Ate the dokhla the ex kindly made before leaving, slowly over 4-5 days
Went shopping for food last Friday so would be stocked up with ready-meals for the weekend and most of the week.
Increased my intake of plums.
Cleaner cleaned half-heartedly on Saturday morning.
Saturday afternoon sat in front on my drawing for many hours. Occasionally rallied to draw a single line. Promptly sank back into lethargic nearly-end-of-drawing-stupor
Did some laundry.
Stayed up till 4 on the Saturday watching Wonders of the Universe.
No reported psychedelic dreams on this occasion.
Went to bed at a reasonable hour on Sunday.
Didn’t leave the flat until Monday morning.
Weekend #2 of partner being away:
Dry laundry still in the washing machine.
Run out of underwear.
Am forced to go to the washing machine instead of my clothes drawer.
Didn’t re-stock food supplies all week.
Forgot to defrost food in the freezer.
Went to the pub on Thursday. Ate instant noodles for dinner.
Forgot to defrost food in the freezer again.
Went to the Monty’s on Friday. Ate 1/2 pack of salt and vinegar crisps, 1 dark chocolate bounty & 2 plums for dinner.
Went to bed at a totally unreasonable hour.
Saturday morning no cleaner.
Have very considered plans not to leave the flat at all this weekend.
Need to buy food.
Conflict with earlier resolution not to leave flat.
This year I spent my Christmas in London, snug and lazy like a curled bug, barely leaving the flat for about 10 days.
It was great. I’m so sad it’s over now.
The Ex and I were invited to one New Years Eve party with a masquerade theme.
(This is only the 3rd NYE I’ve spent in London. The last party was in a house that was “smoke free”. I’ll say no more.
It really annoys me when people who are smokers (as was the owner of this house who has come to our house and smoked inside), who then throws a party in the middle of winter and insists that everyone goes outside into the snow and rain to smoke. What the fuck? You suck and your party sucks, please never invite me again. So there. Huff!
In any case, I neglected to tell the Ex there was a theme to this years NYE party much to the Ex’s annoyance.
I wasn’t planning to bother getting a mask, being deep in the throes of my sloth, but the ex insisted.
So dragging ourselves up and finally changing out of PJ’s, we tripped off to Cass Art, purchased some cardboard masks, paint (like I really needed any), glitter and some sparkly beads and set to work like little enthu cutlets.
It was nearly a whole day of arts and drafts. The Ex, not usually a fan of either, really went for it. We even bought better elastic and ribbon.
We had a small spat in the art shop because my GENIUS suggestions for the Ex’s mask (Purple glitter paint or white glitter paint and lots of beads + feathers) were rejected and the Ex went to ask one of the shop girls for advice and ended up buying a single tube of silver paint that cost £8.00. 8!!!!!! Tiny tube!
The Ex thinks the higher the price the better the product.
Admittedly the paint was a lovely metallic silver.
But come on.
8 pounds on paint for a one-time-wear mask for a party? Seriously.
So only 6 hours after we decided on our brilliant plan of action for the party did we finally finish our masks.
The Ex grew mildly competitive half way through. (To see who would have the better mask)
It was rather good fun. Here are some crafty photos of the mess.
Mask painting begins
Look at all that mess. Took ages for the glitter to dry
Eventually had to blow dry the paint. That did it.
When I told A4, of our holiday destination (St. Lucia), she sneered
“You guys are such boujis!”
(With all the derision of a seasoned traveller who had just holidayed in Jamaica like a bouji.)
I have another friend who occasionally commutes from city to city, then promptly fastens himself like a whelk to a bar. After some hours of drinking (beginning on the plane) he will remember very little of this new city.
He calls this – ‘Travelling’.
(Side note: If you don’t remember going somewhere is there even any point in going? Look at Ozzy – He doesn’t even remember he hung out with Jimi Hendrix. Might as well have never happened.)
My idea of ‘travelling’ is going somewhere and then lying down for a week with a Pina Colada.
Which was a pre-emptive fight about the return journey in 11 days times. We like to be ahead in our squabbling.
I bought these web-duo return tickets on the Gatwick Express. A sweet little deal, but the catch was that you have to leave and return with someone. You couldn’t travel separately.
You’d think that this would be easy enough given that the ex and I:
Are leaving at the same time, on the same day, on the same flight, to the same destination.
