London has a certain smell. The Thames, probably. We're in a hotel (a normal one - thank christ that Valentine couldn't get that pink monstrosity) and going to look at the place in Holland Park tomorrow. I'm hoping it's alright. Fifteen minutes in a hotel room and I'm already climbing the walls.

Have to say though: Stitch is possibly the best passenger I've ever met. Doesn't complain about the music, doesn't play rude word number plate, doesn't eat all the Werther's while complaining about eating Werther's. Easiest drive I've had in an age.

You see it all the time. A couple walk into a house and one of them - usually the wife, but not always - spots something that they fall in love with and then the deals done before they even make an offer. Everyone has a weakness. Valentine found mine.

I should stop giving him everything he asks for, it only makes him worse.

Fuck I hate myself.

He's happy though. It'll be alright.

Christ.

There's a special kind of impotent rage only felt when forced to deal with morons over the internet. You'd think that someone with experience in property wouldn't encounter any undue frustration in arranging a viewing, but these slack jawed cretins manage to impede every step with the lumpen stupidity of Allen wrenches.

I haven't felt this irritated since I lost my mp3 player and we had to listen to Valentine's.

In a stunning display of the subtlety he's renowned for, Valentine has been bookmarking London properties on my laptop. With perfect honesty I can say that there was no less than 58 links saved for my perusal this morning, accompanied by a pot of coffee and a cream cheese bagel. If I were a betting man, I'd say he wants something. Then again, the coffee and bagels could just be a peace offering to atone for the fact that Stitch and I were held hostage by the threat of high pitched whines in concert and forced to watch Twilight. At least this time there was someone to share my pain.

In less irritating news, the badgers seem to have disappeared from the garden. Do they hibernate in winter? Surely not.

It’s unnerving, having houseguests. This place used to be mine, and it was familiar in its solitude and silence. Then it was ours, and it was louder and messier and – even though it sometimes chafes to admit it, especially on those occasions where he’s done something that warrants murder - happier. Now it seems to belong to everyone and I’m not sure that I like it.

 

It’s not the guests, precisely. Or, rather, it is, but only by proxy. They’re alright, though I have my doubts about what they’re involved in and what it means to someone like Valentine. Not that anything’s been said. When he told me they were coming it was because they needed a break from London, not because they were escaping some sort of violence to do with being outed.  Not sure how he expected to conceal the fact that one of them is sporting a bruise around his neck that looks like he’s been choked and both of them are as jumpy as wild rabbits, but that’s neither here nor there. Had he told me all of the details, I would have still said yes, regardless of the fact that the people in the village are looking at me like I’m setting up some kind of homosexual haven for battered runaways. I’d have said yes, because it means something to him, and because when it comes to getting the fuck out of Dodge this place makes sense.

 

I digress.

 

If I had to put my finger on why I’m unsettled, I’d be pressed to say exactly why. I’d say it was partly the lack of privacy, and partly the strain of feeling you should be entertaining when you’d rather be reading a book and snarling at anything that comes near, and both of those things are true enough to answer with if I was asked to cough a reason up. Mostly, though, it’s the fact that Valentine isn’t mine in the same way that he is when we’re alone. And here’s my dilemma: at the grand old age of thirty six, it’s less than pleasant to recognise the tightness in your gut as jealousy, and even less pleasant to stare back into those great bleating green eyes and tell him so.

 

So I don’t. I’m about as good at sharing feelings as I am with sharing toys.

 

Instead, I sit here and type and watch them laugh, even though it’s a bit strained, and I wonder how much worse this will be when we’re in London and he’s making time for twenty people instead of two and one of them is Olly, who may as well be two hundred people when you look at him through Valentine’s eyes.

Christ, I wish he wouldn't insist on sucking on those ice lollies when we have company. I know he's doing it to drive me fucking insane.

Christ. Formerly quiet haven now housing three people under 25, a pathologically affectionate cat, and approximately fifteen badgers.

Could be worse. Could be Olly.

You may recall an earlier post, this May just gone, in which I discovered a small extremist group in my garden. Look! Someone (guess who) said at the time, babies! You can't hurt baby badgers, they're too cute, you're too mean, you just can't kill things you don't like. What's the point of country life, said he, if not to squee like a demented banshee at the sight of small fluffy creatures made of evil.

Fucking things are now adult sized. I hope someone (Valentine) steps in one of their holes and breaks his neck.

Valentine's in a sulk with the cat. If I could hit the mute button it'd probably be quite amusing.

Christ, it's like a broken record sometimes.

Looking for real estate in Britain online is monumentally frustrating. Valentine's primary pre-requisites seem to be the colour of the walls and proximity to London - largely being anything that's painted hot pink/yellow/green, and within 5 miles of The Tate. This combination isn't as uncommon as you might think.

Blue.

Terrible billy-cart accident when I was nine.

Red skinny jeans make my palms itch, mostly to slap you. Even stevens?

