Can you smell smoke?

I am feeling every second of my thirty-six years today. And when I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface it becomes clear that I look a good deal older. I look like John Hurt on a bad day. This is because the force of nature that is my girlfriend took time out this weekend from gathering up London's discarded rubber bands in order to celebrate her birthday with a party at our tiny flat. I wasn't entirely enamoured of this idea.


Me:  You want to have a party here? There's no room. Any more than three people in this flat and it starts to resemble the Black Hole of Calcutta. You could only swing a cat in here if it was particularly small and had had all its limbs amputated. And even then you'd risk knocking over the TV.


Lucy:  Nonsense. We can put all the breakable stuff downstairs in the shop with our bed.


Me:  Why would our bed be in the shop?


Lucy:  Well, we'll have to move it. I'm going to turn our bedroom into a ball pool.


Me:  But what about when we want to go to sleep?


Lucy:  Silly. We're not going to be sleeping.


Oh Lord.


Fast forward to Saturday night. My bedroom has been stripped of furniture and is now knee-deep in multi-coloured plastic balls. The living room is entirely covered with tin foil. And the bathroom windows have been blacked out and the light bulb replaced by a UV strip light. This I find uniquely disturbing - the blacklight gives the smallest room a chthonic aspect, as if my childhood nightmare has come true and the devil really does live in the U-bend. I resolve to use the shop toilet should nature call during the party.


Guests begin to arrive, and it is with sinking stomach that I realise I don't know a single one of them.


Me:  (sotto voce) Luce, who are all these people?


Lucy:  Oh, y'know. Mates.


Me:  I've never met any of them.


Lucy:  You haven't? Oh, well then... (she jumps on the sofa and hollers at the top of her voice) Everyone! (the room turns to look) This is my boyfriend, Late. Late, this (she gestures towards the assembled masses) is everyone.


I force a weak smile, wave, then head off to the kitchen for some alcohol. I feel I'm going to need it.


Several stiff drinks and some fortifying cheese straws later, I venture back into the living room which by now has been colonised by about a dozen happily drunk sybarites who are attempting to play Twister while covered in baby oil. There is a lot of slipping. I remember a time when this kind of party was the sort of thing I fantasized about while masturbating into a sock. Now I just worry that baby oil is going to stain the carpet. A familiar shape extricates itself from the tangle of limbs - it is my favourite diminutive Canadian, Vinnie. I am so relieved to see someone I know that I almost hug him, but, realizing that if I did he'd probably shoot out of my arms and brain himself on the light fitting, I restrict myself to a manly handshake.


Me:  Christ, Vinnie, am I glad to see you.


Vinnie:  Well, I wasn't going to miss one of Lucy's parties. They're legendary. The last one she had, some guy decided it would be cool to build a campfire in the living room. People were still toasting marshmallows when the firefighters showed up.


Me:  Shit. When did that happen?


Vinnie:  Oh, a couple of years ago. Just before she moved in here.


A little alarm bell goes off in my head, and I decide to ask Lucy a couple of questions. I locate her in the ball pool, and dive in beside her. She grins like a lunatic and throws a green plastic ball at me. It rebounds off my temple.


Lucy:  This is great. I'm having a great time. Isn't this great?


Me:  Yeah, great. Look, Luce, can I ask you a question?


Lucy:  Sure thing, slugger. Shoot.


Me:  Just before you moved in with me, when you had to leave your squat... did the landlord really come back and chuck you out? Or did you, y'know, accidentally burn it down?


Lucy:  I didn't burn it down.


Me:  Phew. Thank God for that.


Lucy:  It was more sort of gutted.


Me:  Oh, holy Christ.


Lucy:  See? Now you're stressed. Precisely why I didn't tell you in the first place. Now I'm going to have to think of a way to calm you down.


Her hand snakes down between the multi-coloured balls and finds my trouser fly. "I hope the ball pool people disinfect these after use" is the last rational thought that goes through my head. I tell you, a guy hasn't lived until he's had sex in a room full of plastic balls. And there's a sentence I thought I would never have reason to type.


