Me and My Musician

After a few hours of TV and some peaceful dozing I got a call from The Musician, who was so drunk I could barely make out what an obnoxious prat he was being, which probably worked in his favour. The conversation was a disaster, he was being so arrogant- he’d been to an exhibition in Grosvenor House and telling me about how there was so much free drink he’d got completely smashed, and how I’d missed out. Obviously I’ve failed to explain my job to him: As a journalist I go to those events about twice a week- they are for the most part insanely boring and not remotely glamorous. I ended the conversation as quickly as possible, and then had a little giggle. It reminded me of a conversation I’d had with Lover, (back in the good days when he couldn’t go a day without seeing me) when he’d been drinking.

I’d been at the gym for about two hours and when I got outside I found I had seven missed calls, all from him. I rang him back quickly, my heart plummeting- and when he answered the phone I got a roar of abuse, that went something like this:

“Wheresh have you been? Where? I’ve been ringingsh, are you ignoring me? Huh? Whatsh wrong with you? I lovesh you! Don’t you love me?”
“No, no I’ve just been at the Gym, I’m sorry I had no reception”
“Gym? Gym! Whosh the fucks GYM? Huh? Who ish Gym?”
“No. The. Gym. Where you work out, the Gym”
“The GYM! I didn’t knowsh you went to the gym! (Chortling to himself) I didn’t know yoush went to the Gym!”
Yes, occasionally- how are you?”
“I lovesh you! (Still chuckling to himself) The gym! I just didn’t knowsh that!”
“Um, yes. I love you too- shall I let you go now?” (Tangible tone of desperation)
“No! Where yoush been?! Baby can’t you be exessshistential about this…It’sh not real, not real life”
“Hon, go to sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning”
“No, no, no, you’re going to dump me. You are, but I’m not your boyfriendsh so you CAN’T”

This whole conversation was repeated about five times; by the time it was over I was crying with laughter. He repeatedly text me till two in the morning and I’ve never forgotten it- the indignant accusations, raging anger and bizarre topics can still reduce me to hysterics.
Unfortunately the brash behaviour of The Musician is not so amusing, merely irritating. Twit. Not even Bob Dylan can get him out of this one.

The next day was spent snuggling in my armchair and demolishing a whole chicken carcass (when you don’t eat carbs the binges are epic) and watching Spaced. In short, my afternoon was heaven. That was until The Musician rang and demanded that I see him that night, because “You really want to” which was news to me. After ten minutes of refusing I was heartily sick of the whole situation and said maybe, I was seeing Mancini Girl and Chuckle and if I wasn’t too late out I would consider returning to his. I then hung up and buried my phone so far down the couch that when I went to retrieve it an hour later I had a manicure accident.

The night with Mancini and Chuckle was utterly lovely as always. A trip to annex3 (interesting décor, fabulous cocktails- Little Portland Street) early in the evening caused a mishap with Mancini’s brand new white dress and a strawberry bilini but which happily resulted in all our drinks free of charge and Mancini’s dress being resuscitated by a brilliant barman and some Arial. We then headed onto Freedom (tacky, fun- Wardour Street) for wine and a discussion on the futility of negative body issues.
After that I don’t really know what happened- I wasn’t drunk or feeling whimsical or lonely, but at 11.40 I went over to The Musicians. It must surely have been a deep, subconscious need for a shag more than anything else but I realised halfway in the cab that there was nowhere I’d rather be at that moment other than shacked up in his bed, not necessarily doing anything other than watching Curb Your Enthusiasm, but just being with him. Scary.    

Last night was brilliant- I was taken to Soho Theatre to watch Sue Perkins do stand up comedy (remember Sue Perkins? Part of Mel and Sue’s Light Lunch?) which was absolutely fabulous I recommend it to anyone- but it’s only on till the 16th in Soho which is a shame as I desperately want to take my mom. I’m very glad all I had to do was sit and laugh, nothing scary about the evening after all, apart from perhaps my date’s intensity. He was lovely though and had bought me a belated birthday present, the whole series of Spaced, which I’ve never seen- but hopefully it’s my kind of humour. I was also reminded of how gorgeous he is, and how wonderfully tall.  

But. Unfortunately, and I have no idea why, he doesn’t excite me the way the Musician does, he’s just not as challenging which is great as a breath of fresh air but I’m not sure his mediocrity has permanence in my world. He’s just too nice to me and I find that utterly boring (and yes, I’m aware how unhealthy that sounds).

I think the reason I’m so currently infatuated with The Musician is the whole sending me music thing. He sends me on average two songs a day: todays have been Beast of Burden by the Rolling Stones and Ode to Billy Joe. I love these songs, all of them are brilliant and well picked- I also associate them with him, and so every time I listen to one of the tracks it sublimely sends out signals like “The Musician, The Musician, love The Musician”. He’s a marketing genius.

Date with Lover tonight if he actually manages to turn up this time, I’ve not heard much from him this week and am doubtful of a good outcome tonight. Fuck.

