Hello darlings (and yes, I have just referred to myself by a pet name and in the plural. Revelatory of the incestuous relationship between the sole reader and the sole writer of this blog? Or perhaps just a conjuring trick intended to people this site with the fahbulous little hipster androgynes I've been rubbing pointy shoulders with this week. You be the judge.
Schnookums likes it when you get all stern and uncompromising-like ...)
Ahem. Sorry. As I was saying, the hiatus in posting on this barely-conceived blog is not due to a lack of commitment or dedication on my behalf. No, good people. Rather, this interruption to our scheduled programme was because, for 5 whole days, I saw the light. It was warm, it was golden; my astygmatic eyes squinted lovingly into it, I even bathed in it, until someone politely suggested that what I was doing might be considered illegal.
As you've probably guessed, I haven't returned from a hallucinogenic journey through the looking glass (although I do have some rather dubious-looking cuts on my knees), nor have I been in discussions with Our Lord of Thetan Enterprises, Inc. Rather, the truth is even better: I have just returned from 5 days in Berlin. That's right. I spent 5 days in the city of rapid and radical reinvention, and I'll let you in on a little secret:
I'm. In. Love.
Not with my rather delightful Gallic companion, Battiste, whose proposal that we enjoy the forbidden fruits of hostel-dormitory romance was rejected because,
a) I possess one small shred of dignity; I keep this last bastion of self-respect in a locket around my neck and I'm saving it for a special occasion, and
b) I'm too old to get a nasty case of crabs in a room that is not only inhabited by other people, but by 18-year-old people who have just vomited into the sink.
Instead, with ovaries exploding like the face of a fifteen-year old boy, I've decided to save myself for someone special.
I'm in love with a city, and only the human incarnation of it will do.
Not to get all Gattaca about things (and I'm aware that, with this particular city's history of ah, devastating racial and religious vilification, this may not be the most ideal metaphor to play with, but bear with me), but before this, I was quite certain I was going to have (if any) children of your garden variety, cave-dweller genus. They would be vaguely myopic, allergic to nuts, and possess not only a consistent problem with pronouncing the letter 's', but a kindly, dorkus father of much the same qualities.
After Berlin, however, (or my life AB, as it shall now be known), I long to earn my baby bonus with someone from the East side of the Wall. Together, we will produce insouciant little avant-garders who, even in utero, will reject the nourishment of a nice homecooked placenta in favour of a world-weary glance and a handrolled cigarette. I can see it now: in a perfect model of good parenting and generational social adjustment, my little ubertrendbots will take over the world. Fly, my pretties, fly!
Yikes! Clearly I ingested more than the German cooking. I have to say that, upon return, Villageville has never seemed so green or so wholesome. My initial desire to call for revolution and round up all the SUVs, golden retrievers, and their perfectly-clad owners in this dear little country was quickly quashed when I realised that not only do we need to learn from the mistakes of history, but that, judging by historical trends, revolutions generally come back to bite you pretty damn fast. I work in an academic publishing house that is located in a convent, so, odds are, if anyone's going to be taken to headquarters and charged with crimes against coolness, I'll be the first to go.
Thus, with bubble-a-bursting and Icarus wings a-melting, I say goodnight, and trudge down the hallway to my tiny monastic cell. With my French compadre long-disappeared into mindless hedonism, it’s so quiet here. I wouldn't mind some company, I don't suppose ... I mean, before I go... I was just wondering if you'd seen that guy who was here earlier? You know, slightly balding, in the cardigan? Yeah, little bit of dandruff, didn’t smell so hot. No? Oh well. It doesn't matter. I thought, well ... you know... he jutht theemed really nithe.
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