violetsnvalium: (Ms. Patsy Kelly)
I am such a terrible blogger. The thing is that I don't really do anything I can blog about. All I do is work a lot, which is very interesting to me but not-so-much-so to everyone else, and have strange escapades, about which I should not really tell the internet. So here are some interesting things that have happened to me lately:

* I went and worked for a week in the juggling-fire bar in the south of France and it was fun, and I went swimming in the sea with one of the barmen at 7am in the freezing cold dawn and then we went on bicycles to buy cigarettes and he wanted to be a stuntman and we both fell off and then we drank Get 27 to warm up and ate nutella crepes and fell asleep. And then the next day everyone thought that we had sex, because everyone is prosaic and doesn't know that actually we had way more fun than that.

* When I got sick my hair fell out a lot, and then when it was growing back it got to looking so weird that one day when I was hungover I chopped it all off with a nail scissors without even looking in the mirror, and felt a lot better. Then I went and looked in the mirror and made it into a vaguely straight line, and there you are. I think hair is silly anyway. I mean. Stuff that grows out of your head, and you're like "let's make it all fancy!".

* Mr Stupid affectionately called me "my rusty little plough". I am still trying to figure it out. Is this a sexual reference? What does it mean? I will ask him next week but first it is fun to puzzle over. Nobody else seems to know either.


There must be other things but I can't think of them. I just spend hours on YouTube watching Conversations With My 2-Year-Old and then fall asleep. MY LIFE=INTOXICATING.
violetsnvalium: (Ms. Patsy Kelly)
At the moment I am being tested. This isn't a comment about stress or anything - I am literally being tested all over. Blood tests, pulmonary function tests, work competence evaluations, French language tests (that's next month and I am scared), English language tests (meh), maths tests (don't even ask)... I even had an IQ test, just for the hell of it. After this I am going to know every little thing about every little part of my body and mind.

The reason for all these tests - well, the mental ones, the physical ones are just because the doctors are trying to find out what the hell is killing me aside from Jagermeister - is that I am becoming a student again, after approximately nine sipillion years. This is very hard for me. I just spent a couple of minutes writing an email back to my new student adviser lady, trying to remember how you're supposed to start a formal letter. "Hey!" "Hi, how are you?" "Good evening!" Oh, yeah. It's "Dear" (orilly?). Which, by the way, is completely inappropriate if you think about it logically, but as with all formal thingies, you must never really consider it because it might be like the fluttering butterfly in chaos theory.

So I am doing two things this year: one is a professional certificate in management from the Open University, and the other is a BTS (brevet de technicien supérieur, pretty much the same thing) in management des unités commerciales, which luckily I can do through work-based learning rather than writing long essays in French. See, I speak French. No, I do. The thing is that in French, I have a cripplingly severe case of potty-mouth. Pretty much every sentence ends in "de mes couilles !" and I call everyone "mon frère", regardless of gender or social status. I am basically Ali G. I am taking a French language test called the DALF to prove that I am bilingual, and even though I am perfectly capable of chattering on in French for hours (and hours, and hours), there is a very strong possibility that I will blithely and cheerfully make an obscene comment about the examiner's mother.

This is all kind of scary to me. Essays! How in the name of God do people write them? I haven't written an essay since I was about fourteen, and I think it was about my summer holiday or something. But when the essay is something like "describe the various methods of communication to your line managers, staff and customers that you have used in your job and evaluate their effectiveness" (actual quote), I am thrown. My essay would say "Um, I just tell them what to do and normally they do it so I guess it works".

You people, though, you LiveJournal people, you all seem to get it. You're always all blabbering on about your PhDs and shit. HOW DO YOU DO IT? This is a real question. Tell me. GIVE ME YOUR KNOWLEDGE. How do you sit at a computer and actually write these things without just looking at cat videos and playing Minesweeper? Just thinking about it exacerbates my potty-mouth.

violetsnvalium: (Ms. Patsy Kelly)
It's not the end of the world. (A phrase normally used to comfort people, but this time just a statement of fact.) Everyone seems vaguely disappointed; wouldn't it have been reassuring if it really had been the end of the world? No more worrying, no more responsibility, no more thinking about the what ifs of it all. Makes me think of this poem:

It occurs to me, perversely perhaps, but unmistakably,
That it would be so nice to be seized like that
And taken away.
I'm not sure why, but it occurs to me
That it would be so nice to have a change of problems,
And such a relief to be in the right for once
In the face of the interrogators which are everywhere, anyway.