We are actually going on holiday together.
We are a fucking couple.
But the ex suddenly informed me, out of the blue,
“Listen, I’m not waiting for you at immigration.”
I immediately took umbrage. (Even though I can sympathise – No one wants to be at an airport waiting for ages for someone elses long immigration queue – but I also like to know my partner won’t ditch me.)
“I told you that we had to travel together for these tickets to qualify! I sent you an email especially saying that! Why the fuck did you agree?”
I hissed at the ex with justifiable annoyance. I did fucking send an email specifically to check this because I know how impatient the ex usually is.
“If you don’t travel with me, then we both have to buy new separate tickets! It’s a fucking waste of money. Why didn’t you just say so when I emailed you?”
The ex made a number of excuses none of them worth repeating because they were all seriously B.S.
If I tried to pull this kind of stunt after sending an email confirming the purchase of something, the ex would have thrown such a shit-fit the top of the cab would have flown off.
“At least wait 45 mins! I’m sure I won’t take long!”
I don’t even know why I’m bargaining. The ex is totally in the wrong here.
The ex responded by pessimistically telling me that the estimate queuing time for Heathrow was 2 hours for non-EU passport holders.
Ugh.
I finally managed to negotiate a 30 min waiting slot. I tried to push it up to 45 minutes but the ex wasn’t budging.
“Fine, but then you can pay for our return journey. If you had just told me, I’d have got us separate tickets!”
Then to consolidate my point, I sulked.
To save you the suspense (because, seriously, who isn’t dying of suspense about the end of this scintillating quarrel?) I shall tell you what happened in 11 days when we came back, now.
On the flight back the ex relented (quite rightly) and agreed to wait at immigration.
Then after all this kerfuffle, my immigration line only took about 10 mins. The ex’s immigration que took 40 mins.
HAH!
Maybe I should have left!
Anyway let’s get back to the holiday which hasn’t even started yet.
Briefly: St Lucia is like, nice and tropical and shit.
I’ll mention in the next St. Lucia post, because I have so many photos, one single post can’t possible contain it!
BLEEDING EYES WARNING!! FUCK-LOAD OF PHOTOS COMING UP!
Welcome Bed. This won the ex over right away. It says ‘Welcome’ spelt in Cat-tails. (That’s a plant by the by)
Walk way to Banana, that’s our first ‘hut’ slash cottage.
Door to Louise Walk. The Plantation had lots of winding pathways named after some people.
Banana leaves & Tiger Claws. I love the planting on this place. It was very natural, very lush. No regimented planting, no forced borders. Why aren’t all gardens like this?
Stone Fountain in the central courtyard.
The balcony at Banana. The ex and I fell in love with it. I don’t think I got a chance in the hammock.
This is how much I was in love with the balcony. Taking photos of the floor
This is the 3rd room we were moved into. It was really high up on the hill. Walking up burned off the breakfast.
Mossy growth and another one of the walkways
Sunlight on walkway down from the Coconut Room. That’s the one that’s a trek up.
A mottled tree & turquoise/greenish bridge
A little tat shop on the Plantation. I like to judge tat shops. This one wasn’t quite up to scratch, but very pretty to look at.
We took this plantation tour, it was pretty neat. We got to eat some plants along the way.
This is a Ginger-lilly. Also called a touch-me-not (See? I paid attention on the tour!) if you touch any part of the flower it dies within a few days. Left alone they last for weeks
Tall red and green plants
Bananas and some other flowers. I wasn’t paying THAT much attention.
Natural Museum (there isn’t anything in it except cocoa beans)
Cocoa Pods or as the tour lady mentioned, Jungle M&M’s. I could tell by the way she said it that the phrase Jungle M&M’s is usually a hit with the tourists. (and it was)
The drying out process for cocoa pods. I can’t really remember what it was exactly. But there was something about fermenting and dring and something else.
Pods fermenting. The white parts inside can be eaten fresh (You suck on the white bits around the seed.). Tastes like mild tamarind. Rather yummy.
Pot with a face near the pool.
Pool balcony. The pool was high up and very well hidden. It got a lot of sun in the morning and afternoon.
Pool and twilight
Walkway light down to the Plantation restaurant at night
The semi-new cleanerhas gone AWOL. (I don’t actually know what that means, but I’m assuming it means missing. I don’t feel like googling. I enjoy the gamble. Fingers crossed.)