This morning I was at a press view for Storm, where I met two men from Gay Times who were fantastic (snappy shoes too) and received a limited edition watch. It’s beautiful but I’ve never worn a watch before- preferring to wade through time at my own pace. It could change my life, wearing a watch. Add a whole new dimension to my personality. Or it could just be a pretty accessory that I’m getting overly hysterical about.

Tonight is date with The Other and I’m terrified about for two reasons. One, I’m almost positive I prefer The Musician now, which is unfortunate because The Other is taller than he is and better looking. Secondly, he’s meeting me in Soho to “do something you won’t have done before, but don’t worry it wont involve physical exertion.” What the hell does that mean? I’m worried I’m not dressed correctly. I’m worried it will be something I hate- and for that matter how the hell does he know what I’ve done and what I haven’t? I’m preparing for a long night.

Wish me luck.

I met up with Sparkle and her latest shag yesterday and we went for a lovely Greek meal that ended in disaster when the bike she was using (owned by a possessive and scary cousin) was stolen from outside the restaurant. Police were typically unhelpful, though at least took statements, which is more than most do.  
The whole thing reminded me of a night I had about a year ago when my lovely Diesel bag was stolen from a pub in Islington, The Snooty Fox. The bag had everything in it; my work diary, work keys, ipod, Mac make-up collection (that hurt the most- knowing some crazy crack head was wondering round with my beautiful collection on her haggard and bloated face) house keys, wallet and a favourite jumper. I went ballistic. My friend (and I use that term in the loosest possible way) went straight home to bed and left me to deal with reporting it to the police and asking strangers if they’d seen anything. I spent the night wondering round the streets for a lady fitting the description I’d gotten from the bar staff.
At about one o’clock in the morning I was still tearing round council estates and empty streets searching. I think I would have ended up in a spot of trouble had it not been for a peace-loving Jazz journalist who accompanied me in my futile search until he was able to calm me down completely and then escorted me home. I’ll never forget the story he told me (which put mine in harsh perspective).

He had been a struggling writer for years, specifically writing on music-especially Jazz. He was offered an opportunity to travel around Africa to follow some sort of Jazz awards (I’m not sure what), with all the most infamous players available to talk and share their experiences. He pooled all his money into this endeavour and left for the airport prepared to come back with an amazing collection of work. After months of constant interviewing he had enjoyed not only an amazing experience- but also written enough notes to fill about six journals. These were stolen from him on the second to last day of his travels. When he returned to the UK, the publication pulled out when he had nothing solid to produce. He was left with nothing, and now is barely able to pay his rent- when I met him he was about to be evicted.
Never in my life have I met anyone so calm and serene, and so accepting of his troubles. It was hugely inspiring, and I often wonder what happened to my jazz angel- and whether he’s still hanging around Islington or Hackney helping out others more fortunate than himself.

I’m just hanging in there until lunch when I can fill my stomach with something other than day old white wine and rosé. Lover told me on Saturday that he’d see me early this week; early this week is fast depleting and I’m worried he’s going to suggest Wednesday- the only day I have booked up this week, for a dismal work event. I’m meant to be going on a date with The Other on Thursday, and I can’t cancel this one as I cancelled last week and he’ll start to become paranoid and mope again, which renders him completely unattractive.

I haven’t had sex since forever, last time was about a month ago with The Musician and it was very brief, but nice. I just hate that bond that women develop with a sexual partner (or “sexing” partner, as Sparkle calls it) that means they find them far more appealing than they might usually after only one night of average sex- which in turn can ruin their lives for at least three weeks. Unfortunately, due to my position I often have to find enjoyment elsewhere: I’d be having sex once every five months if it were up to Lover. Thankfully its not, but every time I’m with another man I wish afterward that it was him I spent the evening with, or watched a film, ate a meal with. I constantly compare other men to him, and they always fall by the wayside. It’s exhausting.
 

As it turns out I had a lovely night anyway in Lounge Lovers, admiring the weird and wonderful furniture whilst I gorged on white wine, as the cocktails were ridiculously expensive. Damn.  One cosmopolitan and I would have been fine. On Saturday I was at Proud Galleries in Camden, sweltering in the heat as I had to cover both my sunburnt back (finished peeling, though looking horrendous still) and my red spotted legs after an accident with my epilator. Bloody thing. Lover called me to say we’re going away to Madrid for a break in the summer. Ha, believe that when I’m at the airport, and if we’re going to argue as much as we did this New Year in Berlin then I’m not to sure I want to go. (That’s a big fat lie- I’m desperate to be whisked away by him).     

My mother is becoming increasingly menopausal. She knocked a bud off her rose bush on Sunday and spent half an hour crying over the roasted vegetables. It’s getting ridiculous, I don’t understand why she can’t pop some Valium and be done with it. She’s desperate for me to get on anti-depressant medication, but at this rate she’ll need it more than me; family members sneaking each others med drugs is just too OC for me.

Due to my unattractive appearance I know that halfway through the day I’m going to have to make an emergency dash to All Saints and spend too much money on something I don’t need, as the chances are I’ll have three replicas already hanging in my wardrobe. However, despite all of the above I’m incredibly excited about seeing an actual male, and not one of the cookie cutter dribbling wimps that have been circling my dating pond as of late.