Solitary confinement sounds nice, too.
I like that word, used in the reports, "incommunicado".
Well, why are you asking? I'm only just saying it occurs to me
That one might be able to take a spiritual
Retreat out of it, such as I've never managed
To achieve in the atmosphere of monasteries and convents.
Unworldliness is such a distraction, you see.

Of course, the idea of being seized is
A prehistoric female urge, probably, rising
Up from the cave, which must have been exciting,
And perhaps one would hope for a charming interrogator.

Yes, I do agree, I wouldn't like it really.
It's only just an idea. Yes, I know you don't follow.
Because, in fact, I'm not leading anywhere. Just talking,
That's all. I think I'd put up a fight, actually,
If taken away off the street. And it occurs to me that maybe
I would like a fight, but not really.
Neither would they, perhaps.
I don't know. Why are you asking questions
Like this and trying to put me in the wrong?
I've exhausted the idea, anyhow, with all this talking.

(Muriel Spark, if you're interested.)

That feeling of knowing that bad things happen and it's not your fault is astonishingly liberating. I normally have the opposite problem. I don't know why, but I have a major guilt complex. Every time I go into the supermarket and walk past the store detective, it makes me feel like an awkward thief. The funniest part is that I've never actually stolen anything - not even when I was that age where all little kids are supposed to steal stuff, get caught, get in trouble and learn never to do it again. Doesn't make any difference - I still feel as though my handbag is stuffed full of contraband whenever the security guy wanders past me.

The same goes for Facebook! Whenever someone I know (it's usually a girl, let's be honest) puts up a post being mean to someone anonymous, I'm sure it's me. "stop flirting with my boyfriend you dumb bitch he's MY MAN and he dosent want you anymore!!!" My head goes questioning. Do I know her boyfriend? Have I spoken to him ever? Was I friendly? Should I maybe, next time I see her, reassure her that her boob-less boyfriend is probably not my type? (Luckily most of my friends do not post this kind of thing. However, there are always a few people you have to be friends with for political/work/some other stupid reasons, and they can sometimes slip under the radar.)

Something like the apocalypse, however, brings on no rush of inappropriate guilt - just the sweet relief of knowing that there is no point at all in filling out your tax forms or doing the washing-up.

Ah well, according to the list of dates predicted for apocalyptic events, the next possible-apocalypse is scheduled for the 19th May, 2013. Maybe I could just leave the dishes until then?
violetsnvalium: (Ms. Patsy Kelly)
A hint to everyone: Don't ever try to read the results of your own blood tests unless you're a doctor. It can lead to all kinds of mental drama. (Every category in which I come up abnormal, I diligently look up on Wikipedia. This generally leads to the realisation that I am doomed.) Also, don't take lots of painkillers and then go to sleep, because you have weird dreams. I dreamt that I was chilling with the cast of Steel Magnolias and Barbra Streisand. Then I woke up and wondered when I turned into a stereotypical gay man. It's all good.

Anyway. I am on my period and am 10kgs heavier than I have ever been before, and of course THIS WEEKEND I have an underwear shoot. Seriously. What the hay, it just means there's going to be a lot more ass than in most underwear shoots. I don't know if I am majorly self-confident or if it's just that I really don't care.

Something I do care about though: I got myself a Christmas present!! It should be here next week and it's amazing.

My present to me:


OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!! so excited!!!!
violetsnvalium: (Ms. Patsy Kelly)
My parents are from this hideous industrial city in Wales. Once I went there visiting and thought it would be funny to buy postcards to send to people - "Look where I went!" The people making the postcards had been so desperate to find something beautiful about that city that they had resorted to pictures of a drawing someone had made under the overpass. The postcards were so amazing that I kept them.

Before I was born, my parents moved away from the hideous city. They moved to York.


That's York. When I was eighteen I moved to Paris.


And that's Paris (you probably guessed that).

I have never, ever lived anywhere ugly. I don't know what it's like to go out of your house, walk down the street and go, "Ugh, this architecture".

