domesticity or bust

Went out with The Dove last night, she was well eager for a couple of beers.
This time a month ago, we were in Berlin, hamming it up like a bunch of over-eager douchebags. Fuck. A month on, we needed a couple of beers.

We decided, as the future godmothers of each other’s prospective children [and even if mine are born out of test tube, from a donor father, which is looking likely at this stage] that instead of random godmotherly gifts, we’re starting travel funds for our respective godchildren instead.

So when Dove’s spawn graduates, Aunty Peas isn’t buying him a watch. Or a Rolodex. Or a surfboard. Sorry mate. Every year of its life, we’ll put away a stash of cash, which means my godchild is going to have one HELLUVA Gap Year.

And best it takes a Gap Year so that it learns how to handle its alcohol and that it can sow his wild oats before getting cum laude in its genius science degree.

A Travel Fund. Aren’t we just so fucking cool when it comes to practical decision-making? God we’re amazing. And one clause: they have to spend their Travel Funds in Europe. Where they can at least learn a smidgeon of culture and history before going to Australia, say. They can muck about in Ibiza for a month for all I care, but they’re going to come back and know a good cheese when they smell it. And also be very astute in Latin languages.

Yeah so. Back to reality.

The Universe isn’t helping me make the decision I have to make, if anything it’s pushing me into a corner.

Black mamba’s strike from corners. It isn’t the area in the room anyone wants to be under pressure.

We’re going antique shopping on Saturday. I haven’t put any homely investment into my house for months, and frankly I’m getting ansty.

I’m not lying when I say my side tables are driving me fucken insane. They’re your standard run-of-the-mill wooden tables, but they are bovvering me to the point of distraction. There’s nothing remotely, ‘Woah hello check me and my vibe out’ when it comes to these side tables; they’re the same as everyone else’s.

And since my giant piece of Berlin Wall needs the appropriate retro centrepiece on which to display itself, I’m bloody taking Dove to Albertsville, at the back-end of town, with me on Saturday.

Albertsville has retro antique furniture, complete with the 80s formica tops and such. And my lounge is going to sing with them. Frankly, during hibernation, one needs something to look at.

And I’ll be damned if it’s a generic artefact from Furniture Warehouse, circa 1995.

It’s time to invest in quality. So I’m putting the seats down in my car and I’m stuffing it full of sidetables. And then I’ll host a dinner party and get catering in.

I’ve become so useless living by myself that cooking has become one of those things I’d need to study in order to do it again. Hosting dinner parties hasn’t happened in, like a century, either. I’ve forgotten how it’s fucking done. Nigella Lawson, where do you get the passion for this shit?

One of my friends is currently unemployed and cooks like an angel dropped from Provence. So I’ll hire her to cook three courses, pay her for her work and time. And then let her eat with us. She might be the help, but she’s also invited to the dinner party.

As long as she serves tapenade and camembert wheels on my retro side tables, she can serve whatever the fuck she wants for starters and mains.

I’m trying to be domesticated. I just need a little help. What. I live on my own, ok.