Home Alone – Captain’s Log, Star Date 09.02.2013

Weekend #1 of partner being away: 

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.

May need to eat more instant noodles.

End of Captain’s Log.

Boat – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Mirror Room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Mask Painting

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.

Mask Finished

My mask (The Queen) & The Ex’s mask (Gay Pope?)

St. Lucia – Part I

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.

Brief Holiday Recap: The Journey

The ex and I began our holiday with the traditional pre-holiday fight in the cab on the way to Paddington.

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 Fond Doux bar

Sunday Mid-Morning Aggravation

Highly aggravated this morning.

The semi-new cleaner has 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:

1. 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.
2. The toothpaste tube is almost empty. Why didn’t I replace it?
3. There is one plate in the sink. I need to clean it.
4. The bedspread needs changing. I never change it.
5. We make the bed. We squabble over covering the duvet.
6. 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.

Capitalism of course! Dummy!

An Occupy London protester clearly.

The Couch Is Out To Get Me

The Couch. Look at it just glaring at me. Defying me to drop something on it.

The good thing about this print is that it camouflages cigarette burns very well.

This is similar in theme to “The Goverment is out to get me“. A general paranoid whine, I suppose.

This fucking couch has been out to get me from day one.

First of all, this is no ordinary couch.

This is couch is upholstered in a Leopard print fabric. (As you can see.)

Like the couch of some over-weight, worn-out, Bollywood B-grade movie star.

Imagine her lying on it, draped in a hot-pink satin fabric, while eating rasgullas. When she runs out of rasgullas she claps her sticky hands together to summon her man Friday, Sreekanth to bring her some rasmalai instead.

The ex’s mother sent us these couches. She had them specially made and then shipped across the seas all the way from the Punj.

Not satisfied with the Leopard print, these couches also have cushion covers in a soft brown suede fabric.

Suede! The most easily wrecked of all materials. It’s not even in a dark colour. It’s light brown!

It’s like the couch is purposely trying to entice me to sit on it, so I can spill something and have the ex subsequently murder me.

Just look at it. Doesn’t it just seem like its saying,

“Oh look sit on me, just have a seat…no no I won’t stain my pristine, suede-ness, don’t worry beta ha ha. Of course I’d never lie to you, I’m your friend…”

Such a fucking liar! I try (as much as possible) to sit on an expendable cloth that covers the couch.

This is not to protect the couch, but to protect me from the wrath of the ex. This couch stains just by breathing on it.

“Come come, eat a meal on me. No, no don’t worry! If you spill anything and it’ll come right off!”

Nothing comes off suede. It is the devil’s fabric. All the furniture in hell is probably upholstered in suede and should you find yourself there you will spend all eternity worrying about what you may or may not have spilled on it.

Also I feel this eerie growing superstitious paranoia that the ex’s mother purposely sent this couch to ‘get me’. This couch has given me many heart palpitations in the past.

Once I was just sitting on it, innocently minding my own business… and drawing with a ball-pen (Reynolds – still good) and I accidentally swiped my hand across and a little black mark went on one of the pillows.

I don’t remember a lot of what happened later but there was some shouting and screaming and threats of,

“You better fix the couch! I mean it! You better fix it!!”

and

“I DONT CARE!! JUST FIX IT!”

I get that a lot.

The ex accuses me of ruining everything.

Which is ironic. My mother used to say that to me.

I accidentally broke one of her ceramic photo frames (one of my mother’s many collections) and in response she said very melodramatically,

“FINE! FINE! JUST BREAK EVERYTHING!! RUIN EVERYTHING!! I CAN NEVER HAVE ANYTHING NICE IN THIS HOUSE!!!”

HERE!! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW??”

On ‘HERE’ my mother grabbed another frame and smashed it on the ground. (Very silly.)

So the next time I broke a ceramic painted plate, (I was yawning and stretching. It happens.) to avoid any more tantrums, I hid it in my underwear drawer and then spent hours painstakingly, (and surreptitiously) glueing it together in the forlorn hope that she’d never even notice.

Of course she found it in my underwear drawer (I should have hidden it under the underwear), but I’m comforted by the fact that it took her a few days to find it. She didn’t have a tantrum. I think by now she’d grown accustomed to the idea of her unfortunately clumsy child.

Back to the couch and its vindictive campaign to get me:

Another time, I was sitting on the couch, yet again, harmlessly minding my own business, when I happened to notice a small burn on one of the suede cushions.

I started having cold sweats. I was pretty sure I didn’t make it. But if I didn’t warn the ex in advance, guaranteed I’d get blamed for it.

So I had to grit my teeth, steel my nerves and call the ex at work.

I prepped the scene with my stellar opening,

“OK. Baby. Don’t get mad. I have some bad news…”

Always open with the bad news, (the good news is that I didn’t do it)

“…OK…”

*uncertain pause*

“…what is it?”