But also! I have never, ever lived anywhere with good weather. Parisians, on finding out I'm originally English, say "England's cool, but the weather is too shitty for me." To which I look at them askance. Paris and England have the same weather. It's rainy and miserable and cold most of the time. Summer lasts a month, and not a whole month. We sometimes get little hints of summer around April or May, with a week of glorious sunshine, which then disappears, leaving the month of June sort of brown and dreary (except for Gay Pride day which is always fabulous weather. Really! It's always hot and sunny. Sort of puts a question mark over that "God hates fags" argument). We get the odd nice day throughout July and August. Then, from October through April, it's winter. Dark, damp, icy rain winter. (Just to mess with me, today is sunny. Sunny but freezing. It's nice.)

I only just realised that somewhere in my head, I don't believe that people live in places with good weather. For me, these places are holiday destinations. You go there to see what it's like when it's warm all the time. When you've seen it and thought about how great that is, you go back to your rainy, cold home, and think about how one day you're going to go somewhere warm again.

I went on holiday to this place:


It's called Santa Lucia de Tirajana and it's in Gran Canaria. I sat in a little bar and had a laboured conversation in Spanish with the owner. The lady was pleased to hear I was from Paris! She was going there in a few weeks. She'd heard that in January, Paris was cold. Was that true? "Yes." Like, cold cold? You have to wear a sweater all the time and a coat as well? Even at noon? "Yes." That must be weird. So if I was from Paris, what was I doing in Santa Lucia de Tirajana? "It's pretty! It's sun! I like hot." (My Spanish is incredibly basic.) Yeah, but there's nothing to do. Paris, there are museums and people everywhere and big buildings. She'd rather live in Paris than here. It's so boring here.

So I guess the moral of the story is that everyone whinges all the time. But the other moral of the story is that one day, I am going to live somewhere where it's warm all the time. And until then, I am going to have fun in Paris even if it is all rainy, because there are museums and people everywhere and big buildings and all, and in ten years I've never been to the Louvre (yeah. It's political. I'm never going).

Does anyone really live in a good-weather place though?
violetsnvalium: (Default)

So here I am, tootling around, and I find something about that film Matilda where the little kid who played Matilda is now grown-up and a lot more cool than she used to be and arguing it out with the Nostalgia Chick. So that's here, and around the ten minute mark Mara Wilson says "There's Matilda and Miss Honey slash fan fiction out there. I mean, really, guys? Really?"

Me: Hehehehe. Really? Noooo. Really?


Me: Heheheheheeee!

*one hour later*

Me: GODDAMNIT. No. Where is the final chapter? WHERE IS IT?

Yeah, so. That's just part of it. (Probably the weirdest internet part of the night, but oversharing is caring, folks.) Did you know that there are kazillions of old movies that are in the public domain and they're all up on YouTube? Good ones even. Like His Girl Friday and It's A Wonderful Life (if you happen to like that film, which I don't particularly). Also lots of films that are just blatantly on YouTube for no good reason except that I like to watch them.

Today: Too Late For Tears, A Royal Scandal (oh, Tallulah!), Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?. Also a big giant long interview with Lizabeth Scott, which I obviously had to watch after Too Late For Tears which by the way is not a very good movie, and don't bother watching the interview either because she doesn't say one word about how she got kicked out of Hollywood for visiting prostitutes.


Seran, I don't think this is what you meant when you told me to get a hobby, eh?

Never mind. I can disappear joyfully into the endless loop of the strange part of the internet!!
violetsnvalium: (Default)
If you know me, one of the things you know is that I am a workaholic. I don't really know why, it just does something for me, y'know? I love to work. Love love love it. On my days off, I either sneakily go to work and work on the DL, or else see if I can work an extra somewhere else.

Anyway, I've been doing a lot of that, and turns out it's not so good for your health. I kept getting sick, which happens anyway, but it turned into recurring bronchitises and then recurring cystitises (v. annoying) and recurring fainting spells and ended up with me in the hospital on a drip in the middle of the night, frantically calling work to tell them that I'd be back the second I was unplugged. Except I didn't get unplugged for five more hours and couldn't go back and spent the next few days fuming about it.

So. I made a decision and called my boss the next day and said that I might be getting sick because of working too many nights. He was very nice about it and made me an appointment to go and see the work doctor.

