Wednesday, August 11, 2010

DSC_4476 - La Cage Au PoleAn enlarged weekend in Swanwich, built around a July-birthdays meal, with the clans mother and SIL, so that'll be eight gin-&-tonics and a Martini-with-lemonade (no, it was not me).

Because we were nine (meant to be ten, but there was a bailer, who possibly may have bailed on more than the meal or been bailed upon, but the bailer may not even be who I thought the bailer was) we ended up in a private dining dungeon (well, basement or doorless cellar with dry fish tanks containing cacti, Star Trek Barbie and a mirror-ball, but it was all ours).

I thought all went well, especially the duck (very, very good [1 Inst., if interested]). And then ma pauvre mère happened to mention après l'event mid-commenting-on-the-state-of-everything-which-is-not-her (moderate becoming poor) that she thought I nearly minced down the steps. Following comments seemed to suggest that perhaps the gay taint was why I was unpopular.

Hello, have we met? I'm Irked.

Firstly, I'm going to need more than one 'Firstly'.

What is this mincing of which you speak? I don't know how to do it.

Really not a fan of the reverting to school oddness seeking thing.

Undelighted that I am supposed to worry about such things again (have you any idea how hard it is not to cross your legs? Or to only do so in that private-school ankle-knee pose that is not only cumbersome but which flashes unexpected amounts of one's inner thigh if one does it while in shorts because one's mother has just made one paranoid again, which is probably more gay than not displaying the pallid, hairy bits, though maybe having the pallid, hairy bits pallid cancels out... this is never going to end, is it?).

Visibly gay is bad?

General grr.

I wasn't; ok, so I might have been doing slightly springy galumphing at the top of the stairs, possibly linked to the alcohol intake, but that's the other sort of gaiety, and anyway, the visible bit was the bottom of the stairs, two turns away and after I misjudged things a tad, so descended while trying to restrict any more rapid descent. So Mummikins, if you happen to class nearly falling down drunk as nearly "walking with an affected fastidiousness", then perhaps you were right, although the cause is not the G-A-Y but rather the G-N-T.

Still irked.

Still trying to argue it from both the "was not" and "gay is not bad" camps, thus happening to engage in a little overzealous friendly fire through the vehemence of the first.

But then she was also complaining that I'm too skinny (as I have been since about 8) and I ought to start going to the gym to build up my shoulders so I appear less, um, noticeable in that light.

You're laughing right? Please tell me the Alicia-Silverstone-falling-for-Paul Rudd-ness* is as mirthsome for you as it is for me. Perhaps she'd like me to grow more body hair, and a beard, oooh, and a beer gut, and wear more checked shirts, and lumberjack caps, and hang round certain tavernas in Voxhall with other rugged rascals more, just so I can appear bit more butch, a bit more macho. But then her straight and narrow has always kinked; seriously, my maternally-selected teenage wardrobe contained more pizazz than a world of jazz hands triple-Lutzing a mirrorball moon beneath a tap-dancing sun. Or maybe I'm being a trifle unkind to the scarlet paisley concoction (look, if even the guy who later became the first of the guys who decided being gay was preferable to remaining GA's boyfriend thought it was a bit brave, who incidentally was perhaps the first greater-than-one I encountered who didn't get suspended from or even leave school because of it**, then perhaps it was).

* Hey, who wouldn't?

** And my mother asked how it was that I even knew what homophobia was.

Actually I should have asked her which gym she'd suggest: Bitchfest First or Gogo Hims.

Speaking of gaysignia, the writers of Sherlock***, so Messrs Moffat and Gattiss, do know that they've basically just declared all males born after 1986-ish to be gay with that visible pants thing, right?

*** I nearly tried to hashtag that. #fail lol (I think "lol" is the new full stop, or rather the evidence suggests it is. That or wit personified drowning [or just waving, or just sticking its hands in the the air like it just don't care]).

Hmm, this post was going to be about sun, sea, sand, steam and crabs but somehow that didn't come to pass. Maybe tomorrow (I just might settle down?).

And now, the end is near as every clichéd phrase is becoming lyric, which probably means I'm a bit tired.


Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?