Her handler can’t find her.
Handler is trying to arrange another cleaner. No luck so far.
So the ex asked a friend if their cleaner was available. (We will really do anything to avoid cleaning)
If her cleaner is free I’m going to have to tell the other cleaner we’ve found someone else or softly softly phase her out.
Which fills me with guilt because the handler is really nice. (Never met her, text only – But I prefer that kind of relationship.)
The cleaner I could live without.
In the morning the ex is Dr. Jekyll under the sheets, and Hyde the minute we get out of bed.
There’s a lesson here somewhere, but I really can’t spend all day in bed.
So far, this morning, here is a compressed list of the various scoldings:
Three and a half ants dared invade the kitchen. It must have been something I had done. Who else could it be? The ex could never bring in ants.
The toothpaste tube is almost empty. Why didn’t I replace it?
There is one plate in the sink. I need to clean it.
The bedspread needs changing. I never change it.
We make the bed. We squabble over covering the duvet.
Who’s starting the washing machine? Why isn’t it me?
Numbers 1-4, I was willing to let slide. (Even though 1. was seriously idiotic. Promise. Swear. There were actually 3 ants.)
But by number 6. I felt like this:
Ready to gnaw off someones face.
I did a cat-hiss at the ex, but that was during the 1-4 ‘let it slide’ phase.
I do a good cat-hiss – It needs to come from the back of the throat to have real depth to it.
Once I sneaked up behind this cat in Bombay and let out my best cat-hiss. (I was an adult.) It leapt up nearly a foot in the air. Best one ever.
However I’ve written my post, crawled down off the ceiling, drunk my tea, the ex has gone off to the Motherland (Harrods this time, which never fails to lift the mood), we had a quick post-squabble cuddle, it’s a sunny sunday and I just might spend all day faffing about, pleasantly colour correcting my photos.
(Even though I need to study for this Life in the UK test which frankly, offends me. No UK resident could pass this. The hypocrisy of the UK BA is really something.)
I took the photo below at Angel tube. It’s a poster for one of those odious books where a serial killer does some stuff to a cute chick.
Ugh. I’m sick of those books. But the comment scrawled on the poster cracked me up.
She said she was ill (and I’m sure she was) but her doctor appointments always happened to be on Saturday mornings.
The cleaning management company occasionally rallied to arrange temps but most of the time I just had to bear the brunt of the ex hissing venom at me at 9 in the morning when the cleaner had failed to show up, yet again.
“It’s your job to arrange the cleaner! Why isn’t she here?? I don’t care if her kidney is infected! Blah blah blah!”
The ex an I saved our relationship by getting a cleaner. We have totally different ideas of how often to clean and how often is too often, so cleaner issues turn critical very quickly.
On a side note:
This is such a desi wifely whine. More specifically it’s a very middle-class desi whine. Middle class Indians are always complaining about their cleaners.
Meet any woman running a house and she’ll give you a long rant about the cleaner or how the cook spoke to her very rudely the other day. (The cook and the driver are second and third in line of things to complain about.)
“Can you believe it? So rude she was. So I told her she can go look for another job if she speaks to me like that.
“And she always over cooks the daal. How many times I’ve shown her how to cook the daal but she still over cooks!”
“Plus I told her not to put salt in it. Every time too much salt. She never even tastes.
“Now the driver is upset because the cook got a bonus but the driver didn’t get the bonus.”
“Then the cleaner never jadhoos properly either. I always have to jadhoo the bathroom myself. She just does fut-fut-fut and thinks it’s done. Oof ho! Bus. What to do?”
“Haan haan, it’s so hard to find good cleaners… but have I told you what MY cleaner did…?”
In fact never ask an Indian housewife about the either the cleaner, the cook or the driver. It’ll never stop.
So to get back to my wifely whine, I’ve been designated as ‘cleaner manager’. My duties are to supervise and organise. (Catchy no?)
I’m expected to keep them up to scratch somehow. Inspect under the sofas, chase them around the 2 and a half rooms we live in. (Even if I did chase them around the flat my idea of “its clean” is clearly not going to match the ex’s expectation. So my supervision is really fruitless.)
The problem is the ex is the type of person who’d put of a pair of white kid gloves and run their hands down the furniture to test if it has been dusted properly.
So naturally the ex was enraged with the general incompetence of the temporary cleaners who came to fill in for Ona.
