21 November 2001
In Hennes The Whole Of The Menswear Department Is Dancing. By The Sportswear
Rail, We Had A Little Snog
Running to the station with empty suitcases. Falling asleep before takeoff.
Mints from a jar; cash; apartment keys. MTV. Sleeping all afternoon in
the apartment. Text messages falling like snowflakes. Mistah Reeds with
a tan and a ladyfriend. White beers with lemon and swizzlesticks. Eyes
lowered to avoid the knowing smiles of those who know just how little
sleeping goes on in de luxe pad in a porn'n'grass laden town. Dutch swearwords
on a British tongue. Chess-playing couple startled and staring while I
blush and clap hand across errant lips. Unpopping the plastic ziploc of
an eleven-guilder bag for the first time. Northern Lights on the menu
and in my mind. Laughing at his inability to roll. Watching him morph
into pimp-daddy Gonzales suckmydick character for the entire weekend.
MTV. Kylie. Generic Euro accents. Marzipan, praline, dutch caramel cakes.
Bordeaux. 'Double dooers eggs' with double yolks, four to a pack. Sausages.
'Jus' gravy. Passing out. Tangerine shower gel from a corsagey puff. Forgotton
conditioner leaves hair in mental spirals. Smoking while leaving the apartment
because I can. In Hennes the whole of the menswear dept is dancing. By
the sportswear rail we had a little snog. Him posing in high-neck zip-up
trackietop, pouting, pointing; Gonzales. Blue patterned vest. Me, ruffle
neck tops: matching; one black, one maroon. Black fishnet tights with
silvery seams down the backs. Smart ladybag like my sister would have.
Swing kick and flare plaid skirt for 25 guilders, chosen by *him*! Snug
tight denim coat and damn the overdraft and the tax bill because buying
this *will* make me happy. Glittery denim knickers. Not getting caught
in the rain even once. Finding Lucy O'Brien's 'She Bop' in a bookshop
for a fiver and buying because he tells me I'm a 'rock writer' now. Caffeine
deprivation headaches. MTV. Spilling grass in the spine of vintage spanking
porn: falling asleep and squashing it. The best apple cake I've ever had,
with 'slagroom', which is one of my six Dutch words and my only Dutch
noun! MTV. Not having to use our new catchphrase 'Botox!' at all over
weekend because I do not see him scowling once. Diep bar. Barman miming
snorting huuuge lines to song 'Cocaine'. Dutch Boys Officially Not As
Cute As German Boys (but one country cannot have everything). Noordermarkt:
Cafe Finch's beautiful white-blonde waitresses admiring my hair turning
my swimming-with-sharks head upside down. Floating out the door. Travelcard
in right shoe to protect against rubbing Jack Purcell trainersoles. Obscure
album tracks by Terence Trent D'Arby in obscure coffee shop filled with
obscure menz. Giggles. The Most Comfortable Chairs In The World which
cost £1000 each in posh design shop. Giant Pink Beanbag (£800). Feeling
fishnets rip from left cheek to centre as ass dives down into seat. Reading
gay porn fanzine "BUTT"
in the Grand Cafe and admiring the cuddly erections. Wonder whether to
frame my reception work in an artcontext to make it more exciting. 'A
writing performance about female body as commodity for which capital is
exchanged'. Decide instead never to do it again. Snagging fishnets on
bench as we run out of bar towards station. Jettison Northen Lights into
rubbish-bin. Sinking heart. Central seat. Man with intriguingly hairy
fingers. Semi-stoned reverie in green ink in shorthand notebook. Three-hour
train ride. Ansaphone request for diarypiece in Serpent's Tailbook. Home.
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