belle de jour - 01.03.2004

Intrigued by this titbit of news, a revelation infintely more satisfying than the horror of realising, a year or two back, that those who are not old enough to remember Lionel Richie the first time around consider him some sort of Grand Poo-bah of soft rock.

mardi 30 mars
Intrigued by this titbit of news, a revelation infintely more satisfying than the horror of realising, a year or two back, that those who are not old enough to remember Lionel Richie the first time around consider him some sort of Grand Poo-bah of soft rock. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Which reminds me that my mother's birthday is looming and I really must remember to make her that Neil Sedaka Tzedakah box I'm always promising - or is it threatening? - to craft.

HT Image

// posted by belle @ 11:03 AM

vendredi 26 mars
Am entertaining for the weekend and N is coming round to hoover the flat. He volunteered. Wonder if I leave the washing up, will he volunteer for that as well?

I don't run into the neighbours often, usually only on the way out the door. So they either think I lead an unutterably glamourous life of nonstop parties and premieres, or they know everything. Or they just think I like to dress up. Anyway, very little noise ever comes from those quarters. Until last night when I came home at 2am and was kept awake another hour by the distinct sound of books being thrown, one by one, against a wall.

Odd.

Knickers: flesh-coloured hipsters in a fabric my mother would describe as 'dotted swiss.' Very VPL - so only suitable for wearing under jeans.

Books: Saira Shah's The Storyteller's Daughter. I am amazed by the guts and humanity of this woman. She is humbling without being condescending and tells a cracking war story. It's fantastic.

Also, have noticed at the gym that my Achilles tendons seem stiff of late. Am told this is the result of habitual wearing of heels. I know that every season we are bombarded with the propaganda that flat shoes are cute and sexy too, but trying to talk me into low heels with a skirt is probably a conversion project along the lines of the settlement of the West Bank. Will simply have to stretch more.

// posted by belle @ 2:29 PM

jeudi 25 mars
N and I had breakfast at a greasy spoon (his: full fry-up and chips, hers: scrambled eggs on toast). He's not been sleeping well and it shows, but can't explain why. Maybe long hours at work, maybe family worries, maybe a belated sense that it should be spring but it is so cold and wet that the internal clock is still ticking over in winter time. Someone we know started a rumour last week that the clocks went forward before Mothering Sunday instead of this weekend, and it threw him off, and he's not had a night's rest since.

He's heard things, things about me. Rumours are flying. Nothing earth-shattering, just a comment or two from a person or two coming back round to him. Have I mentioned N appears to be the secret hub of all knowledge in London? You know a name - he knows someone who knows someone. Is something you heard true? He can get the goods. He's a dealer, and his drug is information.

There's envy involved, usually the engine behind the worst, most damaging rumours. The other WG, she wonders aloud and often how I could possibly afford the place I live. I'm not working so often and people notice. "Managing money better than she does," I shrug. "I don't have a car." Or a damaging relationship with my body, I add silently.

Other things. I hate this sturm und drang. Someone I slept with who asked to keep it secret - I didn't even write about it here - turned around and told, oh, about half of the city. A few personal things. That I don't mind. It's the asking for privacy, then blatantly stripping it off, that I care about. Poor etiquette in a lover. "Maybe I should say something to him about it."

"Not a good idea," N advised. He pointed out that this man is young and a bit feckless, and I was more likely to give him a pat on the head and a coo of forgiveness than the slap he so clearly deserves. "The onus is on him now. He's the one who's going to feel uncomfortable when he sees either of us."

"Maybe I should start rumours of my own."

"Keep your own counsel. Better in the long run."

"I feel my evil antennae twitching..." I said, waggling forefigers in the air.

"Don't."

"Ah, bollocks, that reminds me.."

"What?"

"On his way out the door, he asked me if it was true I'd had a threesome with you and someone else."

"What did you say?"

"Yes."

He cringed. "Well, I don't care, and you obviously don't, and I don't think the other girl does either. But I wonder why he was interested? If I were him, I would have asked me and not you."

"Yes. Or asked if I'd ever been in a threesome, in case angling me into one was a possibility."