That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

-Actually, I thought my name was Spam until I was 6. That was my dad’s favourite food, so that’s what he called me.
I look at my SLF in shocked disbelief.
-He what?
-Yep. Well, I didn’t know what my name was ‘til I went to school, she adds. When they took registration on the first day of school, I didn’t know what I was called.
-Right…. What do your parents call you now?
- No-one calls me by my full name; it’s usually Bren.
- Oh. You know, I found out the other day that ‘bren’ is an old French word for shit. Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. oops. That’s rather unfortunate.
--…..or it’s ‘B’. But from the age of 16 onwards people called me ‘Con’.
… and you realise that in French that means ‘cunt’, right?
-Perfect. ____________________________________________________________________________________

I don’t think it’s possible to beat that

1.Blogfolks, I was still thrashing under the clawed foot of the Dreaded Lurgy this weekend; various parts of me were hurting, aching or even exploding. Nasty.

2.Well, do you want to know what love is, blogpeople?

3. It’s when your special lady friend offers to rub your belly even though she has been (graphically, extensively) warned about the fact that such a thing will make you fart like there’s not tomorrow.

4. And she does it anyway, and she doesn’t even care, and she doesn’t even kick you out of bed.

Seriously

I know, blogfolks, it’s so last week to laugh at Goths; so sue me: ex-goths like me are perfectly allowed to laugh at the rest of the fold. And anyway, once a goth, always a goth, just ask Gregor

Also, they're just too easy. Easier than hippies, easier than punks. You can't find better targets than goths. I love goths with all my heart, I do.

Therefore, I just had to share this found picture with you; I mean, there is some serious gothness going on there. You have to sit back and admire it. I do. In a way. Especially the person on the left with the tambourine and the half-closed eyes manoeuvre. I thought I'd done some pretty extreme goth things in my days, but in the woods with a violin and a torch? Never.
Now I’ll go away and work on my power point presentation instead of picturing myself in long robes under the moonlight.

Here we go then

1. Chain letters, blogfolks. They’re pretty much an international plague, you know; we have them in France, too, and they also have spelling mistakes. In 1979 I was traumatized by the threat of the Evil Eye if I didn’t it pass on to 13 friends; in 1998 I declined to forward one on, along with my underwear size, in spite of the promise of 5 brand new pair of knickers. There has been countless others, but some friends still haven’t caught on to the fact that I’m not superstitious, and they keep sending them.

2. Memes, blogfolks. Is there such a word anyway? The little paperclip dude from Microsoft word doesn’t think so, and somehow I’ve learnt to trust his judgment.
On the other hand, If you add two acute accents as such: mémés, then it means Grannies, and that’s rather cute.

3. I think I was ‘tagged’ once and I obliged, because I was ill that day. And look! Blogfolks, I’m ill today too, stuck at home coughing and spluttering and feeling sorry for my pyjamad, flat-haired self. So let me valiantly grab 30-something’s mémé, breathe in, and try come up with something. Just because I like her, but don’t tell her that.


Four jobs you've had in your life: err. Youth camp leader. I don’t even like the youth. Clerk in a bank, me in an office with an obsessive hunter. Archivist person in a bank, me in an office with a married guy who wrote me a poem every day. International porn smuggler. Only one of those is a lie.

Four movies you could watch over and over: Delicatessen. All about my mother. Debbie does Dallas. Le père Noèl est une ordure. Only one of those is a lie.

Four places you've lived: much more south than here, then much more north, as well as near a river, and in a cave. Only one of those is a lie.

Four TV shows you love to watch: The L-word. Queer eye for the straight guy. I can’t think of anything else.

Four places you've been on vacation: Barcelona, San Francisco, Skala Eressou, Djerba. It’s all true, and not even remotely interesting.

Four websites you visit daily: Libération, Overheard in new york, as well as various blogs.

Four of your favourite foods: rare steak, tomatoes, rye bread, goat cheese.

Four places you'd rather be: somewhere bigger, wider, warmer, with a breeze and no headache.