I perked up considerably after that and actually (whisper it) enjoyed myself. Which is why I am currently doing an impression of Death warmed up. Still, it was worth it - my beloved had a great birthday party, and I at least know what I'm going to look like in 30 years' time. John Hurt, seemingly.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Chateauneuf-du-Pape 2001 (France). Fruity blackcurrant flavour and the aroma of spice and smoke. Although the smoke may be coming from the campfire in your living room. Great with toasted marshmallows. £14.99
3.10.05 13:06


Incidentally, if you read the last post and thought "I wonder what cheap gimcrackery Late gave his girlfriend for her birthday?", then wonder no more. I am happy to tell you that on a day of her choosing, la belle Lucy shall be going to the fine establishment that is Agent Provocateur for a little shopping trip on my dime.


Lingerie. It's the gift that keeps on giving.
3.10.05 14:51


An alarming day

Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo


"Our -


Weewooweewooweewooweewoo


burglar alarm -


Weewooweewoowee


seems to be -


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo


malfunction -


Weewooweewoo


ing."


Weewoowee.


 


 


 


"I think it's finally stopped."


"Thank Christ for that."


 


 


 


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo


"Fuck -


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo


it."


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo...


 


Our so-called "security system" (as fitted three years ago at great expense by Shaftem and Runn Security Ltd.) has never been the most reliable burglar alarm on the arcade. I have always suspected that it has a level of sentience - it is certainly jittery as a bag of crickets, and goes off whenever it feels under threat ("Oh no! Late is trying to open up the shop! Danger! Danger! I am under attack! Weewooweewooweewoo!"). However, our burglar alarm now seems to have entered a period of irreversible decline. If it is possible for security systems to contract Alzheimer's, then ours is currently wandering round in its underwear, while eating ivory soap and plaintively asking everyone "Are you Percy?".


Picture the scene: Vinnie, Lucy and myself are in the middle of our usual Saturday afternoon routine - to whit, attempting the Guardian quiz while chugging on a few beers.


Me:  Okay, next question: what is the only country to have a single-colour flag...?


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo...


Me:  Bollocks. Hold that thought.


And I stomp into the back room to the control panel. Normally, resetting the damn thing sorts it out, until the next time it decides to panic and go off for no reason. Not so this time, however.


I punch in the numbers.


Me:  One... nine... six... four. (not the real code, obviously)


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo...


Me:  One... nine... six... four.


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo...


Me:  ONE... NINE... SIX... FOUR.


Silence.


Me:  Thank you.


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo...


Me:  Crap. Oneninesixfour, oneninesixfour, ONENINESIXFOUR...


But no amount of button-pressing, pounding or pleading seemed to make the thing stop for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Vinnie, whose sunny outlook on life borders on the Panglossian, suggested that we should just wait until the battery ran down. Everybody felt happier after that, until I pointed out that the burglar alarm was hooked up to the mains.


For the rest of Saturday we took turns punching the code into the control panel. Then we took turns just punching the control panel. Eventually it fell off the wall. The relentless weewooing continued.


Lucy:  I think this thing is possessed.


At this point, Insufferable Jake from the Health Food Emporium of the Damned jangled into the shop.


Jake:  Hey guys, I don't want to come across as a crusty old kvetch, but your alarm has been going off since noon and it's really, like, putting me on edge, you know? Any chance you can, you know, switch it off?


Lucy, Vinnie and I turned and, as one, replied (quite forcefully) in the negative, sending Jake scurrying back to his quinoa and strange-shaped vegetables, leaving a fug of patchouli in his wake.


Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo...


Me:  Right. This calls for decisive action. Fetch me a ladder. And a hammer.


And so it was that on Saturday evening, as the sky bruised and day turned to night, your beloved narrator, hammer in hand, climbed up the side of the Bottle Shop and, Thor-like, smashed ten types of shit out of our burglar alarm.


I think that may have been the most satisfying 2-minute period of my life. And the peace! The sweet, sweet peace!


 


(By the way, for those of you who are interested, the answer to the quiz question was Libya. Lucy got that one. I pride myself on not bothering to know that sort of useless ephemera).


 


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Givry Rouge 'Les Petits Buits' 2002 (France). A lovely, spicy wine for autumn, reminiscent of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Buy two bottles, and use the corks to stick in your ears if your burglar alarm is suffering from senile dementia. £8.49
17.10.05 13:42