A Post in Two Parts. (And an In-between Bit.)
On saturday I met up with the ever lovely Rain who wished to prove to me she hadn't been eaten up by Sursia. Since I hadn't seen her in about 7 or 8 months this was nice to know.
I met her at Marylabone station where she was talking to some idiot lackey on the phone who had failed in their duties; she was telling them off in the tones of an irate dowager countess. The lackey evidently whined. Rain's vexation and frozen politeness increased. The lackey broke. Rain did a 180º and metaphorically patted the wretch on the head. I bit my hand in an attempt to stop giggling.
We went to a meekle cafe round the corner which did extremely tasty food for about half the price one would expect. Coffee and halloumi salad was consumed and news exchanged. Onwards we went to Alfie's Antique Market (finding a magpie feather on the way). At the market we had a long talk with a delightfully unhinged lady who sold antique vestments, matador jackets and sundry pieces of victorian clothing. I managed not to buy an antique cream long-line french corset for £65. (Although that was a lot of willpower spent, I can tell you.)
After that we traversed Regent's Park, ridiculing the world and discussing how to set our lives to rights. Also a black ladybird made friend with my hat, we saw the most darling wolf pup (well, dog, but a very lupine breed) and ate carrot cake and pear juice on our travels.
At long last we decided to return to Balcombe Street. There I was given a huge pile of 1930-1945 clothes including a brilliant black bohemian Agatha Christie sort of velvet house-coat and an elegant 1940 fitted winter coat with a mink collar. Also lots of tallow and beeswax candles and a bottle of very nice looking Russian Vodka. (Rain - forever and always my faerygodmother!)
Tea was had along with discussions of Russian supernatural beliefs and how everyone 'has their own death' (it's a weird but sensible Russian thing) and how I should live in the Osettia mountains and eat beetroot leaf pie or become a tattoo’d mountain woman of Daghestan or work in a Greek bookshop. (Rain maintained all these things would be better than hospital.)
In all I had a lovely day, except for the escalators to Waterloo East being closed. I wandered around the circumference of the station several times with heavy bags looking for a nearby road which apparently housed an alternate entrance... Only to then be told there were no trains. So, bus and walking and bus and walking ensued. Home at last and no sleep due to the shambly party next door. (The 2nd Saturday of September is now officially Shambly Night when all travel will be cursed and all shamblies especially loud and bothersome.)
Balcombe Street is round the corner from Baker Street, and exactly the sort of Georgian terraced town house a consulting detective would have rented rooms in. Rain's house, which for as long as I can remember has been haphazard, covered in books and papers, and always had some bit of it falling down... Is now looking lovely. The hall has been painted and the staircase restored to the style they would have been in the 18th C. The kitchen is white-washed with lime and has un-fitted units cased in wood along with an antique table and random antique cupboards and a working fireplace.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! ♥♥♥♥♥
What's more, Rain's study/sitting room is full of books, shelves, oddments from Russia to Persia, two leather-studded armchairs and a lot of random rugs. It's brilliantly gloriously eccentric. I'm certain she has a persian slipper somewhere: I must encourage her to put shag tobacco in it. And take up pipe smoking. Can you tell I'm extremely jealous of her house and her rooms? =)
And here, unfortunately is where I winge pathetically. Mostly this is because I feel like shit - both mentally and physically.
I'm grotty and ill with something that could be anything from vitamin lack to blood poisoning. (Although I doubt it's bubonic plague. Oh, and since I haven't shagged anyone it's not gonna be syphilis either. Unless I was visited by an Incubus who didn't use a condom. But I'd kinda hope I'd remember that sort of thing. I digress.) I ache, I'm shivery, my head hurts, none of my cuts and scrapes are healing they're just going slightly skanky, I'm not sleeping, and my room is once more infected with small many-legged bitey things trying to eat me alive. I keep cleaning everything and then putting poison down but it just seems to piss them off.
So unbelievably not happy.
If you ever want to curse someone, wish them visited by a plague of bedbugs. I guarantee they'll be fucking miserable and it will take them forever and a lot of time, money and hassle to get rid of the little fuckers. (And then there's every chance they'll come back.)
This post has taken me something like three hours to write which might give you an idea of just how crap and pathetic my neurons are feeling.
I have a jacket to paint by the end of the week if I'm to make rent. But all I want to do is fall over and bollocks to whether I get up again or not.
Please would the universe stop pissing in my cornflakes?
I know, I know, it pisses in everybody's cornflake with abandon and I should stop bitching.
Just... I don't have a lot of fortitude or back-up at the moment.