Four albums you can't live without: Bebe, Pafuera telarañas(ay ay ay, mujer) ; Camille, Le fil; Placebo, Without you I’m nothing; Noir Désir, Des visages des figures.

Four to pass this mémé along to: well, if they have too much time on their hands or are stuck at home feeling ill, Sortof, Kiera and anyone else who may wish to do so and hasn’t yet, because, well, it’s been around. Good ole mémé.

I think I may have a fever.

P is for princess

1. I spent the weekend with my special lady friend. On Saturday, we stumbled in late at night after a perfectly delightful dinner of dramatically overcooked pasta at my friend Odd’s, and a drink and a half in a nearby watering hole with the gays. Then, conjuring up a cab, she took me home and put me to bed in crisp cotton sheets, under the blanket of large, cuddly cats.

2. On Sunday morning when I opened my eyes to a new dawn, she was wearing navy blue tracksuit bottoms.
Baggy, oversized, navy tracksuit bottoms. Men’s. With zips. Then she pulled them up almost to her armpits.

3. Of course, she did it on purpose. Finding mirth in my horrified expression. Blogpeople, I believe I was being tested.

4. I think I might have passed when I immediately slipped into her 100% nylon Brazil football shirt. I drew the line at wearing it for breakfast, mostly because footballnylon gives me a rash and yellow isn’t my colour.
I hope she isn’t holding that against me.

Huddle

1. 5pm: I’m standing, cold, waiting for a bus, any bus will do, why did I pick this ridiculously optimistic jacket this morning? I have an end-of-the-week headache. There is a small cluster of very lively pensioners at the bus stop. It’s cold, I huddle closer, maybe they won’t notice and welcome me into the group, perhaps even talk to me? I like old people, because I can be polite to them and smile and they won’t think I’m a mental patient. In the shop window nearby, a sign proclaims ‘Cold cans’. Yes, I’m thinking, this is exactly what I’m having right now. Finally the 275 takes me home, where J is listening to Britney Spears and playing with a kitten. I look out for scribbled hearts, but he must have known I was coming. ‘Don’t you want to take barbiturates for your head? ‘ he asks. I hope he means paracetamol. Or perhaps he wants to kill me.

2. 7pm: it’s warm and I’m wearing fuzzy socks. Where do normal people find the energy to go out on Friday nights?

I do hope to make up for the sobriety of my youth

1. People of blogland, you do look good for January, that limp, fizzleless month. I admire you. But enough about you, let’s talk about me. Yesterday was Wednesday, so I wanted to quit my job. By 6pm I was so tired with work I couldn’t spell wensday wenesday wfuckit anymore.

2. (What do you do you get such a lovely complexion, blogfolks?) Every Wednesday I want to quit. In fact every Wednesday I want to throw things, and run out and never come back again. Wednesdays are all kinds of crap. Thursdays ease off a little.

3. Today as things were easing off, an old man in a purple jumper asked me which bus I was waiting for, then immediately added: I’m not trying to chat you up, I wouldn’t want to cross your partner. Is he the jealous type?’ I cocked an eyebrow and felt mildly insulted that it wasn’t me he was afraid to cross. Not only can I not quit, but I don’t even seem to look remotely intimidating. Still it gives me an idea for when I’m retired and old. I can stand in bus stations and chat up unsuspecting youngsters. And wear purple, and spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, yes.

Tender

Blogfolks, hello. You’re looking well. Today marks the 9th month my Special Lady Friend and myself started this…. this thing we’ve got going, and it’s good. So last night she came over, and distracted me from my Spanish homework (and I was learning how to say ‘ two guys gatecrashed a party, got pissed, started a fight, we had to call the police and the next morning they nursed a hangover in the local jail’.)
Then we had rare steak with wholegrain mustard, peppery green salad, and a bottle of Californian Merlot. I’m still working on getting her to cook naked with just an apron, but I shouldn’t have shared with her my burning oil/nakedness experience of a few months ago.

