Well, I ignored the tugging sensation as I walked past St John's High Street last night - past Cafe Rouge, Cafe Richoux, Pizza Express and even past the temptation of Carluccio's at the end of the street...Determined to get my Atomic Fries at Ed's Diner up on Finchley Road.
While it was great to be out and about, my enthusiastic memory of those fries is certainly brought into question. What was I thinking? They were OK, but not that great. I did sort of enjoy the Classic bottle of Coke (after some of the fizz had dissipated), but have never been able to finish a can, let alone a bottle.
They were playing some really good 60s music; I was able to identify The Beatles and Mamas & Papas.
And all the staff had transmogrified into Russians. The cool Aussie I'd chatted with last summer was not there. Sorry for using such a big word for such a trivial situation, but sometimes the first time you use a word it pops out when it wants to.
So there I was pronging my fries and ... I had forgotten how easily eating alone without a TV lends itself to deep and moody musings. Care to join me?
I don't give guys enough credit for having a memory. Mere days after making a dinner plan, I start thinking, "He's not going to show up." So the day before, after reining in my impatience for the former part of the week, I send an email or a text to confirm or remind. Do I lose points for that? But seriously, you don't hear from them otherwise.
(In fact, do I lose points overall for being a girl with a blog? I know it's getting popular, but still. Aren't we girls supposed to be mysterious, to have that air of mystique clinging about us so they'll want us even more?)
Bear with the angst-ridden musings of this former psych major. It's never going to leave me, is it? Oh the horror, the horror!
Guys tell us girls that we think too much, and they're right, but if we don't do the thinking, no one else will.
Oh! I had the stupidest dream two nights ago, and I don't think I was running a fever, either. And I rarely remember them nowadays. You know you've made it to girly-girl-hood when you dream about going out with no makeup on!
I dreamt I was at a cafe with a close male friend (no names here, but I have mentioned him before) - and I spotted my friend Gemma! (No logic, she lives in Houston.) I said, "Gemma!" and after greetings she looked at my friend and insinuatingly said, "Aha." And I firmly said, "Nooo." (Oh alright then, it was the one I had dinner with last week!)
We all sat together and from there it went downhill. To cool my hot tea, I poured it into the outside pocket of my purse, which was made from the same material as my Rainshedder coat. He got up to fetch me a mug so I could pour it back in. Meanwhile I commented to Gemma, "I'm not wearing any eyeliner." (In as scandalous a tone of voice as if it had been underwear.) Then added, "...Or mascara. In fact [as realisation dawned] I'm not wearing any makeup at all!"
There the dream ended, but I wonder if the makeup was a Freudian substitution for clothes.
Gone off the kitchen this week, with my duck legs in the freezer. Might pop round to Pizza Express to pick up a new pasta dish I like. Oh wait, you only say 'pop round' if you're old...