(Oh, and I called my boyfriend for advice. You know, my boyfriend. He was just like me in that he was a workaholic night person for years and years, but in September he gave it all up to start a new daytime career as a transporter [I don't know either] and is apparently now happy. Here was our conversation:

Me: Sorry to be phoning you, I just have a little problem and I wanted to talk to you about it.
Mr Stupidhead: That's okay, what's wrong?
Me: I'm pregnant.
Mr Stupidhead: ...Really? Really? And it's mine? Oh my GOD!! That's amazing! Are you going to come and live down here?
Me: ...I'm not really pregnant. I have a problem with work. WHY ARE YOU HAPPY WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

So there you are: I tried to scare him, but he scared me a lot more. Nice work, Mr Stupidhead. After that we just got back to the usual business of insulting each other.)

But it turned out that I didn't even get to choose anything. I went to see the work doctor and got declared inapte, which means that depending on the timescale of the inapte-ness, I cannot work nights for somewhere between six months and infinity. (We're still working on the timescale. I am visiting the hospital so often that the nurses now treat me the same way I treat the bar regulars.) So no more bar.

At the moment, I'm actually getting paid to stay at home. Which for most people is a lifetime dream (my best friend is very jealous and sure that she must be inapte as well), but for me is just boring. Then when they finally let me go back to work, I won't be allowed to work nights, so I'm probably going to get put on stock. YAY I GET TO COUNT BOTTLES ON MY OWN ALL DAY!!

But at least I won't get sick all the time, and will be able to have some sort of social life outside of work. This scares me, by the way. I've gone years without having a social life! I'm basically a sociopath, whyever would I want to try something that's completely against my nature?

The work doctor, having run me through a lot of tests, told me off about having weakened my body and immune system. He was all, "You're going to keep catching every virus that comes past, and the next time it might be pneumonia, and if it's pneumonia, you're gonna DIEEEEEE". I love thinking about my own mortality and stuff.

So I think I should be a lesson to everyone. Don't be working too hard. Do not work 65+ hours a week just because it is fun. If it is fun, you will not be allowed to do it any more because of killing yourself from doing it all the time. WATCH AND LEARN, PEOPLE.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
The doctors stopped me from going to work again because I got a kidney disease and started doing La dame aux camélias again. My boss phoned me today. I thought he was going to yell at me but he was like, "Don't you think maybe you should take a holiday and stop getting sick? Get your doctors to stop you for a few weeks." Seriously. I have a really nice boss.

That's pretty much it, actually.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
Sad! The Olympics are gone! I only really care about one event, but it's enough to give me the fever. My thing is the artistic gymnastics. When I was little, I was in intensive training. I started when I was two years old. You've seen the videos of the little Chinese kids being tortured? Well, we did that too. Exactly the same. The difference is that we did it because we loved it so much. I was a very bad gymnast, despite all the training. I am not naturally bendy or bouncy, and I kept, y'know, growing and stuff. It didn't make any difference. I was still at the gym four hours a day, six days a week. My sister did it too and when we weren't at the gym, we were practising our tumble runs across the front lawn (we wore a diagonal strip of it completely bald, but my parents weren't gardening freaks and didn't care), or finding straight lines to approximate our beam routines.

Then somehow I was 5'10" and even the easiest things weren't possible any more, so I stopped, and now have only the ability to jump into splits and perform joyful cartwheels when drunk. Still, that's the way it goes, and being 5'10" has its advantages, after all. For example, not being at armpit level when squashed into the métro. And being able to wear ridiculously high heels and glittery eyeshadow and passing for a drag queen, which is a personal hobby of mine, even if it's slightly weird.

Anyway! Aside from watching the Olympics and doing handstands against my bathroom door, nothing much has been happening. I feel as though I skipped the summer. All I did was work and work and work at nighttime in a bar with no windows. The sun and I have not seen each other yet. I still drink ridiculous amounts of alcohol, but I don't really get drunk any more. I don't know if this is a good thing or not - either it means that I am very aware of my body's limits and don't push it too far, or else it means that I'm such an alcoholic that it's stopped working.

