guess who’s back…
Well even here in Scarborough, it’s summer – I know this because yesterday I went outdoors without a cardigan, or at least without one on it was in my bag. When (and how) did that happen?
The upcoming Bank Holiday weekend promises to pan out exactly the same way as every other Bank Holiday weekend here only with more shit on the beach – NOTHING is open, folks – in that I got all my supplies in early and can barricade myself in the house for the duration. A veggie biryani is on the go, a film playlist is organised and whilst efforts are being made to get back to my fighting weight, banana muffins are in the oven and more pickled eggs have been put up; many more in fact, since Sainsbury’s Online kindly substituted a tray of twenty free range/mixed size when they’d run out of my (requested) modest boxes of six. And I had ten at home already.
My eggs will be ready in three weeks and can sit undisturbed behind the towels in the bathroom cupboard in the meantime. Happily, this should coincide perfectly with my next getting home again – as this suggests, and due in pretty equal parts to the complete lack of anything to do bar baking things and eating them (with predictable effects on clothing tightness), the end of the SEISS grants with no sign of an extension period plus the ever-reassuring total lack of contact from my bank regarding the much trumpeted ‘bounceback loan’ that I applied for almost three weeks ago I’m making tentative plans to come back to London and back to work at the end of the month; I’ve had enough of sitting about, I have bills and rent to pay and I’ll provisionally be taking a (very) limited number of incall bookings from early June – yay!
So. ‘Limited’ means one booking a day up to maybe four a week, and this means that if you’d like to visit on a day where someone else has already arranged to do so I will decline and suggest another, the point being to allow adequate time between people other than me being in my flat for thorough cleaning and airing. As with every other aspect of life, it’s up to everyone to choose the level of risk with which they’re comfortable (visiting a prostitute in the first place would be too much for many, and that’s fine too) and I’m happy with mine – even in ‘normal’ times I come into contact with fewer people in a week than most workers in shops, banks and cafés will in ten or fifteen minutes.
Consequentially (and as can be seen above), the preparation for a return to civilisation has begun in earnest although not that earnestly; I’ve yet to pick up a razor for the first time in nine weeks and it won’t hurt either the blade or my legs to wait another ten days. The transformation from angry hedgehog to member of the human race will be slow but thorough, and hopefully fun – thanks to the lovely people at my hairdressers and their encouraging promise that however badly we fuck up our colour trying to do it ourselves they can sort it out, I will be getting stuck into a bit of highlighting and toning over the next few days plus some serious sorting of the nails, and renewal of the unexpectedly popular Pink Pubes pictured the other week. And obviously a bit less cake.
Maintenance tasks taken care of, there ought to be time for a handful of new pictures just to prove it’s still me (I’m not brave enough to take one now or I would, but even if I was I’d probably have to change out of my pyjamas and that’s a big ask) and hopefully everything will be smooth sailing. The phone is still off for now, but I’m aiming to check emails a little more often and I’ll update everything properly in a week when I know precisely what the plan is.
A topical and relatable (as well as eminently kitchen disco-worthy) Song Of The Week then, or for me anyway. I wonder if Robert Dyas sells tomahawks?
As ever, more soon. Lord, it’ll be good to be back…
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