonely. The hotel restaurant is full of people travelling through just like me. Tables for one, our heads buried in a book or in our iPhone between the starters and the main course. Occasionally we’ll look up and twist a salt shaker or crush some black pepper over a watery tagliatelle. If we’re feeling really bold we might even crack a smile at a complete stranger. Last night I took a look at the menu and jumped straight to the dessert.

If you want to alleviate the monotony of dining out alone trust me, just eat a dessert. Don’t die of shock. I had a fresh fruit sorbet. If Chris, at The Juicenut, is reading this, honest to God you better be proud of me. There was a lot of serious competition I can tell you. It was a toss up between a slab of sticky toffee pudding and a blow torched creme brûlée.

Anyway the reason I’m telling you this is because after dinner (dessert) I went into the hotel bar. I started to type a new blog entry on here which had absolutely nothing to do with jokes or loneliness or healthy option sorbets and feeling overly sanctimonious about eating them. Right after I sat down the waiter unexpectedly brought over a very large glass of wine. If I’d drunk it, it would’ve blown out all of my good work on the calorie count front – especially as all I’d religiously sucked was a blueberry sorbet all night. I looked at the big glass of wine, and then looked at the waiter.

“This is from your friend over at the bar,” he said smirking strangely. He cocked his head awkwardly behind him.

You know once in a blue moon, a guy, who I’m not actually happily married to at the time, will find me highly attractive and try to hit on me. I realise you might find that particular fact astonishing. Trust me, I do too. This sensation can be a terrific ego boost if it’s George Clooney’s Hairy Body Double, or, an absolute nightmare if it’s Quasimodo’s Long Lost English Cousin waving over next to me. Either way will depend on where I am and who happens to be doing the hitting on me at the time.

Anyway. The guy at the bar told me the joke. I laughed. It was pretty funny, but, I told him I didn’t cheat on my husband unless it’s on a Monday.

Half full

I like to talk to all the people I meet and listen to their stories. When I do, I’m always struck by how much more dynamic and high powered their lives seem to be when I compare them with mine. And they’re wiser too. Socially they know what’s in and what’s out. They wear great clothes and mix with such other interesting and intelligent people. They go places where they have heated debates. They finalise business transactions over lunches at Sky Garden and dine out at Beaufort House and then they get legless on heady cocktails at The Jam Tree. I tell Guido this and ask him why we never go to those places and if he’s completely sure he wouldn’t prefer it if we did.

“Are you kidding, who needs all that? Our lives win hands down every time,” he said last night shaking his head. He was laying on our sofa wearing only a pair of old ripped underpants at the time. “Hey, have you seen the television remote?” he yelled.

There’s a familiarity, and a distinct predictability about our lives. Let’s just say if you put bread in the toaster you know what’s going to pop up out of it. If you get my meaning. Sorry to give you yet another food analogy but that kind of neatly sum us up. And as sure as sure can be when I get into bed at night, no matter how late it is, Guido will already be in it. I can guarantee you I can predict there’ll be one of two things that’ll always happen next right after I slide between the sheets. Either we’ll have sex, or, we’ll just switch out the lamp and pull up the blanket and have a heated debate about whether French Toast tastes better with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Trust me, there’s something really terrific to appreciate about each of those separate outcomes, even if both of them leave me feeling starving hungry when we’re done.

We signed the lease for the new café in Denmark Hill on Wednesday. Now that the ink is still damp on the papers the reality that money is going to be even more tight than it was before is slowing beginning to sink in. We’ve got a restaurant to renovate and rooms upstairs to make habitable and The Spanish Onion to try to keep afloat. I’m going to have to work harder, and Guido is going to have to cook faster. Momentarily, that imaginary cocktail glass still sitting waiting for me at The Jam Tree bar was ominously half empty.

“Well for what it’s worth, I think the secret to a rich and happy life is to have an exciting new beginning once in a while,” Guido said later propped up between the pillows.

We were in bed and we weren’t having sex and we weren’t discussing the merits of fried eggy bread so there you go, maybe our lives can have some unpredictable surprises after all.

“But you know what?” he rolled over right next to me, “all that really matters is that we’ve got one another to try new things out with.”

He was right of course. And I loved him for reminding me my imaginary glass should always be half full.

Hot dude with a pizza

Last night Guido and I were in bed. Three of us were under the sheets – me, Guido and a soggy four cheese pizza. Not that I was complaining.

“It was early morning in London,” I said, “and an unidentified woman had fallen asleep on an Underground train when suddenly, Bam! I’m not making this up. The traveller I’m telling you about actually dozed off on the Victoria line last Saturday whilst holding a pizza.”

Our conversations in bed are nothing if not highly relevant.

“And the pizza, which she appeared to have only eaten two slices of, had just slid from the box onto the floor.”

“Man, that’s so tragic, but tell me,” asked Guido somewhat irrelevantly, “was it a thin crust or deep-pan base?”

Unfortunately for the woman, the BBC reporter James Longman took a photograph of her and then posted it on Twitter. It was 8am at the time so either the woman was on her way home from a night out or she habitually eats pizza for breakfast. I’m not in any way being judgemental. The picture went viral.

“There’s something very voyeuristic about that photo,” I said.

I tried to visualise myself in her shoes, slumped unconscious in public, totally oblivious to all my surroundings. Actually, it wasn’t too difficult for me to imagine. But if anyone was going to Twitter me up on the Underground I’d want to know about it beforehand.

“Talking of voyeurism,” I said nibbling a corner, “I’ve discovered an Instagram site you’re going to love, it’s called Hot Dudes Reading.”

You won’t be surprised to discover the site delivers exactly what it promises on the tin. It features photographs of random but hot dudes, in public places, who just happen to be reading. That’s the sum total of the action. I’ve become quite obsessed with browsing through it and so have the other 900,000 followers who routinely view it. Whether these dudes know they’re being photographed or not is open to debate but the site has spawned a best selling book, also called Hot Dudes Reading. And now some of the pictures on the site feature hot dudes reading the book, Hot Dudes Reading, so go figure.

The words, hot, and, dude, are always guaranteed to prick Guido’s interest.

“How would you feel if a photograph of you were to go viral?” asked Guido.

I sat sucking some melted cheese.

“That completely depends on what the photograph captured me doing at the time,” I said wisely. “why, you got some ideas?”

Guido is always full of surprises.

“Well,” said Guido, “how about publishing some on the internet of you in bed in a variety of interesting poses wearing absolutely nothing except a slice of strategically placed pizza. I’m thinking – Hot Dude Naked With A Pizza In Bed.”

Going viral wasn’t my first thought. My immediate concerns were (and in no particular order) my stomach, dough consistency, and what would my mother say.

“Yeah,” said Guido nodding, “Cruella could be a major sticking point, especially if I had to explain to her that over a period of time I’d gotten you fat solely for the twisted gratification of persons unknown.”

Anyway, here’s the picture and I don’t mean me spread-eagle on our mattress smeared in a spicy topping.

Personally I’d much rather be a hot dude reading.