Bumping into Scarydancer in the hallway on Saturday, both of us in our crazy party clothing (pyjama bottoms along with whatever top you happen to have worn that day) we discussed the presents we had both given each other. Upon rising on Saturday morning, I was thrilled to discover that the end of the loo roll had been folded into a triangular shape, giving that lovely ”hotel” feel, but without the discomfort of leaving your home. Lilsister advised me afterwards that this was Scarydancer’s gift to us before he departed for work.
Whilst he slaved away, myself and Lilsister visited a housing development which Lilsister and Sisinlaw swear blind they will live in one day, and priced three different types of houses, before finally settling on a three storey brick monster with centralised vacuuming and two bedrooms with built in wardrobes and ensuites (perfect because at the rate I am going I will probably have to move in with the happy couple when they leave our little apartment). ”Your gift from me,” I advised Scarydancer in the hall, ”is the knowledge that my sister is fully committed to signing you up for a mortgage for the rest of your life. Enjoy.” We shook hands, and parted.
Our quiet weekend followed a long week, which was made all the longer by the sad news of my friend Isabella Bangin telling me about his brain tumour. He reminded me that I was the only woman he ever went to bed with, after one of our nasty wine nights, where we picked up two bottles of something awful whilst out, brought it back to his place, tasted it, winced, drank it all, passed out on his bed and only woke up when it was discovered that he was quite literally climbing the walls and making a racket at first light the next morning. He had no idea what he was doing, but we agreed that his gaydar was highly sensitive to the fact that a woman was about and it was best to get the hell out, be it up the walls or whatever.
We also had a visitor to the apartment on Saturday night, an extremely fat pigeon who sat on the bars of the balcony and did not move, even when Scarydancer went outside and puffed his partysmokes all over him, and I got close with some breadcrumbs. As pigeons are usually grouped together, we decided that this particular one must have some issues that he needed to work out solo, and I declared that he must be gay, and feeling like an outcast. It was at this point that I called him Georgemichael.
We got up on Sunday but no Georgemichael – just a long line of bird poo which was all over our balcony, the balcony below us, and the balcony below that. Scarydancer swore if he ever saw him again he’d throw rocks at his head, and I told him not to be so homophobic.
But Georgemichael DID show up last night – outside my own window, just sitting there, looking at me, whilst squelching about in a pile of new poo. Quite disgusting, and I told him he might be gay, but he was NOT stylish. He flew off at some stage and we are still not friends.