She then used the sulphuric acid that’s meant for unclogging drains to clean the oven. The ex caught that one.
I caught her cleaning a framed wall mirror violently and stopped her before she knocked that off too.
She then dusted the side tables by removing all the knickknacks and balancing them on the arms of the leopard print couch. The ex caught that one again.
In desperation I asked my boss at work if he knew a cleaner. This is the same boss who I once smoked a doob with. The fun one.
So he recommended a girl, so I called her and she told me she would send someone over one Saturday morning for a test run.
First day, the new girl (Elina, or Elita or something. Couldn’t quite hear her and now I can’t ask again) broke the power mop and left without telling us. Turns out she doesn’t speak any English.
We aren’t allowed to call her directly and can only contact her via her handler.
On a sunny weekend the Antique and Junk market in Camden Passage is a lovely place to go for a stroll.
There’s a wide range of silver, faux silver, vintage clothes (some over priced, a tad too much fur – rather shabby rabbit), costume jewellery, old magazines, a suitcase full of scissors (who is buying that?), an entire wooden box of spoons (for the spoon collectors I imagine), old stamps, empty boxes, tiny silver cream jugs, candle stick holders, wooden seals, old prints, just all sorts of stuff.
Sometimes the vendors bring their dogs and it’s fun to pet them while looking through what is largely tat.
What’s exciting about looking through reams and reams of tat is that occasionally, just occasionally, you find something that is pretty darn sweet.
The ex and I once had a massive row over some junk. I know, most of our arguments are ludicrous, this one was no exception. (This was ages ago. Now we just fight about imaginary stuff)
I saw something the ex had glossed over as ‘rubbishy rubbish’ and when I went to get cash to pay for it the ex went and bought it. Man, I was pissed! Almost irrationally pissed.
There was a cold front for a little while but we eventually kissed and made up. The ex doesn’t notice things until you sift through all the tat and when you’ve finally found something, then decides it’s worth liking.
Anyway I went on a photo spree a couple of sunny weekends ago. One vendor reproached me gently for taking photos of her stuff. I suppose I should have asked. Naughty naughty.
So I bought a silver Moon face broach from her so that was sort of my apology. (Well, I wanted that broach anyway.) I’ve decided to start a brooch collection.
Found a silver sea-horse broach a while ago, as well as a mounted Grouse foot. My mother saw the Grouse’s foot and squealed in horror. So the next year I got her one for herself. (Because that’s just the kind of daughter I am – Enjoys horrifying mother.)
She has yet to wear it.
One of the stalls just before you go into Camden Passage
Broaches on muslin
Some Old Posters at the same stall. He also sell vintage toys.
1920′s Broach Closeup
Broaches Collage. I rather like the Scottish feathery one.
One of the stalls opposite the Camden head
Marcasite Necklaces. Or some junk.
Sun & Moon & Clock broaches.
Scottish Broaches
Sign Board & Yellow Typewriter
Rocking Dog
Boy Holding Dog Outside Tesco’s. I love the dog’s expression.
Boy Holding Dog Outside Tesco’s
The Breakfast Club in the Evening
Breakfast Club Window. I like the way the light looks from the outside set against the yellow.
Camden Head Pub
Camden Passage street empty.
Camden Passage. Took ages to get a not so shaky shot.
Selfridges Window (Rather good their windows. This series was showcasing rising young talent.)
I went shopping with the ex to Selfridges on Saturday. (Well a Saturday a couple of weeks ago anyway. I’m on holiday now.)
It was an eye-opening experience.
Not because I hadn’t gone to Selfridges before but because of the dramatic and noticeable personality overhaul the ex underwent while in the store.
I’m quite manic when I visit shops that have a lot of things to look at and I have no fixed agenda
i.e. I’m not thinking
“I want a kettle and then I’m leaving.”
I look at everything. I cannot talk or concentrate. I want to go through all the racks methodically one by one, sifting through the multitude of products. I need to be dragged around because I have ceased to function aside from browsing.
Muji, for example, is particularly irresistible. It’s like a pricey charity shop. I like to read all the labels and then mentally debate with myself whether I need anything. I desperately want to need something but the problem with Muji is that all of its products only look appealing en mass. Once you get them home you realise what a pile of junk it is.