Vernaculaire and dairy products

1. I think your cat’s got the ‘ump, my Special lady friend says.
Yes. Pancho has got the hump, I concur.

There is a blank. The blank morphs into a pregnant silence.

It’s not the same with the ‘h’, is it, she remarks.
I was thinking the exact same thing. Thing is, if I say ‘ump’, people assume it’s a French accent. I just can’t win, can I.
Oh.

2. Blogfolks, I was going to tell you about this man I saw last night, who placed his half-eaten yoghurt on the railing next to me, went into and out of a shop, grabbed it back and finished eating it– in the middle of Victoria station; I mean, has he not heard of spiked yoghurt? But now it doesn’t sound so riveting. So, no. Thank you for stopping by.

Just like home!

1. People of Blogland, I was out on the town last night, and it was just like being in Paris! Really, it was: I was patronizing a cosy candle-lit gay establishment in the company of a lovely friend (all my friends are lovely, though) when I saw outside a gang of hooded youfs gathering, lining up and seemingly up to something dodgy, or stupid, or both. They were looking at the windows of said establishment, but apparently decided against starting a siege and started throwing stones at passing women instead, before moving on. It felt just like home!

2. Prior to that, I went shopping in the most expensive furniture and decoration shop in the galaxy, Heal’s on Tottenham court road; I was painfully reminded of my inferior financial and economic status. I did, however, find a belated Christmas present for my Special Lady Friend. I wonder if it’d have made a good weapon should the potential riot described in 1. above had actually unfurled. I think it might have done.

3. Last night I was trying to convince Abi (who is, although a tall blonde, very lovely) of the many merits of inviting her own SLF over to her place and cook her dinner.

Good wine? Check.
Decent glasses? Check.
Candles? Check.
Music? Check.
A succession of home-cooked, light yet mouthwatering dishes? Check.
A playful dessert? Check.
100% Egyptian cotton bed sheets? Check.

So the following section is dedicated to Abi. Thank you for stopping by, blogfolks.

MENU
1. Green lettuce with walnut and blue cheese (Stilton is fine). Drizzle walnut oil if you have some. Balsamic vinegar won’t work.
2. Today’s suggestion is to combine the hearty mushroom risotto with rare steak. You’ll need an onion, some dry white wine and mushrooms. I recommend Gallo’s risotto rice. A full-bodied red wine with steak, definitely.
3. Poached pears with homemade chocolate sauce (melt over a low heat, add vanilla and cinnamon), sprinkled with grilled almonds and a scoop of good vanilla ice cream. I’ll practice this afternoon and get back to you with details.
PS: Aprons are sexy.

All quiet on the front, I think

1. Blogfolks, tonight I broke up with my mobile phone company. Like for any other break up, I had pangs of what-ifs, I was submerged by feelings of guilt and regret. I wonder if the kind man at Orange thought I was actually sobbing; I didn’t explain that the squeals I was uttering were caused by a frantic kitten trying to climb up my leg for attention.

2. The frantic kitten has entered the pre-teenage phase, and I’m so relieved J is coming back from Up North tonight! I have a kitten-induced sleep debt to pay, and I shan’t be able to do that without his cat-entertaining skills. (He reckons that he finds it easier to do what the cat wants right when the cat wants to do it.)

3. I don’t know what else to say, people of blogland. I’ve promptly forgotten about my Resolutions, except for the fibre one. I’m being quietly happy, and a large part of that I owe to my Special lady friend. Are you getting cavities yet? Thank you for stopping by.

Oh no

#1. No more cheap wine, cheap socks or cheap shampoo. Life is too short for cheap shampoo. Or cheap wine. Or cheap socks.

#2. Paint the bathroom walls. It’s been Violent Blue for far too long. Life is too short for Violent Blue.

#3. Eat more fibre. Fibres. Life is too short for chronic constipation.

#4. Decide of a quota of clichés I can utter per day. Stick to it.

#5. Keep listening to other people even though they’re exceeded their daily quota of clichés. Keep practicing that pa.. pa.. patience thing.

#6. Keep the needles and thread out of Francis’ reach. Francis does not need to floss.