“Uhm, I noticed a black mark on one of the cushions…

“…butIswearitwasn’tmeIdidn’tdoititwasalreadythere
motherswearonmylifedon’tbemadIloveyou.”

The ex must have been in a more than usually benevolent mood, because I passed. Whew.

Recently I was washing the cover I usually sit on (a rare moment of domestic responsibility) and then sat on the couch after painting something, and before I knew it a smudge of white acrylic paint went on one of the cushions. (which just goes to show you how unrewarded I am for my domestic responsibility).

It was after so long! And I had been so good! I really tried, really really REALLY, not to spill anything on that couch.

This is why I’m convinced, that it’s a curse. The couch has it in for me.

The ex was mad, and I couldn’t even say anything to defend myself. I mean, I don’t even know how the paint got on the couch. It wasn’t even on me this time. It must have been on my laptop and I didn’t notice.

Now I have to try scraping it very gently with a sharp scalpel in the hope the white paint will flake off.

It’ll probably leave a patch. (sigh)

Suede is an evil, evil fabric.

Zombie Parasites

Zombie Parasite infected snail. The eyeballs! The eyeballs!

I looked into the parasite-snail thing I vaguely mentioned as a comparison to shopping with the ex in Selfridges a couple of weeks ago, and after a quick search I found the exact clip I was looking for on the interweb (although I’m sure the original clip was voiced by Attenborough.)

This little video has been on my mind for years. I can’t ever forget it.

So I’m passing it on. Enjoy

Shudder.

Shopper Euphoria

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!”

Fastest come down ever.

The Winged Horse: Update with Image

Arthur in all his glory.

A closer, more garish view.

Oh no. What have I done??

My previous post has made the ex consider buying another hideous delightful statue.

(Thank god they’re so expensive.)

I think that the horse is probably the best of the bunch.

The cats are unbearably naff as our dear leader (Foz, my M.A tutor) would have said.

Apassionata: A Review

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.

I ordered the steak, done ‘blue’.

I imagined it was a horse.

Bah Hum Bug!

Santa's "You've been Naughty" Bag of Coal stocking filler (The 'coal' is actually handmade soap)

Every year I swear I won’t get dragged into the whole Christmas gift buying hoopla.

It’s too stressful; The expectations are too high, both as a giver and a receiver, only for it to all implode in tears and disappointment.

After I apologized and the ex stopped sulking about my dick-head behavior about the socks, I belatedly got very angry about the criticism my Christmas present received. (As I’ve mentioned before, it was roundly panned.)

Over the space over the next 24 hours I worked myself up into a state of sheer fury about every other gift I’d ever given the ex that had been critiqued (I am a woman after all, we remember these things) and it made me so angry I sulked for 2 days.

The ex noticing this retaliation sulk, countered it by coming home after work and asked me if they should change their flight dates and maybe not come to Bombay after all.

I asked the ex why they were so determined to ruin Christmas. (I said this very dramatically. With emotion!)

“If you’re going to be like this, and continue sulking then I don’t want to come to Bombay”

“Well, I’ll just have to get over it, won’t I!”

I probably would too. Of course, I’d never forget it.

“Why can’t you get over it now?”

The ex is far too practical in these kinds of emotional discussions.

This then devolved into a phenomenal row when the ex rounded swiftly, on the first counter attack by a second far more devious one, by saying we wouldn’t exchange gifts this year since the one I’d bought wasn’t up to scratch.

Now I was seriously annoyed. My gift gets panned, that’s just being honest but dare I express accidental disappointment in socks (I thought they were my Christmas gift – They weren’t.), then I am ungrateful.

Besides, I said sorry nearly immediately for saying I didn’t like it. It wasn’t nice. I acknowledge it. I didn’t mean to be. I suppose I was still slightly resentful about my failure present. (It was really nicely wrapped up too!)

To add insult to injury, only after I had given the ex their Christmas present, would we not be exchanging any gifts this year!

So the ex said

“I really don’t know what’s going on in your head. Why are you angry now after all this time?”

Even I don’t know what’s going on in my head but what the heck, I said sorry, why can’t the ex? I’m fairly straight forward. I like a sorry.

“You never say sorry! I always say sorry!”

Look I know. It’s an insane quarrel, but I wanted a sorry. It’s not rational, but I don’t care.

After 5 more minutes of me sulking, the ex then said sorry (about saying they didn’t like my present). As a further palliative the ex then said they did like the present.

What a sweetie. That was a clear lie and we both knew it. But I accepted the olive leaf gratefully.

So the plan now is to find something better or at least more suitable while I’m in Bombay. This time I’ll get it pre-approved and signed off before I buy it. That’s the only way I’ll get it right.

My present was a polka-dotted retro swimsuit (We’re going to Goa for a bit). It was nice.

Goddamnit. Why can’t I ever get gifts right?