Like those stupid plastic trays they always have. I love the clear acrylic compartments. I don’t know why. In my mind I’m filling them with things. What things? No idea, but just … some things that might fill an acrylic compartment.
After a while I reach a state of total shopper hypnosis and have sudden uncontrollable urges to buy things that have become crucial to my happiness.
JUST BUY IT!! BUY IT NOW!
YOU NEED IT!
YOU’LL USE IT!
YOU’LL USE IT EVERY DAY.
EVERY SINGLE DAY OF YOUR LIFE!
IT’LL BE AWESOME!
DO IT NOW!”
That’s my internal monologue. I’m not walking around Muji yelling. (Yet)
Occasionally the sensible quiet part in my brain says,
“Yes, yes, that’s very nice. Very nice.
But let’s not be hasty shall we?
You remember all the trouble we’ve had with things like this in the past don’t you?
You don’t want to be buying something only to return it do you? Think of how much unnecessary work that would be.
Why don’t we just look around a bit and come back in a little while?”
But the shouty part usually yells over the sensible guy, in a dastardly attempt to drown him out. (I don’t know why it’s a ‘him’. Its sexless really.)
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JUST BUY IT!
COMING BACK IS BORING. COMING BACK IS FOR LOSERS!
YOU’LL WASTE TIME. TIME IS MONEY EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.
DON’T BE SUCH A SQUARE. YOU NEED IT.
WE HAVE MONEY. YOU DESERVE A TREAT. YOU HARDLY EVEN DRINK!! GO ON BUY IT!
THERE WONT BE ANYTHING BETTER ANYWAY! YOU’LL JUST HAVE MORE HASSLE COMING BACK.
ONCE YOU HAVE IT, IT’LL BE DONE. DON’T YOU WANT TO BE DONE??
JUST BUY IT. PICK IT UP AND PUT IT IN YOUR HAND. TAKE IT TO THE COUNTER NOW!!!!
NOOOOOOOOWWW!!!!!”
Eventually I get really tired and cranky. If I’m lucky I don’t buy anything.
If I succumb I come home with something useless, a lighter wallet and an agenda to rationalize my purchase. This is why I avoid shopping as much as possible.
So back to the ex: The ex’s personality underwent a remarkable and really quite odd change. You know those documentaries where some parasite crawls into the eye-ball of a snail, and then makes the snail change its entire behaviour so the snail crawls up on a branch so a bird can eat it, only so the parasite can live in the bird’s gut to complete its life cycle?
That’s what happened to the ex.
Well not literally. The ex wasn’t infected by a parasite that made the ex crawl up a branch on the look out for a bird, (You’ll be relieved to hear that) but what I mean is the behavioural pattern changes were comparable.
1. The ex became very relaxed. - Now the ex is not a relaxed person.
Sober. Not a relaxed person sober.
I felt I needed to add the ‘sober’ part. Un-sober the ex is suuuuper relaxed.
2. The ex seemed to be filled with a calm sense of inner well-being and benevolence.
The ex is quite benevolent in general, but the benevolence seemed more heightened than usual.
3. The ex also became surprisingly susceptible. Really susceptible.
Every time I pointed out something out there was a discussion, in some depth, of whether we could or should buy it.
New wine glasses, decanters, complete dinner sets. A new couch. We were both on some euphoric bender.
The ex started offering to buy me all sort of things. Just things I liked for no reason.
It was like Selfridges was some evil narcotic, some parasitic worm.
I didn’t take advantage of this, because I knew the ex wasn’t their normal aggravated self and I’m just not that kind of girl, believe it or not.
The ex bought me lunch (This was planned before our Selfridges jaunt. It was incentive to get me there in the first place you see. So no narcotic inducement)
I succumbed (dammit!) to Selfridges wicked wiles and bought myself 2 miniature bell jars things on stands.
Look. I need them. I’m going to use them. Really, I am. I’m going to put some drawings in there, like tiny cut-out things. I don’t know what yet but I swear I’m going to do it.
Both bell jars are now lying on the bedroom window-sill.
We finally walked out of Selfridges. It was raining and crowded on the grey pavement. Within mere minutes the hypnotic effect of Selfridges had worn off. The state of euphoria was palpably evaporating.
Back on the bus ride home though the hell of Oxford street, and the ex was back to
“GET BACK IN YOUR CORNER! BE QUIET! DON’T ANNOY ME. I KILL YOU!”
