My new sofa arrived, a week late, but didn’t make it up the stairs. The two movers, one young and common and slightly defensive, the other foreign and dark and hot in a malnourished way, couldn’t push it past the first landing. It just wouldn’t move, unless a wall was taken out. I suppose we could’ve sawed my lovely green 3 seater in half, but then what? My room isn’t that modern.
And as I’m on the phone to IKEA, discussing options (there weren’t any. it was all very “Computer says no…”) the movers put the sofa back in their truck and drove back to Peterborough.
I sat down in my empty lounge, on a cold floor with the autumn wind blowing outside, and cried and cried. I was Lindsey Wagner in any made-for-tv movie in which she’s ever starred. I broke down. Or melted down. I hope it’s not about the sofa, although I must say that in every way it was perfect, except maybe the color. But as my mother’s third husband, Ray, a car salesman says, color is always a compromise. I think he means a person can get used to anything, even a minty sofa, which actually, now that I’ve chosen my subdued paint palette, wouldn’t have been so great.
The tears were about feeling lost and a bit scared and not sure and wondering if any of the choices I’m making, from Taupe for the ceiling, to Sky for my broadband, to a full-time career in the UK, to barebacking a HOT boy the other night whom I assume is a hooker, to missing and wanting the things I miss and want, are right and worthwhile. Maybe it’s too late for me.
I’m changing my life, and I’m 43. Aren’t I supposed to be entering semi-retirement? Wasn’t that my plan? Why am I behaving like I’m new at this? Maybe the new-ness is the only thing getting me up in the morning. Once I’m settled into this flat, then what? More TV meetings. Eek. Somebody hand me a Hitler mustache and a loaded gun.
On the lighter side, I played Balham last night and I might have scared them a bit. Did that thing where I warm them up, make them think we’re all on the same side, then snap politically and socially, mostly by making fun of Muslims. Balham’s getting posh, and I could only tell because they got silent and patient but judgy, like Belsize Park. Jesus Cunt, the middle class whites are a fucking cock block. They’re so worried about everyone, when oddly they have no minority friends. The irony escapes them. And thrills me. A little.
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