Thus far this week has been pretty damn fine. Much better than I could have expected on Sunday when I was wailing down the phone to the longsuffering stickette about how generally shit was life in general and mine in particular. Drivelling on about my own problems, with nary a glance at anyone else's, as it (invariably) happens...
Three rather lovely men have taken me out this week. Gavalu fed me an enormous steak and lots of Gauloises in our local Colombian restaurant and we had our first real conversation in ages. He is, to all intents and purposes, the closest I am likely to get to having a husband. Will and Disgrace, that's us.
I love the Colombian, it's cheap and they never seem able to be able to work out that I can't speak Spanish. Every time I go there I hope to be picked up by a scar-faced and vicious Colombian drug baron who wants me to be his moll so he can snort premium quality coke from my cleavage and let me hold his gun. But it has to be said that Colombians are not, as a race, aesthetically blessed. Most of them wouldn't look out of place on the end of a keyring.
Then a rather tired and forlorn minusbat stuffed me full of sashimi and bits of cow, and let me stuff him full of the faffy stuff I didn't want to eat but took off the conveyor belt because it looked pretty. Even tired and forlorn he's damn good company. Much deeply satisfying whinging - mostly with our mouths full. And our hearts too. Adolescence for ever, that's our motto.
And Toyboy took me to Livebait and fed me oysters and lobster for our farewell dinner. I didn't deserve it, having frozen him out after our post-funeral sesh. I promised to spend his last few days with him, but panicked because I'd leant on him so much last Friday. But I eventually stopped being so fucking stupid and so spent the last two nights with him, and packed him off to Heathrow this morning.
Christ, he is beautiful. Beautiful. Dark-edged hazel eyes; soft, sultry mouth; an arse and back to die for. Exquisite fucking, because we both knew it really was final this time; emotionally charged in a way I thought I'd forgotten. At some tender point in the small hours of this morning he told me that he hoped that for the rest of our lives we would meet up and have the occasional weekend of passion when he, at least, is between relationships. He sketched a verbal picture of us, lying in each other's arms in a boutique hotel in Paris or Istanbul, when he is rich and successful and... forty. When I will be... fifty-six. This image made my blood run cold. The very thought that a day will come when I will lure a forty year old to my bed and consider myself lucky to have done so; when I will be a shrivel-titted menopausal mercyfuck for a tenderhearted and balding ex.
Another fine thing that happened this week was going for meandering walks and tea and grand views of London tonight with ladycat. She is like a slimmer, taller, paler, prettier, younger version of me, but with more eyeliner. And morals. I should hate her, but I don't. Eek, it occurs to me that if stickette and I had spawned a love-child when we were both twelve (we are from Essex), it would have been ladycat. It must be time for bed.
I've got a hot date tomorrow night with the oft-postponed Beckham-Hislop. I know it seems like unseemly haste to post with such dexterity to a new boy, but if I put him off any longer he will give up trying. He really does have a body that wouldn't be out of place on Mt Olympus. And a face that wouldn't be out of place peering over fishing rod in your nan's front garden.
And I'm not quite sure what I'm doing on Friday night. But I think it's going to be fun...