get some sax

Been tossing some emails around with Ian the alto sax player.

IC:
That red hot gig that my italian m8 mentioned in the city was a bag o shite' Went there and hit a Time oUt reccomended trip to the Soul Cellar, E14. Shouda been a George Benson influenced guitarist but by the time we got there was jus in time for a rather large sista singin her ample heart out Karaoke style. (a TO recommend!)

DW:
yo. your email cracked me up. you telling me youdidn't appreciate the crusty East End vocals of thecleaning lady at the E14 gig. Obviously George Bensoncouldn't make it, so she'd stepped in at the lastminute to keep the punters happy.Club Afrique was great. I was in my jogging pants,and the folks there all had their £60 haircuts, andthat was just the fellas. I never seen such a load ofbling. When I walked in they said, aw you must beSarah's mate. How did they know? Cos I was the onlywhite dude there!Keep me posted about the latest happenings. I'mthrowing my lazy arse into a flotation tank tomorrow,so Wed. is no go. But otherwise, I'm about.

to belt it out

Ok, I'm back. I told night security I needed another half hour. God I do. I've had a good day putting things in order. Emailed a whole bunch of HR thoughts on to my manager and got cracking on some things for next year. I was a bit teed off with all the talk about Christmas. Yeh it's nice to do family things but call me Scrooge, there's a bunch of work to do.

If I go home, I'll just flop on the sofa and watch my flatmates watching crap telly, or need to wank for about half an hour. This way I get to stay up and get typing, plus think about clearing my bowels. Yes, they are pretty full after a weekend of Czech food. It was dirt cheap, by the way, the food. £2 for a meal. My friends insisted on paying which I think caused difficulties but I could not refuse, even though the money was so little, but not if you only earnt the average wage of 19000Kc a month (under £5000 annually).

Some of the things I'd like to do are: tart up my website, and get some more events online. Research more events in London, and work through them. Anything from learning bridge, to cooking, to scrapbooking, investment strategy games, Turkish drumming, improvised singing, lectures at LSE, ICA, more ice skating, weekends away. There is so much I want to do. I know a few websites now where I can find what is going on.

Being in Czech reminded me the importance of doing things in London and meeting people. I want to live somewhere where there is no telly and you can sit and knit, drink or play cards in the front room.

I came across London Soul Gospel Choir on moveflat.com. I've sung before but never at a high standard and I learn quickly. This experience taught me much. How you can just stand in a choir and sing with them, just as long as you have a feel for the chords. The concert six weeks later on 10 Dec sounded beautiful. I should like a tape.

My grandfather answered the phone just after I joined. David, he said, in his mild Welsh accent, that is good news. I thought the old bugger had lost it, he was telling me an anecdote about Lord Armstrong being 'economical with the truth' at the Spycatcher trial. Armstrong's father was organist at Oxford when Gramps was up. Armstrong gave Gramps the briefest of tests and asked him what part he should sing. 'Baritone. But I could stretch to a tenor', said Grandpa. 'Don't', came the response.

to sing and skate

Allister tossed me a teasing offer on 15 Dec. Skating on Kew Gardens. I've got the scar just near my eye from the last time. Mary swung me round the ice. I met Sylvie, Gabriella and Anka. The steward said you didn't pay just to walk on the ice did you. I laughed out loud. I looked such a twat bent over almost double moving my feet like a penguin. The girls had me skating 'Mate we should be Torvill and Dean', said Mary 'that bum'. 'Yeah I know, so elegant.' said I.

Singing in All Saints Peckham, more later.

for another fairytale

Machinery, transport, steel, armaments, vehicles, cement, ceramics, cotton, beer

First off, I got the wrong currency out completely. I needed Crowns, as my Czech friend called them.

I got out of the plane. I can't believe all this cold is for free, thought I.

Dragon One.
Juan. His name was really Jan but he hated Czech so much, he was back under duress. He was the first person I met. We drew pictures because he only spoke Spanish (and Czech) and I like his company was waiting for my friends, caught behind an overturned lorry an hour or two away.

Dragon Two.
The boyfriend, Josef. He looked like an old woodcutter, and that a new axe would be the best present you could ever get him. I wondered so much what my friend, who studies horoscopes and knows much about people, was doing with him. But he got us back to Plzen. I didn't get to see inside his soul.

