Tuesday, October 21, 2014

I sit astride life like a bad rider on a horse. I only owe it to the horse's good nature that I am not thrown off at this very moment. - Ludwig Wittgenstein 


The owner of the flat downstairs just gave me a spare set of her keys because the flat is currently empty and there are lots of workers and estate agents and other random people who go in and out all day, and naturally it makes sense for us to hold a spare key just in case. Needless to say, we won't be holding it long, as it is only a matter of time until she comes back to check on the property and finds me lying on the floor in her empty living room, wondering how long it will take my tomatoes to grow in her back garden as I stroke a cat named Downstairs-Only Kitty.

But for now, I feel drunk with power. And curiosity. What does that flat even LOOK like? Only a secret midnight visit will tell. If it's nice, I'll let you know and then you can move to London and rent it and we can be neighbors and I promise I'll never use the key I copied ten times to secret-midnight-visit you.*

Sidebar: don't you love it when you buy leggings for £4 and then ten wears later, they're practically transparent and you know if you wash them one more time, they'll just disintegrate entirely? I love that. I'm wearing a pair of them right now and I feel like a fancy lady.

See this picture? This is also Lake Garda. I am just going to keep posting these pics one at a time so that by the time November rolls around, I don't have enough for an actual blog post. That's why they call me 'Plan Ahead Rona.'

Here is a story: once upon a time, many moons ago in San Francisco, I knew a girl who met this guy at a party in the Mission, decided he was The One, and stole his handmade alpaca scarf that he got in Peru because that is what one does when one finds true love. It nearly worked: he contacted the party-goers the following week to see if anyone had accidentally picked it up, she feigned chagrin at having it, he came to her place to retrieve it. As a thank you for 'saving' his scarf, he gave her a copy of a literary magazine he published. She was more impressed by his hair than the publication, and that is how it ended up in my grubby, delighted paws. I ended up subscribing, got to know Adrian, and now, nearly ten years later, I find myself attending these wonderful and crazy nights that he hosts all over the world. If you like books, comedy, and completely-non-literary-brutal-competition, this is the STUFF. I just got tickets to London's next Literary Death Match, and here's where it gets good: YOUGUYS IT'S CHRIS O'DOWD AND NICK V. MURPHY. *cue head explosion here*

It's all too much. I can't even.

I'll leave it to you to interpret this one.

Honestly. Between this and having Downstairs Key, I don't know how my day can get any better. I need to go lie down.

Right after my Moone Boy Marathon.

Big hugs and lots of love,

*This part is not true. I will. But I will be silent, and I will only watch you for a few minutes hours while petting D-O Kitty.

No comments:

Post a Comment