It's bad, though. Alcohol makes you heavy. Your mind is sort of dark and dull and you wake up listless and unenthusiastic about anything, and when that happens every day, it gets kind of repetitive, you know what I mean? And then you're too tired to do anything on your days off and end up watching German soap operas on YouTube at 5am (or maybe that's just me).

Oh well. I learned how to say "ich habe Liebeskummer" or something, and to narrow my eyes and go "DU!" when opening the door to my nemesis. My time has not been wasted.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
I'm on sick leave. Why? Well, I don't really know. I'm getting blood tests. I have been getting blood tests for the last few weeks, and this week they decided to stop me from working. I still don't know what they think is wrong with me. Or maybe they just couldn't get a proper result from the tests while my blood alcohol level was at 80% proof.

In other news, I seem to be succumbing to the Pub Runner's curse. Me, one year ago:


Me, now:


I didn't quite notice that before, except for not being able to zip up half of my dresses. Better get on that, eh. Ah well, shouldn't take me long to lose it.

This not working thing is strange to me. For a long time, I haven't worked fewer than 200 hours per month. This is my third day off in a row (although yesterday I did go by the bar to make sure that the boy covering for me knew how to do everything), and it's driving me batty. Still, at least this means I will finally clean up my house. It looks like one of those houses you see on the TV about the people who are filthy disgusting pigs and must be exterminated and How Can You Live Like This? I'm not even kidding. It's 10.42am and I already excavated the bathroom. Normally, I'd have come in the door about an hour ago and passed out on top of the cat.

Sick leave=BAD BAD BAD. I hate this. I want to work.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
My skin is on fire everywhere! I have a sunburn and white-blonde hair, I look like somebody called Ulrika. I am insanely active in this sunshine. Walking miles on end to go nowhere in particular, flying around in a little parachute thing, sailing little boats and things. Just like a sporty person. And of course, playing with my lovely lovely horses. Horses are the best things ever invented.

I have some waitresses and a sailor teaching me Spanish. I can already say "Hey, la rubia, la rubia, muy guapa!" The sailor is amusing to me because he is a Spanish sailor and his name is Elton. Ahahaha. Elton.

Anyway! I really don't have much to say, I think. I am too busy being mindlessly active and running around. I haven't smoked a cigarette since I left France, just because I didn't seem to feel like it. No alcohol, either. I've put on at least 10kg in the last two months and I really don't mind.

violetsnvalium: (Default)
I am a terrible horserider now. I ride like a cowgirl, all one hand on the reins and leaning forward over the horse's neck. I am sorry, to all you good equestrians. But it's fun! I spent the day galloping around in the mountains, raising dust clouds and jumping over little gullies, and it was amazing. All I needed was the gun.

Ah, you know, you can't always be a bourgeoise Parisienne, it's just too unsurprising.

Aside from that, nothing much. I drove the tourist ferry. I seem to get to drive the tourist ferry a lot. I drove it around in the sea in circles, giggling, until they got annoyed and made me stop driving it. It was nice.

And I have sunburn.

And that is all.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
I am in Gran Canaria. I can explain nothing more than this. My Spanish is horribly horribly bad, but I shall persevere. It´s not for long. After this I will be somewhere else. I am dreaming of running around the world permanently. It would be fun, wouldn´t it? But how would you do it?

Anyway. I have too many things to write about and therefore can write about none of them, because it would take too long and my internet cafe time is ticking away and you know.


* I slept with a BOY!!
* I am in love (not with the boy)
* My life seems to be all switching around
* The rest is the same.

But we already knew about the in-love, I think, so that´s not news. Wait, this is all confusing to me.

Ugh. Writing in an internet journal is hard when you don´t ever have the internet. I think I´m going to go to the beach now.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
Just to say: I AM NOT DEAD.

My computer is, however. I'm in an internet café writing notes of love.

Things that have happened:


No it'll take too long.

But, not dead!
violetsnvalium: (Default)
I have a really great idea! I want to open a gay bar. But not a gay bar as in a bar for homosexuals. A GAY bar. With knickerbockerglories and everyone wearing their spring frock, and strawberries and cream and "Oh oh Antonio he's gone away left me alonio all on my ownio" and afternoon tea and dancing and a maypole, and a barmaid looking like Florrie Forde. Ohhhhhhhhh Goddddd. This is the best idea ever. I will just call it The Gay Bar. And everyone will be happy. And there will be scones.