The Princess.
My friend Misalka who lived in a tower overlooking Skretova two blocks from the Skoda factory. With a wonderful black and white cat, Miouk.

Walking through the firelight of the wintry market by St Bartholomew's and pressing your hand on the angel and making a wish, drinking a glass of mead (medovina) at any age to warm up. I bought the wool of sheep, tailored hat. Sausages and dumpling and gambrinus and Pilsener Urquell to remember forever. The Czechs brought their waffles to the US. The food was so good.

The magic of being alive, down in Mazany Kralicek you could meet the rabbit. Misha and I were there with Dennis the Briton, Josef (Pepe) and then a throng of young fun folk. I downed my fifth jug and got up to meet Jakob. For some reason I punched him, and he punched back. We slapped each other around for about twenty minutes. By the end he had my shirt off and we were forcing each other apart on the dance floor and then hugging equally closely. It was odd. Ivona mimed giving me a BJ with real theatre, hair flying around all over the place, me slapping her back and shouting 'bitch' and the crowd laughing. Ivona tried to touch Jakob but he shrank away. I asked him for a kiss, and he gave me the briefest kiss on the lips. I started crying in Misha's arms.

Maybe I will find a way in to get to know my Czech flatmate. I'm back now after a great weekend. O Wonderful Winter!

to get high

I've been dating lately, but never mind all that. One person I met wasn't my type at all but didn't mention he had the use of a trapeze, how exciting. I was suddenly riveted. So later, at home, I looked up his workplace and rang through to an American lady in her sixties, 'yes dear' she said. I checked it out, it was two bolts in the ceiling, very adventurous.

the distant cousin in Lewisham, Godfrey Smith. I found his grandson living just round the corner from me. I wrote him a letter.

to gey my hands dirty

i love it love it love it. gay semi-clothed, not, arms round the nearest body moving thru the crowd, women stepping back from the tide of masculinity. the vibe, strong gay men who want similar and are happy to hang around in an un air-conditioned bar with packed garden to get it. I lapped the bar, inches of hot air separating me from nipples, from lips. A look that lasted no longer than half-a-second, a kiss, lips locked, hands down trousers, I swear in five seconds. This happened four times. Black beautiful features broke into a wicked grin looking my way at the bar, a confident man. I was happy to get him in my sack. The perfect conclusion to a night of flirting, celebrating sexuality and chat in a friendly relaxed horny environment where handling your partner's cock was a natural expression of affection and excitement.

Friday - exchanged play with four men in the sauna.
Tuesday - kissed a Dane and then switched continents. I saw a Brazilian on the way to the toilets and pounced on him. Ten minutes of pretending to listen to his comments, really listening to his voice, and we kissed and groped for ten minutes. On the way home I showed some stomach exercises to a guy on the train.

more obscure heckles

I like nothing more than being in the company of someone who's attentive, to whom I can show attention. I don't care about your age, background, gender. A smile from a stranger makes my entire year. Thank you, in advance.

But, I love and hate obscure heckles. What does 'aren't you cold', 'mate you're in shape', 'corr look at that pigeon chest', 'when's your album coming out', 'it takes all sorts' - it all mean? Or the flocks of homeless dirty grey pigeons attempting to ape me in the street after money, a cigarette, mental amnesia, a genuine insult? You are my brethren but you don't want to know. I happen to think I earn my right to be a selfish cunt. The thing I think I miss is sharing. I belong to the world so I think I must engage with the hecklers. Not be afraid of turning down a different path.

for sanguinity

It tickled me that I had to key in my boss's date of birth to enter the building every day for the week. As she was four years my junior, keying in '5 April 1981' before a day's slavery on the phones was a bit masochistic. My new colleagues are also Australian but this time are men. I have a nice mental struggle when they bend down and I see the small of their backs. I do get to nonchalantly glance at the one guy when he does a back stretch to reveal his washboard stomach. But I'm not really bothered. Bodies are nice, but it's what comes with them that can have you longing for someone's company more than breakfast. Where is that Easter chocolate...

to beat the Easter bunny

I receive a text message: 'Easter shocker'. My rope class for Monday has been cancelled. (Easter bunny one nil up)

