I met someone on an aeroplane last week.
(Well not on the aeroplane, just before that.)
One doesn't expect to meet, actually get on with, and later on, be attracted to someone on an aeroplane. That only happens in Hollywood Blockbusters, let's not lie.
If I take the general propensity of airline travellers that I have been lucky enough a bitch to sit next to: it's usually the Michelin Man who oozes onto my seat. And drools in his sleep, and eats all the free pretzels. Or a mother with a scrrreaming bambino.
So I'm usually prepared. As in I don't make eye contact, I stuff my iPod into my ears and refuse to engage in any more conversation other than, “Bathroom, I need the bathroom. Please dislodge your [large and grotesque] bottom from your seat so that I can get past”. Some passengers are chatty, especially people from PE (the Friendly City doesn't have that name just because), but I'm a hardcore, don't-fucking-look-at-me type on aeroplanes.
But I spoke to this person quite a bit. Even though he knows how much I was dreading sitting next to him to begin with. It's a long story.
Anyway, back to the point. I had a napover with the aeroplane dude on Saturday night. I haven't smiled properly in, oh about four months, in general, and I found myself inclined to feel less sorry for myself after this weekend. Maybe I shouldn't be smiling, because it could end up being a une grande catastrophe like everything else seems to become in my life, but whatever.
I also drank cane at the Colony, belted out some Roxette for everyone's aural pleasure, ate a curry at Bismillah, drank gin and tonics at the Country Club, and flicked a hoof at the Manhattan Club, just 'cos I hadta. (Also a mate needed rescuing from a man only known as Fanta Pants. Desirable.) Also witnessed Big T dry hump a few walls, which is always entertaining.
It's strange how things turn out.
PS: One of my mates, ever on her quest to find me the love of my life, suggested a guy whom, she described as, “Well, he's fantastic really. A real pants man. Who probably has a drinking problem and loses everything, but he's lots of fun.”
Let me think. How about no, [you crazy Dutch bastard?]
She's trying to set me up with a skirt-chasing alcoholic amnesiac? She must be bloody joking. Must be. I'm good for now.