I'm always happy. I'm so happy. I'm just permanently chipper and I have no idea why. I wander around on my own, in a daze, with a big smile, thinking about how great it would be to be a girl who was a male stripping tapdancer, you know, the ones who pull off their suits and strip down to the boxers and wifebeater, but a GIRL. And that would be hot. And then I am chipper some more, and sit around on my own at 4am writing poems about nonsense, in a wildly lunatic French-English hybrid language. Wearing giant-skirted swing dresses with voluminous multilayered flamenco petticoats, and flowers in my hair, and major heels, and running chipperly around in the street at 7am.

I think I am actually a crazy person. A real crazy person. Nobody else seems to do what I do (except for one person, and she is a crazy person too. And I am madly in love with her and can't think of anything else, except for, apparently, gay bars and being a male tapstripper).

In a burst of gay joy I cleaned up my house and drilled holes in the walls and made spice racks and stuff. Spicy Mama. Oh yeah. Painted them green with white polka dots. I can't believe how much mess the cat makes. It's astounding. She's worse than me.

Playing at work. "Can you juggle the cocktail shaker and the Malibu bottle?" "Let's play with the tray. Can you walk with the tray on your head?" "Can you hold the tray on the bottom of your foot?" "Can you put the tray on your foot, do an arabesque, get your foot right up over your head and then put the tray on your head?" "Can you lie on the bar and lean off backwards and put your hands on the floor and backflip off it?" "What sets on fire around here?" They shouldn't put me on quiet days. If I am not permanently occupied, I am a bad influence. (But I can backflip off the bar.) One day I will actually die, I'll be amazed.

Jesus, this is all so wonderful, even if I am completely insane. I swear to God.
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Not working has put me into a strange dream state. I keep going to work anyway and just making out with girls and getting drunk for free, and then being confused. Then I make out with the boys. It's all good, except for not working.

Peh. I look like a ballet teacher at the moment. I don't know why. I have this "no no no leetle girls!" thing happening, which is amusing.

Anyway, I refused my hand operation, because they said I would never be able to move my middle finger again. And I need my middle finger for Beethovening. So they sort of shrugged and took the bandages off, and I left, and my hand is all weirdly deformed, but I am re-educating it the only way I know how.

Yes, it's horribly bad. That was the second day without the bandages, and my middle finger is now half a centimetre shorter than it used to be, and my hand is still broken, and it hurts, Goddamnit. I can't move it the way it should be moved, as can be clearly heard. But. We shall prevail, with this strange dyslexic broken hand.

Three hours of Czerny every day, is my prescription. (Nasty medicine.)

AND. Now that the bandages are off, I can go back to work! (We shall not quibble about the ins and outs of working with a broken hand. What's the worst that could happen? I could rebreak it. And if I rebreak it, it can be operated properly, the way it should be.)

On Thursday I went to a concert. It was called Pyro Liszt, and it was a piano and an orchestra playing Liszt with little fireworks behind them, to go with the "emotion of the music". It was also a French man, dramatically reading out bits of Liszt's diary, with a growling burping voice. It was so funny. The pianist didn't really know how to uncutesy Liszt (which is very possible) and played Liebestraum at face value. Then he played La Campanella without even trying to make it thunder and with fourteen wrong notes. "Oh well," I thought, "maybe he will redeem himself with the Hungarian Rhapsody no. 2." But for that one he left the stage, and the orchestra played it alone, and little Catherine wheels started going off to show how dramatic it was, and the lawn set on fire and they put it out with a little extinguisher, and then someone in a building nearby found a trumpet and started blarting trumpet noises during the dramatic readings, and I was laughing so hard I was crying. And it was contagious, so all the people around me started giggling, and after a while the whole section was hysterically laughing, and I realised that I was messing up the whole important concert, so I left.

Now. Time to get dressed in a white ballgown for the Soirée Carte Blanche and to drop off my X-rays at work (my boss says he knows a hand specialist and is not happy about me being deformed and mutilated), and to pester to know when I can come back. LET ME BACK BEHIND THE BAR. LET ME IIIIIIN, LEETLE GIRLS.
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Well, looks like my fun is going to be slightly curtailed for a while... Latest X-rays show that my hand is now a million times worse than before, so they have to operate on it. Then a month without moving it, and then a month of hand re-education. The boys have already promised to visit me in the hospital bearing gifts of Jagermeister and shouting "SHOTTTT!", which is very sweet of them. (You don't stay in the hospital for a hand operation, do you? It's just in and out, right? Because I have to feed the cat.)

