Belle de jour-12.01.2003

The Boy was supposed to visit - at least that's what I was told. Last night he rang after midnight to say he couldn't come up, in fact he had gone skiing, perhaps I could fly out and join him instead?

mercredi 31 décembre
Am in London alone for New Year's Eve.

HT Image

The Boy was supposed to visit - at least that's what I was told. Last night he rang after midnight to say he couldn't come up, in fact he had gone skiing, perhaps I could fly out and join him instead?

With less than 12 hours' notice. On December 31st.

Why couldn't he get here? Because it would be too expensive to change his ticket, of course. I'm amazed that someone who professes so little ready cash can throw a pile together to hit the European slopes - but not to see in the new year with his girl. Nevertheless I scoured the Web to see if by miracle I could be waking up in France. BA were booking no flights before January 2nd. It was even too last-minute for Lastminute.com.

So I regretfully declined. He didn't seem that bothered, to be honest. Suspicious? Of course.

Went into town for lunch, a haircut and to wander round the V&A. I spied with my little eye...

...a man walking two dogs - one huge rottweiler, one tiny pug. They were both burly, black-coated, and the rott took one step to every three of the pug's...

...an adolescent girl tucking in to salmon and cream cheese on a bagel, with chips...

...three men walking together in matching black knitted caps...

...and three girls coming the other way in mismatching pink knitted scarves...

...on Exhibition Road just outside the Natural History Museum, leaves from this autumn have been mashed by thousands of tyres to leave an orange-gold pattern in the street.

// posted by belle @ 2:05 PM

mardi 30 décembre
N and I met last night to share a drink and mutual holidaytide misanthropy. His preferred tipple these days is Bailey's on ice, which is virtually pudding in a glass. As I raised my glass, a man we knew pushed past, spilling half my drink on my jeans.

"What's her problem," I sniffed.

"Nothing a fortnight in a Turkish brothel wouldn't fix," N said. Thus inspired, we spent the rest of the evening compiling list of people whose attitudes would be much improved by such a holiday.

In need of a fortnight in a Turkish brothel (rough draft):

Naomi Campbell
Penelope Keith
Princess Anne
Cherie Blair
Jordan, though she may actually enjoy it
Sam Fox
Blair's Babes
(E)liz(abeth) Hurley
Lady Victoria Hervey
Myleene Klass
Any Jagger ex or offspring
Theresa May
Tara Palmer Tompkinson
Sophie Ellis Bextor
actually, any blonde for whom the descriptors 'It Girl' and 'double-barrelled' apply
Catherine Zeta Jones

// posted by belle @ 2:24 PM

lundi 29 décembre
"There is a client, he wants to pee on you," the manager said. I swear if someone ever got hold of transcripts of my phone calls, they'd probably think I was a - oh wait, I am.

"He wants to what?" I asked, knowing very well what she said.

"Pee. On you. Don't worry darling, not in your clothes. You will be in a bath."

"A bath of what? Urine?"

"No, just a normal bath."

I sighed weakly. "You know I don't do degradation."

"Oh, no, not like that at all, darling," she said. "He doesn't want you to be degraded. He wants to pee on a girl who enjoys it."

Eventually I agreed, but only with a significant markup in the usual fee. The client was rather nice and seemed exceedingly shy. We talked for a little while and had a drink - spirits for me and a large beer for him. The better to fill the bladder with, I suppose. When it came time to do the deed I stripped him from the waist down, got all my kit off and knelt in an empty bathtub.

He looked at me, looked at the wall above me, and sighed. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. I was starting to get cold. "Is everything okay?" I asked.

"It's not going to happen. I'm too turned on," he said. He looked down again. "If I look at you, I'll get hard. If I look away, I'll think of what's going to happen, and get hard."

"Try thinking of something that doesn't turn you on."