Wednesday, November 19, 2014

On midnight visitors and the path not taken

There are things which must cause you to lose your reason or you have none to lose. - Gotthold Lessing

OMGYOUGUYS. So the Mike Fletcher Trio was great. There was high hat action all over the place - we're talking brushes, paradiddles, the WORKS - which nearly pushed Alan over the scatting edge. It was a great way to end our foray in the London Jazz Festival. (Yes, we ended our week's foray on Tuesday. What do we look like, animals?) OOOH! And I got an autographed CD! A pre-release of their January album, so this is special special stuff.* Also, do you know how hard it is to track down three jazz musicians to get their signatures? It is like herding CATS. (See what I did there?) *slapping table in satisfaction*

That moment when you discover something sticky on your keyboard and spend ten minutes scrubbing it off with your juicer's toothbrush.

So the doorbell rang at 2:30 this morning. Our buzzer's tone is a little swing tune which always makes me boogie when I hear it, but that's in the middle of the day at normal o'clock. In the middle of the night WHO IS PLAYING MUSIC! I actually thought it was my alarm clock at first and started groping around my nightstand because PLEASE DEAR GOD SNOOZE SNOOZE SNOOZE WHERE ARE YOU PHONE BE QUIET.

Then it buzzes again. Now the sound cuts through my brain fog and I hear it for what it is. THE MOTHER EFFING DOORBELL. As I throw the covers off, I grab my phone to check it. We've told friends in the past that if they ever get stranded in London and it's too late for them to travel home, they're welcome to our guest room (we live pretty central-ish), but that offer hasn't really been taken up in a while what with all of us getting older and more responsible. However, there are no messages on my phone, no requests to crash over, no 'I'm downstairs' texts. This is clearly not one of ours.

I am prepared to head down the stairs and give someone a new reason to live (namely, a brush with death) when Alan rouses and decides to get all Glaswegian on the matter. I don't know if Glaswegian Ferocity is a well-known thing Stateside, but here, It Is Known. Glaswegians are the heavy-handed mafioso dockworkers of Old World New York. Glaswegians are the scarred boxers of South Africa. Glaswegians are NOT someone anyone wants to mess with. When Alan turns on his Glaswegian, it's a total Hulk moment and you're all Where'd-Mark-Ruffalo-Go and I'm-Not-Replacing-That-Shirt and then I'm-Just-Gonna-Scoot-Over-Here. Nobody wants to be caught in those crosshairs. [Separate but related note: if Alan is woken abruptly - in any situation, by anyone, anytime - he wakes in Full Weegie** and you will get five seconds of bluster before he figures out what's happening. It is funny. Don't do it.]

Now, cue Alan, at 2:30 in the morning, hanging out of our third-floor bedroom window:

Alan: HEY!
Guy on Sidewalk: [probably already walking away, which is clearly unacceptable.]
Alan: HEY!
Guy: Oh, hey! Sorry! I'm looking for Christina!
Alan, in Glaswegian: WHAT, MAN! WHAT!
[Note: I can hear the guy no problem. He is looking for Christina.]
Guy: Christina! So sorry! Christina used to live here. Is Christina still here?
Me, deciding to translate, lest this continue all night: Alan! Tell him Christina doesn't live here!
Guy: Okay! So sorry!

Alan promptly passed out again while I laughed a little inside: that guy got the wrong house on so many levels. Also, no way Alan was awake for any of that.

Speaking of getting it wrong: last night CityMapper wanted me to get to the jazz show by WALKING THROUGH THIS GRAVEYARD:

That's a HELL no, CityMapper. Like I don't want to keep my soul.

It turned out to be irrelevant anyway, though, because the gates were chained up. It turns out they lock them every night at dark. Alan says it's to keep trouble out, but I think we all know better.

Right now I have a haggis defrosting in the kitchen sink and it's bobbing around in the hot water like it's looking for a boat to play with and won't rest until it finds one. Simmer DOWN, haggis!

Well. It's safe to say I think this is me done for the day. 

Big hugs and lots of love,

*I'm pretty much they'll sell it to anybody who wants it.

**This is a (usually) affectionate term for someone who comes from Glasgow. I think it is used to make them seem more cuddly. LIKE WE DON'T KNOW BETTER.


  1. This post had me ROFL! Jazz Cats, Glaswegian Alan, Hey Christina, Cemetery Shortcut, Down Haggis!