The other night the owner of my bar came in for a drink and saw me merrily working away with one hand, and said "What are you doing?" I said, "Making a Pina Colada." He said, "What happened to your hand?" I said, "It broke." He called another manager to come in and sent me away. I am not allowed to work until it's fixed (which, in all fairness, would probably have happened anyway now that I have to be operated) and he did not agree that the metal cast thing made an absolutely perfect tray for carrying a champagne bucket above my head. They have taken away the metal cast thing now, though, because it bent my hand the wrong way and is to blame for my slipping bones (the champagne buckets apparently are not!). Now I have a sort of sock thing full of resin and a curled claw hand.

So yesterday after the hospital I angrily stamped around Paris and sat on a terrace and ordered a diet Coke from the waiter. He said "That's so hardcore." I said, "Diet Coke, and don't be stingy baby." So he brought me a huge litre glass of diet Coke with a sparkler in it and more sparklers in his hands to decorate the table. Then I stamped angrily to another bar to see my barman friend and eat chocolate cake, and couldn't use the spoon very well with my left hand, so my friend tried to shovel it into my mouth and then we drank shots, and a table of businessmen sent me champagne, and it was 1.30pm and I was already getting drunk. So I stamped in an angry wooze to the Champs Elysées and bought myself concert tickets to fill up my gaping free time (Liszt and fireworks in the park next Thursday!) and wandered into the metro. People looked at me funny. Maybe because of the midnight blue silk evening gown and black lace bolero and black flower behind my ear, coupled with the giant hand-paw in the resin sock.

Ended up back at work, with my equally blonde friend, drinking more and trying to seduce the poor DJ by writing his name on my leg. Then suddenly I was bored.

So I went home.

Annoying the DJ photo. )

Ah, he loves it, you can tell. (Not really so much.)
violetsnvalium: (Default)
Paris is a crazy place. The other night we started off in a tiny theatre for street artists, where Italians were playing the kind of tzigane music that grabs you by the guts and won't let you go. They shouted "MARIAAAA!!" at me and started dedicating all their songs to us, to the annoyance of everyone else in the theatre. After that we wandered through the night, talking and looking at church spires lit up the colour of clouds, and found ourselves in a huge squat full of fairy lights and rosemary and paintings all over the walls, with people making couscous. Ran into a back room and lay on a sofa watching three guys playing jazz together, drums, double bass and piano, in this epic improvisation that they couldn't stop.

Left the squat, found a bar that was someone's living room opened up, with old prostitutes sitting around on the sofa smoking joints and a little Palestinian man selling us cans of Coca Cola out of his fridge. Wandered more. Ended up eating paninis at Chatelet at 1am. All that in the wonderful company of an absolutely heart-breakingly beautiful girl. Told her, "I said I'd buy you dinner, didn't I?" Kissed her goodnight like a gentleman and put her in a taxi, and ended up sitting in a jazz bar until 6am talking with a couple of friends in a passionate kind of way.

I don't take advantage of this as much as I could. I should do it so much more. That was Wednesday.

On Tuesday me and my friend tried to take romantic pictures at 3am.


Ah, it's a funny kind of life, and I wouldn't switch with anyone.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
Oh faaaaaaaahhck. I broke my hand. I was talking to someone while going down some steps, then I fell down the steps, then I was all, "Where's my cigarette?", then I said, "Huh. I think I broke my hand." "Nah," said he, "if it was broken you wouldn't be able to talk. You'd faint from the pain." So I fainted from the pain.

Then sat around looking at the protruding bone for half an hour, trying to push it back into place and getting annoyed when it kept coming out again. Finally gave up and went to the emergency room. They took X-rays and then came in all serious going "YOU HAVE BROKEN YOUR HAND." Duh.

Welp, looks like I'm going to be practising Scriabin's left hand nocturne for a while.
violetsnvalium: (Default)
I'm such a hooooo.


Saturday. )

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