Hilarious train ride of doom
We have returned from a lovely weekend in Brussels, staying with lovely and delightful friends where we did VERY little. I geeked out over french language comics (so many wonderful wonderful things!). Had a culture shock moment while standing in front of a display about erotic bandes dessinees while reading about the difference between the male and female gaze, and the intellectual difference between the two, and suddenly realized that I was basically standing in front of what many people would consider porn, reading intently. Noone else was at all bothered! Hooray for continental coolness. It made me laugh, not out of embarrassment, but sort of out of joy that I could slip in and out of two different cultures that dealt with things so differently.
We ate a lot of tasty food (mmmm gaufresmmmmmm small local markets mmmmmmm). A big African waiter was very jolly with me and called me Maman in a gleeful way (people were much more generous to a big bellied sore footed lady in Brussels than they were in London) and another waiter tried to bring me extra hot chocolate.
The most hilarious part of the whole trip was the journey from London. First of all, our pre-booked seats were stolen by braying chinless wonders, who also stole the seats of a group of elderly ladies. CLASS! Luckily, the gorgeous train manager (no seriously, he was a hottie) sorted us out with better seats in a much quieter carriage. After the train had been going 20 minutes a chap walking up the aisle stopped to chat to us, and ask us whether the train called at Lille. We guessed yes, but told him we knew nothing. I figured he had just stopped because I was knitting, and knitters always put people at their ease. I smiled and was friendly.
Shortly after, a silver-haired lady walked by, leant over to talk to me and said:
"I don't know if you're interested, but there's a naked man in a leather hood chained to the bar, just thought I'd let you know."
.
.
.
Right!
OK, do I give off a kinky vibe? Or is it just that she had to tell SOMEONE, so the knitter was the lady who needed cheering up?
It did turn out that yes, there was a stock-brokerish stag party in the bar, and the poor stag was dressed in a leather gimp mask, a pair of leather briefs, and some handcuffs, from which he was chained to the bar. I was invited to slap the gimp for good luck. I told them I had had my quota for the week.
The man behind the bar was doing his best to be blind and deaf about the situation, unlike the two ladies who were commenting loudly about what a good example they were...
On the way back from the bar, unmolested and unmolesting, my chum from earlier tried to chat me up. Whut? Whuh? WTF? He asked me whether I was WITH the man I was sitting next to on the train... WHUH? Should I have said "yup, he's the babydaddy?" When I demurely answered yes, he told me it was a great shame. It's been years since someone has tried to chat me up. YEARS.
And they wait until I am some sort of stately galleon? With a wedding ring? What is this, some sort of pregnancy kink? Hilarious. He looked quite sad when I made it nicely clear that I was attached.
So folks, remember, slapping the gimp for good luck is recommended, but being the gimp on the eurostar is probably not. He was getting off the train in Brussels though.
N.
We ate a lot of tasty food (mmmm gaufresmmmmmm small local markets mmmmmmm). A big African waiter was very jolly with me and called me Maman in a gleeful way (people were much more generous to a big bellied sore footed lady in Brussels than they were in London) and another waiter tried to bring me extra hot chocolate.
The most hilarious part of the whole trip was the journey from London. First of all, our pre-booked seats were stolen by braying chinless wonders, who also stole the seats of a group of elderly ladies. CLASS! Luckily, the gorgeous train manager (no seriously, he was a hottie) sorted us out with better seats in a much quieter carriage. After the train had been going 20 minutes a chap walking up the aisle stopped to chat to us, and ask us whether the train called at Lille. We guessed yes, but told him we knew nothing. I figured he had just stopped because I was knitting, and knitters always put people at their ease. I smiled and was friendly.
Shortly after, a silver-haired lady walked by, leant over to talk to me and said:
"I don't know if you're interested, but there's a naked man in a leather hood chained to the bar, just thought I'd let you know."
.
.
.
Right!
OK, do I give off a kinky vibe? Or is it just that she had to tell SOMEONE, so the knitter was the lady who needed cheering up?
It did turn out that yes, there was a stock-brokerish stag party in the bar, and the poor stag was dressed in a leather gimp mask, a pair of leather briefs, and some handcuffs, from which he was chained to the bar. I was invited to slap the gimp for good luck. I told them I had had my quota for the week.
The man behind the bar was doing his best to be blind and deaf about the situation, unlike the two ladies who were commenting loudly about what a good example they were...
On the way back from the bar, unmolested and unmolesting, my chum from earlier tried to chat me up. Whut? Whuh? WTF? He asked me whether I was WITH the man I was sitting next to on the train... WHUH? Should I have said "yup, he's the babydaddy?" When I demurely answered yes, he told me it was a great shame. It's been years since someone has tried to chat me up. YEARS.
And they wait until I am some sort of stately galleon? With a wedding ring? What is this, some sort of pregnancy kink? Hilarious. He looked quite sad when I made it nicely clear that I was attached.
So folks, remember, slapping the gimp for good luck is recommended, but being the gimp on the eurostar is probably not. He was getting off the train in Brussels though.
N.