At the Heart of It All

 

Ms. Monoid Writes...

Hello, Ms. Monoid here. (Not "Mrs Monoid" you will note, that's a whole other load of bitterness best left until another day).

Monoid One is too lazy to write his blog this week, muttering something about being tired after doing all the housework on his own tonight. So I'm taking a break from my own blog (all about wool and vegetables! check me out!) to come here.

And I can't say I'm impressed. Doctor-Fucking-Who and hats. I ask you.

Now that I'm here, I thought I'd write a few words about our night out together in Hull, seeing one of Monoid One's favourite comedians. Personally, I think he's rubbish, and Monoid One was very reluctant to buy tickets for both us when I insisted, as he remembered what I did the last time we saw this particular excuse for a funny-man together. (He never learns!)

Anyway, despite being reminded on numerous instances as the date approached, I feigned female deafness and left organising the childcare until the last minute, just for a laugh. I think Monoid One was secretly quite pleased when I said I was backing out, but I did my usual trick of changing my mind yet again and he ended up having to pay the babysitter's monthly account in addition to the night in question. (Result!)

Ignoring advice to grab somthing to eat before we left home, I arrived in Hull starving. I knew Monoid One wouldn't want to miss the start of the show, so I chose this moment to want a McDonalds. I know full well that Monoid One generally avoids McDonalds like the plague, so even when he offered to buy me one I thought it would be a laugh to storm off in a huff.

Why did I do that? Well, because I'm a woman and I can.

We managed to grab a drink before sitting down, and the quality of the wine was my next complaint. However, I managed to control my wrath until the comedian was actually walking out on stage. I chose this moment to whisper loudly in Monoid One's now jaded ear that I didn't know what I was doing here and didn't know why he had wanted me to come. (Thought I'd get it in at the start this time... I waited until halfway through the second half last time!).

Anyway, that was the point when Monoid One's evening was really starting to fall apart. (I could almost hear him grinding his teeth all the way through! Hilarious!). Despite myself, I had quite a good laugh. Not enough jokes about willies for my taste, but there you go.

Afterwards on the way back to retrieve my phone from the car, Monoid One starts talking about where to go for food, but I just decide to blank him and we were soon home, grumpy and hungry. My child was out for the night, so I took the opportunity to sleep in her bed and audibly cry myself to sleep.

That'll teach him!

I doubt I'll get away with anything like this again. It's a shame though, as sabotaging nights out were getting to be my speciality. If we had gone for a meal, I would have repeated the trusty pick-a-fight-just-before-the-food-arrives gambit. (That really pisses them off!).

Why do I do that? Well, because I'm a woman and I can.

Anyway, that's enough of me. I'll let you all get back to talking about hats and Battlestar Galactica or whatever it is Monoid One likes. What do I care? After all this time I still don't know who his favourite authors are!

Bye, geeky boys!

Why Can't We All Just Walk Away?

Sometimes we can, albeit briefly.

And so to Cambridge again, for a much-needed respite from reigning over my empire of dirt...

SUNDAY 6th MARCH

At the bus stop in Pocklington, trying to locate old graffiti from over twenty years ago.

Needless to say, either time or the hand of man has scrubbed the stonework clean, and the evidence of my youthful passing has faded away.

(There's a metaphor in that somewhere, but I have previously expressed it better with yoghurt, and so for now let it pass).

By a happily engineered coincidence, I am in Cambridge at the same time as TV's Stewart Lee. It would seem churlish to come all this way and not see what he's up to, so tickets were purchased quite some time ago in anticipation.

Lee's latest show is basically a try-out for his new television series, and his tendency to deconstruct his own material in the act of performing it has probably reached its natural conclusion by now. (He has also spun this habit off into print form, as his latest book presents annotated transcripts of his DVDs. Make of this what you will).

Of course we have the now-obligatory slamming down of the microphone and wandering into the audience bit, and ending the show with a song is unfortunately looking to be a regular occurance as well.

And spending the last third of the show sat muttering probably works better in a smaller venue with better acoustics, and a PA system less prone to feeding back.

Anyway, it was a pleasure to see Simon Munnery in an all-too-brief support slot. (Smart new material would have been nice to go with his smart new image, but I guess you can't have everything).

Incidentally, "modest to the point of being annoying" is probably the best way to describe him, if ever you attempt conversation. Greeting complimentary remarks with a gallic shrug tends to irk even the most forbearing of souls, and I had to resist the urge to respond "Well, fuck off then" in a sulky spurned-fanboy manner.

Which is probably just what he wanted me to say.

The bastard.

MONDAY 7th MARCH

Who chooses the pictures that line the corridors of hotels? Who takes the time to look at them?

Today, I had the time.

Cold and sunny today, and a perfect day to quickly discharge my business, and then get down to some serious wandering around, stopping, staring and drinking. (Pretty much in that order, but I'm not fussy).

Sitting on Jesus Green, watching a youngster propelling her older family members along in a punt. Not making a very good job of it, but having a happy time failing.

Maybe that will encourage her to fail better next time, to paraphrase Beckett.

Enjoying myself enormously having not much to do, and a pleasant town to not do it in. Again, finding myself feeling old and shamefully lecherous, caused by the high proportion of attractive young people reminding me that I wasted too many of my own University days attempting to carnally attain the unattainable.

A downside of getting old is the ability to remember what it was like to feel younger, and realising that unless you keep off the booze and fags and really work damn hard to get yourself back in shape, there's no way you are ever going to feel anything remotely similar again...

TUESDAY 8th MARCH

Spend the majority of the return journey reading. Quite unusual for me, as I am usually entranced by what's on the other side of the glass.

I will soon be getting off the bus at Pocklington again, as comfortable in the country as I am in town. Sometimes so entangled by family roots, sometimes so utterly homeless.

It's good to be back... Inside my head.