It is a fictional fight. If you read on you’ll know what I mean.
There is this solid brass statue on one of the living room side tables – A miniature winged horse. It’s about the size of a chihuahua and was named ‘Aurther’. (The artist named it. God knows why.) For a statue the size of a small dog, it is also monstrously heavy. The ex lugged it back all the way from Hawaii.
I didn’t warm to this statue right away but it has, over time, eventually grown on me. It is a seriously Punjabi statue. How can I explain what that means to non-desi’s?
It’s kitsch, colourful and a bit sentimental. Three things I associate wholly with the Punj.
It’s the ex’s baby – A source of pride and joy.
We were debating one sunny afternoon, how lovely it would be if the horse came to life one day. (Well I wasn’t debating this. This is the ex’s fantasy.)
“Imagine if we’d have our own flying horse…”
the ex theorized.
“How amazing. How lovely. We’d keep in the house on a golden leash..”
(or something to that effect.)
But what if it came to life and one day wanted to fly away into the great open sky? To be free as it were?
I suggested. What if it didn’t want the golden leash?
Side note: I’ve always wondered if the statue brought to life by Pygmalion would have really loved him back.
Perhaps she might for a little while, but what if it began to pall? Perhaps she’d want to leave. Perhaps a younger, up and coming, more talented sculptor would lure her away from her old creator.
Also, surely Pygmalion’s ideal of this perfect woman, carved in cold stone would never really hold true once she was a living, breathing person and had independent thought (not to mention that-time-of-the-month hormonal temper tantrums. That’ll scupper the romance if anything would.)
Perhaps Pygmalion would even resent her having independent thought. Challenging him. Arguing. Having periods.
Besides there must have been a reason he couldn’t find a girl to go out with him in the first place. He must have had some personality and/or hygiene issues.
Frankly I just don’t see the relationship working out.
Anyway, the little flying horse might want to fly away.
The ex said
“Oh then I’ll kill it.”
Perfectly casually and quite seriously.
“What? Why?? Why would you do something like that? Why would you kill it?”
“I won’t let it fly away. I wont allow it. I’ll kill it.”
I’m genuinely appalled for this poor fictional creature.
I tell the ex I’ll secretly free from its golden cage in the middle of the night it and tell it to fly, fly away quickly and never come back!
Then the ex was annoyed with me. I mustn’t do such a thing!
I insisted I would free it if the ex was going to kill it (Obviously. What else would I do?)
The ex said,
“‘No! I will only kill it if it wants to leave. Otherwise it can live.”
How magnanimous.
“You can’t kill it! If you love it you would let it go free!”
I argue hopelessly.
We eventually reached a stalemate.
I will surreptitiously free the poor oppressed flying mini horse. The ex would lovingly kill it.
I quite enjoy fictional arguments. The ex, not so much. Especially since I let the flying horse escape.
This poster couldn't be stupider if it tried. Magic Encounters my ass.
The ex made me go see Apassionata at the O2 a few weeks ago.
For the uninitiated this is a 2 hour horse show.
Just look at that poster. It’s so ….
The word I want to use is ‘gay’ but since that I’m trying not to use it in that context anymore, let’s just go with ‘cheesy and slightly camp’.
And so was the show. Cheesy and slightly camp.
Th ex being passionate about all things horses had begged me to go.
I say begged but it was more like,
“Do you want to come with me?”
Translation
“I think you’ll find that you will be coming.”
Of course, being the soft-hearted gentle soul that I am, I couldn’t bear the idea of the poor ex sitting all alone in the O2 area, watching horses and crying…
“I love horses so much. I really love them! No one understands!”
So of course, I had to go. Support and all that jazz.
The show was just as tedious as I thought it might be.
The highlight was ze German announcer repeatedly saying
“Please feel free to app-lauws. You may app-lauws now.”
I don’t know why, but the way he said ‘app-lauws’ made me giggle a little.
But I had no strength or will to lift my hands together in a clap. I sank into a stupor that lasted until the show ended.
Let me sum up the show for you (from a non-horsey person’s perspective) in a nutshell:
- Horse walks around the ring, shows paw.
- Another horse walks around the ring, shows paw.
- The end.
It was 2 hours of interminable boredom set to the worst music ever.
I plugged in my iPod.
I’m so glad I took a book too.
We rounded the evening off with the ex taking me to Gaucho grill.