I had a great meal with my Aussie mate Ty in Hampstead, at the Holly Bush. The men held their women and wallets with equal carelessness. A mother barked out a series of instructions to her son, about to go on a rugby tour. The Easter Bunny lay casseroled in a mustard and pilsner sauce. (Easter bunny one nil down). Later in the land of flailing windmills that is a bar in town I am stubbed with a cigarette. My hand snakes into my glass to grab lemon to put out the singeing flesh.

for more humiliation

I was so in awe of the bravery of those who decide to come out and address the fact they might be 'gay'. I thought it was a good excuse to push the boat out a bit and wear the tightest most clinging clothes I could find and head out to that denizen of middle England, 'the shops'. It is surprisingly easily to get Mr Average to whistle at you. I followed this with my first experience of wearing a dress in the club. Responses ranged from revulsion, smiles from the fillies to fascination. I did my bit for glam I guess. I changed to streetwear, slinging a shirt round my neck, sweaty torso cooling off in the March night. I ran from the catcall from the minicab driver in the street, afraid of the power I'd unleashed.

for the sun

I spent a stupid amount of time at the gym and skipping etc. Finally I made it to South Kensington to meet Connie and it was getting chilly. I'd eaten a large baguette on the tube. The passenger next to me crossed their legs away and wiped off bits of stray crumb. I was hungry! The students opposite were carrying big placards 'fight war not wars'. Connie suggested I have a quick wine tasting, so it was a light rose and an Australian pinot grigio before I went on my way. The plans for the picnic slightly firmer. The Hyde Park Family History Centre was again closed so back to central London. The summery air had gone so off to the sauna for some fun and, as it turns out, a massage, very useful. I met Miranda on the way. I emerged blinking into the darkness and joined the queue for Shinky Shonky. It was someone's birthday. The DJ was very friendly but his tunes were terrible, and very loud. Still he did say 'I had the moves'. I made an undignified exit and went to WigOut where I met Mark from Northern Ireland. I danced outrageously, there were several comments (complaints?). I escaped for some life-giving sleep after a quick snog. I can't wait for the sun.

to meet Connie

I wanted to find the real name of Frederick Merifield, born in St Blazey, Cornwall who had dark skin, wore plus-fours in later life and was a cousin of my great-grandmother. I left my job interview at London Bridge and flew to South Kensington to the Hyde Park Family History Centre. It was closed. Anyway, they'd managed to order a set of Polish parish registers instead of the ones I wanted. I went to the British Sound Archive round the corner. It had moved. I went to the Royal Geographical Society to look at the displays. They were closed.

It was a gorgeous day so I ran through Kensington and had a fantastic time soaking up the sun and running and skipping in the street. I tried to find Majestic Wine but failed: Connie works there. I'd like to find her. I met her in Camden a few months ago and she was a lot of fun.

to look at this morning's post

My Genealogist's Magazine came through the letterbox. This set my thinking for a while about family history, about my family, about letters received in the past, about how all of my post these days is from huge sodding c**nt's bank.

My great-great-grandmother was small and dynamic, Ellen, wife of a methodist minister who lived in Hornsey, London seventy years ago. She wrote letters which have survived. She never mentioned her brother Arthur Smith, warehouseman in south-east London, and I want to find out more about him. On a snatched lunch break I found that his son Ernest Godfrey Smith died in Lewisham in 1957.

to move on

yes I start my new job on Monday! yes I go blonde today! yes I may cycle to the Heath! and then the evening will draw to a close dancing to pop. Dance boy dance.

Yesterday was fun. A bird crapped on me. I had my last day at work. I had a two-and-a-half hour lunch break. I had a full sexual health screening at Mortimer Market. Phew. I had my first shift, a listening one, at the helpline. I met up with this bloke Osmar again. To be honest, I'm not really into having boyfriends right now. The sex was good on Sunday night. We met in Costa Coffee in Old Comptons and I took him home. But on Friday night, he spent an entire bus journey nattering to his coke-swilling Latin friend and tapping me on the shoulder every few minutes, as a woodpecker might. So when we got off the bus in Soho I told him that I wasn't that bothered by the sex and that common courtesy wouldn't go amiss. I couldn't be arsed and was going home.

Time to go out!