Long time between drinks.

Good to see the Alsace region cheerfully joined in with the rest of France in adopting the most eye watering hotel decor you could hope to imagine. The wallpaper matches the bedspread, and at first glance the two appear seamlessly joined. The bedspread is gold with burgundy swirls. I wish I was joking.

In Strasbourg so Valentine can indulge in his idea of a social life. Apparently this consists of refusing to get up for breakfast because 'I'm shattered you wanker' and insisting on staying in bed until lunchtime in order to prepare for the scintillating experience of drinking until loss of motor function limits his ability to dance any more. Can't wait.

I'm off to Place du Marché-aux-Cochons-de-Lait to purchase pain au chocolat. I'm going to bring it back and waft it about until he's lured out. I'm not sitting in a hotel all day waiting for Sleeping Beauty to get up on his own.

My new computer arrived today. It's a sleek little thing. I'd rather not talk about the untimely demise of the old one. All I have to say is that the cat's damn lucky I didn't make a second cup of coffee just to pour all over him.

I'm assuming everyone's still alive--the backlog of friends-page entries is too overwhelming for me to check.

Ty and Danny are pushing me to come back for some sort of post-birthday party. Aside from the fact that I was just in London about two weeks ago, it's obvious they're up to something. They won't say what it is, but they're not even trying to be subtle about it, which makes it even more infuriating. They were giggling like fucking children for the entire phone call. If this were about a job, they'd have said something, and the fact that they're insisting I don't bring Valentine makes me sure that it isn't. When I mentioned him, it was as if they'd forgotten he even existed. Ty suggested that I "put him in a kennel" and then laughed at his own joke for a good five minutes. I'd have to be stupid not to know what's going on. I still don't want to believe that they'd be that fucking thoughtless.

I'm not going to say anything to Valentine. He'd just get all excited at the prospect of another trip back to England, and I can't tell him why I don't want to go.

I'm 36. I had cake for breakfast and the cat is wearing a party hat. I feel as though I'm regressing.

Valentine is insisting that we watch Sixteen Candes, in order to simultaneously celebrate my birthday and mourn the death of John Hughes. He may be dead, but that doesn't make his films any better.

Valentine's sulking again. He's been shut up in his room for hours now. I know he's still alive because I can hear him throwing things around. It's his stuff, he can do what he wants with it, but I'll be fucked off if he puts a hole in the wall. I don't know why he's been in such a mood lately. If it's because I suggested that he dress up as a diseased prossie, he needs to lighten up.

Valentine, if you're reading this (I know you are), come downstairs and talk to me. I'm making coffee.

Valentine wants me to dress up as Verlaine for Bastille Day.



I don't think so.

I don't even like Verlaine. I wouldn't mind going as Baudelaire, but apparently that's "not the same" because he "didn't have a Rimbaud". I said that if I went as Baudelaire, Valentine could go as a syphilitic prostitute, but he hit me and stormed out of the room. So much for that idea.

Arsehole. I'm not making this up (my mum will attest), though I wish I was, since Valentine will probably take it as some sort of sign.

Anyway, when I was a baby, I'd often repeat things that were said emphatically or just angrily, and my mum had an impressive case of road rage, so it stands to reason that my first word was something mildly obscene. As my mum tells it, we were driving somewhere, and a car swerved out in front of her, prompting her to shout, "You arsehole!" About five or ten minutes later, she heard from the back seat, "Arsso!" Not knowing the connotations of the word, I took it as a general exclamation of surprise, so I used it quite a lot. Of course, my pronunciation was fairly unrecognizable, so nobody really seemed to mind. My mum thought it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard, and she still never gets tired of telling that story.

I keep forgetting to update this thing. I've been a bit busy, what with seeing people, my mum visiting, and Valentine dragging me all over London. I relented finally and let him take me shopping last week. I will concede that the clothes he picked out are actually quite flattering, but that still doesn't make the act of shopping any more bearable. I don't mind having new clothes, but I hate having to actually go into shops and try things on. I'll never understand how Valentine makes a hobby of it.

Heading home in a few hours. It was nice seeing all of you. Knowing Valentine, it probably won't be long 'til we're in London again. That is, if we ever manage to leave. He still hasn't finished packing.

Just noticed that Gandalf Murphy & the Slambovian Circus of Dreams is playing at the 100 Club on the 19th. I saw them at the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival a few years ago when I was in the States, and they were fantastic. Presumably this gig will have slightly fewer David Crosby lookalikes in the crowd.



Anyone interested? It's a bit last-minute, but I doubt Valentine would want to go. Suppose I'd better see if he's up for another trip to London. He's been in a mood for the last couple of days and I'm not sure why. If it's because I didn't give him my unconditional support in his cock cosy endeavour, he can fucking well deal with it. If he even comes near me with that thing again, I'm going to burn it on a pyre of knitting needles and bury the ashes in the backyard.