Lord of the Pants

I cannot tell a lie...

Well of course, that's ludicrous, I'm a journalist and press officer, and a would-be creative writer - 98% of what I do every single day is tell lies. But let's not get distracted. I cannot tell a lie in this blog, because that would utterly defeat the purpose of even signing in to it. So, in the interests of full disclosure, I should tell you that I was about to get on the bike last night and guilt-ride away my fortune cookie. I looked at the bike...
"Go ahead," it smirked. "Make my day..."
"You don't really have to do that now, honey, do you? I mean, if you don't really feel like. You could always do it tomorrow..." said my poor sickly wife, with an irresistible mix of kindness, snot and the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
"Really?" I asked - the concept of free will dawning on me like a world of forbidden fruit opening up. "Could I?"
"Of course you could honey," she assured me. "The bike is not the Boss of you..."
"Hahahahahaaaaa....quake with fear, you tiny fools," said the bike, for reasons I didn't quite understand.
"You're...right," I said, backing away from the bike, which I think is getting ideas above its station. "Right. Bugger it, I'm going to bed..."
And so, the Chinese and the guilty fortune cookie went unatoned, and I frankly didn't think about it again, snoring my fool head off all night.

Today dawned, and I left my snot-filled sickly girl in bed (cos I'm basically a heartless bastard - you have to be, or they don't let you graduate journalism-school), and went to meet my pal Karen (known, for complicated reasons, as Mae) across the city, for an afternoon that my wife would probably describe as "no no, really, he's not gay, he's just Welsh!" - a 3D movie of the latest version of Michael Flatley's "Lord of the Dance."

What can I tell you, it's a foot-tapping thing.

Haven't actually spent time with Mae in about five years, despite us living in the same city. Many of my friends have similar stories of my lackadaisical approach to relationship-maintenance. I'm basically useless in Real Life.
So it was great to catch up, and - in case you're wondering, the show is...erm...interesting. Including what seemed to be the Dance of the Erotic Lesbian Flower Fairies, the Dance of the Fascist Shock Troops, and at least one section that was basically Hot Women Do Irish Dancing In Their Underwear, it's definitely worth a look - though possibly notsomuch with the 3D, 'cos when Flatley gets going with the high-kicks...well, you get the picture...

Had a great day, and walked to and from my usual weekday tube station, so fought the insidious joy of the fortune cookie a little. In fact, on the way home, I had an experience that topped the day off nicely.

My wife, bless her, has fought my natural instincts for slobbery for years, and it hasn't been easy. She's forever trying to get me to wear a belt, for reasons I don't, any longer, even pretend to understand. This week she succeeded, and I've worn the thing all week, fastened at the flab-comfortable level for which it was bought (had to scour the city for this thing, because normal, off-the-peg belts don't go anywhere near around my girth...hmm, good word, girth...). On the way down the hill tonight, I felt my pants (Damn, it's true what everyone says about what's happened to my idiom since being married to an American. I categorically mean 'Trousers' to the non-Americans here) slipping down my ass. I yanked them back up. A handful of steps further on, they were falling down again. I pulled them up again, and pulled the belt open, yanking it to the next notch.

It was comfortable. It was right. And my pants stopped falling down.

Sure, Flatley can move his feet fast enough to burn a hole in the stage, but tonight, goddamnit, I am the Lord of the Pants!

Came home, and did my ten miles, pedalling with Irish violins in my head. If I dance my way up the hill tomorrow, I'm gonna hunt Michael Freaking Flatley down and bitch-slap him. Just...because...