Lunch With Fifi and the DC22 Animal

I can understand why every single person I know advised against getting signed off work by the sympathetic doctor for a week. I am the laziest person I know, and lo and behold, the week has flown by in a daze of somnambulism - OK, I haven't exactly slept walked, but fuck, I may as well have. I've started to feel like my father, stumbling from one doorway to the next, trying to turn the corners but not quite managing it.

Friday - I spent a wonderful morning in bed reading everyone's blogs on the iPhone. Tiger (my darling cat) curled by my side, snoring occasionally. Afraid to say, but as soon as I hear her start to snore I cuddle up close and then inevitably wake her. She has a very deep purr anyway, so you can imagine the racket when she starts to snore. She is the love of my life, I would beat off rampaging youth to protect her, and bearing in mind I live in Deptford (American Vogue* describes Deptford as the 'wild west' of London, even though Deptford is in the south east of the city) the chances of me having to protect Tiger from rampaging yobs, probably with fireworks, is relatively high. She's lush though! Only downside is that she is white and I wear only black or grey. I have a rather expensive habit in roller brushes.

(I've decided that I'm not going to call people by capital letters in my blog anymore, they'll be known by pseudonyms or nicknames. So for all that have read what went before, R is now Bobbin - in-joke, don't ask.)

Whilst dozing in bed, I got a text from Fifi. She's 'working from home'. Now being a public sector employee I've never got this working from home malarkey. Surely you're either at work or not? Working from home, to me, means you're available but what you're actually doing is the housework, putting washing on the line, or indeed, going for a pub lunch with your depressed, mid-life crisis happening friend. So bring on the lunch with a depressed, mid life crisis friend....

Fifi, is a dear dear friend. The best. Totally with the programme as far as Bobbin and I are concerned. She originally lodged with Bobbin at University in London, they had a falling out - surprise surprise - but after a 10 year abstinence they re-acquainted, and wasn't I the lucky one, instant BFF.

If I was straight....

So we meet for lunch at The Talbot, an OK foodie pub in one of the more middle class areas of Lewisham (near to Deptford but really really wild west). We both decided on the Chicory, Walnut, Apple and Stilton Salad. It was delicious. Especially with the glass of Viognier that Fifi recommended - she's a wine connoisseur. I'm a 'glass of house' sort of guy, but when you're with a wine snob you have to up your game a bit. We had a chat. Exhibit A) the state of my relationship with Bobbin and what the fuck is going on in my life. Well there's an opening. Back after a cigarette and a think...

Back... I'm not really sure. Really not sure. I love the guy dearly. But am I in love? I haven't the words to describe how deep my love for Bobbin goes. But I'm not sure I trust him. I know for a fact that he in no way trusts me. I'm bang to rights, got previous, done the dirty again, and probably will do again and again. So what sort of love is that?

I live with him, but I just cannot let my guard down. I feel unable to expose myself emotionally to him. Every wayward evening out is not discussed, nothing mentioned - apart from a cursory "what time did you get in?" "Oh, about 5.30". I feel unable to tell him my darkest thoughts and fears. He doesn't ask either.

I'm here reviewing this post listening to 'She Wants Revenge' and well, Bobbin would just think - "go to bed, wanker".

I have a gothic tendency, if I wasn't 44 and gay, I'd probably be painting my face white and wearing 8 inch platforms with metal bits on the front. I don't feel as if I can reveal who I am really am to him, thinking back I'm not really sure if I ever did. Perhaps I just stepped into his slipstream 21 years ago. How does one begin to explain your inner most thoughts to someone? I cut myself off. I built the wall and then was surprised when I couldn't hear him anymore, the wall was just too thick. Really thick. With an insulating layer of doubt. Pink Floyd lyric coming up...

"Is there anybody out there?"

I haven't a clue where the blame should lie, if anywhere. Fuck it, most of the time I've been too drunk to give a toss.

The DC22 Animal?

Yep. I vacuumed a bit.

* Italian Vogue thinks Deptford is the place to buy, buy, buy. And it has to be said after living here for 14 years I would.