Monday Missives

The main news this Monday morning is that I have not been killed by a rogue hairdressing Brazilian who sits on the Northern Line looking for innocent young girls to lure into his Salon of Pain in order to give them faux-trendy haircuts with all sorts of mismatched blonde spikes and asymmetrical fringes.

I am safe, and my hair is still long and a bit of a mess. Not even in a trendy way, it's just a bit messy.

The thing is, you see that a couple of things happened to prevent me going to meet Leo: Tube Etiquette Disregarder of Brazil.

1. I had to go to Battersea on Saturday afternoon to give something to my sister Sophie's friend so that she could take it back to Paris and give it to Sophie. By the time I made it back to my flat I had very wet feet as I had ill-advisedly gone out in a pair of small slippers designed for summer, and it was not so much summery as very, very rainy and horrible. I know that having wet feet does not preclude going on dates, but I was feeling a little sorry for myself by the time I got home. Then, if you add this up with the second thing, that
2. I met someone else on Friday night, you will see why I was reticent.

I know, I know. Don't, however, start assuming that I am a brazen hussy who goes around meeting men everywhere and promising them dates all the time. I don't. Not every single day. Twice, three times a week, max.

I went to a party with my friend Chris on Friday night. I was just about to leave, had my jacket on and everything, when a chap came up to me and introduced himself. I had actually seen him through the throng (thRong, I said, it wasn't that kind of a party) and had thought that he was somewhat attractive. In my internal monologue, of course, I used the word 'hunky', but I am changing it to 'somewhat attractive' for your benefit, to make myself seem more grown up.

We chatted and he asked if he could take me out for a drink on Monday night, an invitation I accepted.

So you see, I know that in Sex and The City people go on multiple dates all the time, and that it is not only normal but postively encouraged, but that is in America. In America people go out on dates with more than one person in a week and that is fine. The thing is, you see, I am not from America. Clapham is not America, even though it is similar because there is a McDonalds and you do sometimes see fat people*.

*Just a little joke. There are no fat people in Clapham.

So, when Leo called early Saturday evening I couldn't quite bring myself to answer. I felt too guilty. Which, yes I know, is ridiculous.

After consulting with my wise flatmates I decided to call him back after he sent me a nice text which I read out to myself in a Brazilian accent. We arranged to meet later in the week.

So I have two dates, basically. In one week. I am, basically, Samantha from Sex and the City. Except without the dress sense or the good job or the blonde hair.

Actually I have THREE dates! If you count my appointment with the cognitive behavioural therapist tomorrow, which I most certainly do. I have a feeling I'll score with that one.

(I am about to start a paragraph completely unrelated in anyway to anything I have previously mentioned in this post and I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to ignore that fact. Thank you.)

Tassel twirling! Was yesterday evening.

I will give you a snapshot.

A dance studio, about six metres by ten. Pale wooden floors, a cactus in one corner*. A mirror down the length of one wall. Coats and bags and shoes and tops and bras all in one corner.

Twenty women, naked from the waist up, bar two sequinned tassels each, bouncing on the balls of their feet and scrutinizing themselves in the mirror.

"My left one won't do it!"

"I've lost a tassel!"

"Oh my God! You're doing it! That's great!"

"Is that a camera up there? In that corner?"

The last one isn't a real quote.

It was, as predicted, so much fun. My pasties (pronounced like...um.. waist-y as opposed to the pasty of the Cornish variety) have red sequins and black tassels. For an hour and a half my friend Lily guided us through the basics of the art of tassel twirling, and walked around giving us all advice and encouragement. I met some other women with whom I exchanged email addresses.

After the tassel twirling there was a fan dancing workshop which I stayed on for, and we learned how to, well, dance with fans. The teacher had these beautiful white fans that were about five foot long. The movement is so graceful and the fans are controlled with flicks of the wrist and arcs of the arms. I loved the fan dancing, the elegance and simplicity of it really appealed to me.

I brought my pasties home with me and am planning on sticking them on display somewhere, with the sole purpose of scaring my flatmates with the constant threat of me getting drunk and staging a demonstration.

This week, then, is looking a bit packed out. Dates, therapy, and some music stuff.

Also Sophie is coming back from Paris at the weekend as it is her twenty-first birthday on Saturday, and she has arranged her party in London. It is an extravaganza, with DJs from Amsterdam, some Latin American funk band, some burlesque, and oh, yes, me. Singing my own songs for the first time to an audience.

I may or may not be scared. I haven't worked it out yet.

I think I will just wear my tassels, then no one will notice if my songs are rubbish. I think this will work a treat.

I hope you had a lovely weekend.



*I assumed this was to punish people whose wild dance routines spin wildly out of control. After a few hours picking cactus spikes out of various parts of your anatomy I am sure you'd learn the importance of precision in the art of modern dance.