HarryPotter got to the office late, just as the clock ticked over to six, and the plan had been to leave the car by the office because we wouldn’t have to worry about finding a place to park in the city centre. But the torch relay was supposed to start at 6pm, so we decided to leg it. Down the Perth Road, past the Uni, past the Overgate and to where the stage for the torch was to begin.
However, it wasn’t as swift as that. It was down the Perth Road…pant, pant, wheeze…further down the Perth Road…gasp for air…down the Perth Road some more…my god how long is this street…past the Uni…stop for a break and hope a bus magically comes along…past the Overgate…oh dear god how far is the city centre…why is everyone walking away in the wrong directions. Shit we missed it.
As HarryPotter and I were doubled over trying to catch our breath, when four jets did a fly over and the guy at the bandstand said that Dundee’s the only Olympic torch relay-thingy to get a flyover. Then he said that the runners are going 4 miles and hour and are heading to BaxterPark. HarryPotter and I decided to leg it to BaxterPark.
The only problem was, I wasn’t exactly sure where Baxter park was. I knew which direction it was in so we started running again. Dodging prams, around old ladies, over drunks, my flats flapping on wet concrete and HP’s Converse All Stars slapping ahead, until the crowd became more and more dense and we realised that we’d caught up with the torch, right in front of the Tescos.
We stopped to catch our breath when HarryPotter asked, ‘Honestly, I really didn’t want to see this damn thing so badly, why are we running?’
Honestly, I had no idea. As all my bloggy woggy followers will attest, I do not run. Ever…except when the Olympic torch comes to down. Then for some inexplicable reason I feel like I have move my legs quicker than normal.
When I didn’t answer, mostly because I was gasping for air like a smoker (I don’t even bloody smoke, but maybe I should take it up so that I’ll have an excuse for low lung capacity), HarryPotter said, ‘Wouldn’t it be pretty funny if we ran faster than the torch, and we got to Baxter Park before it did. It’d be like beating an Olympic Gold Medallist.’
In between breaths I said, ‘But Gold Medallists don’t run the relay. People who work at charity chops and children in wheel chairs relay the torch, don’t they?’
But it was too late, HP was off. I caught up and pointed the way, but problematically bloodyBaxterParkis up a big fucking hill. So we stopped again, and miracle of miracles, along came a bus, so we hopped on. Suddenly we thought it was hilarious that a bus would beat the Olympic Torch. Why this was funny, let alone hilarious, I forget…or maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain.
After about ten minutes on the bus, I realised that we just got on the first bus to come along, and we were heading completely in the wrong direction. I hit the button, we got off, and started walking back. I was really fairly lost, so HP got out his iPhone and GPS’d us to BaxterPark.
We’d long since gave up running, and instead decided to treat the whole affair like a stroll in the park, but by the time we got to the park, the festivities were in full swing, but we’d missed the torch. Funny thing, HarryPotter and I could give a shit about that bloody torch, but we’d just kind of gotten all caught up.
Once at the park we grabbed a beer and wandered over to the stage. Someone famous was supposed to be singing, but I had no idea who she was, and I was kind of hoping for Scottish music as that’s the only way I can get HarryPotter to dance – at a ceilidh where he can fling himself around and it not matter that he’s completely out of time.
I don’t know if we missed the Scottish music, or if we got bored and wandered off before it started, but we decided that city festivities in a park aren’t very fun if you 1) don’t have children or 2) aren’t with a big group of drunk people. Since we were with neither, we decided to leave.
Walking back towards the city centre, I suggested that we hit the pub, but HarryPotter had a different idea. He wanted to meet Fife.
I can’t explain why, but this sent shivers down my spine. It felt like my lover was asking to meet my husband. Or was it my husband was asking to meet my lover? Well, it’s no matter because I’ve got neither a lover (like a male mistress) nor a husband. But I did not want the two to meet. However, I couldn’t put my finger on why I didn’t want Fife and HarryPotter to meet, so I shrugged, said ‘okay’, and HarryPotter followed me back to the flat.
As we walked back, I then realised exactly why I didn’t wantFifeto meet HarryPotter.
- Even though HP isn’t reading this blog anymore, he knows about it and could tell Fife.
- I never told Fife that it was HP who I spent the weekend in Glasgow with.
- I never told Fife that it was HP who drove me to and then spent the weekend with in London.
- HP and I used to be a ‘thing’.
- Fife is old and HP will make massive fun of me.
- HP knows all my crazy secrets of the past and may tell Fife.
This is the big one…
- HP and Fife could actually get along, and then I’d have to spent time with both of them together, and really I just don’t think I can manage that.
Other than Posh – and not only is she moving, but our friendship is a bit tenuous – I don’t really have any friends in Scotland, so I kind of like having my boyfriend life and my friend life.
We walked up the stairs to the flat, and I hoped that Posh would come out and drag us into her flat, as she usually does. But unable to be summoned upon telepathic cue, Posh never appeared and we had to go into the flat.
I pushed the door open, announced we were here, but there was no answer. Although I could hear the telly on in the lounge. I tip toed in, and Fife was sleep on the sofa with Bobs Burgers in the background.
Rather than wake him up (he did need to get up at 4am after all), I led HP to the bedroom so we could talk without waking up Fife. I grabbed two beers on the way to bedroom and we sat on my bed drinking.
Sitting on the bed HarryPotter asked about LadyBohemia’s painting — the little one. I moved the little one up so that it wasn’t behind the bedside table. I told him who painted it, and who I thought was in the picture. Then I quietly led him to the lounge and showed him the larger one of LadyBohemia’s. Fife snorted and rolled over, so HP and I ran out of there like kids trying not to wake up Dad.
This sent me into a fit of giggles, so I shut the bedroom door so we wouldn’t wake him up. I don’t know what I thought was so funny, but I couldn’t stop laughing. Maybe it was the beer. And then HP didn’t help, because he said he thought Fife looked like a Muppet (his stubble is a bit scraggly at the moment), started calling him Fozzie Bear, and then made whispering Fozzie Bear voices. This sent me further into giggles, but it got worse. HarryPotter then said, ‘What’s it like making love to Fozzie Bear? Does he go “wacka, wacka, wacka” when he cums?’
I nearly spit my beer out.
I could not stop laughing. Then he started talking in a Fozzie voice, but I had to make him stop because I was laughing too much and I was so worried we’d wake Fife. So I shoved a pillow on HP’s face and told him to stop, he started tickling me to push me off and put his and over my mouth so that I wouldn’t make noise laughing. I was now trying to wrangle away from him, but fell on the floor.
Crawling back onto the bed, I told HarryPotter that we needed to ‘behave’ and he agreed. He said he’d be much more serious, and asked about the picture of LadyBohemia’s that I showed him in the lounge. I told him about the day I saw her painting it, and it reminded me not only of her but of the bright spring day on which she did it. How she made me look at the little details of nature, and even though there was a big bright sun in the sky, she instead painted the tiny little details of a green bud on a grey limb. I told HP how I also love the painting as a design and love to have it embroidered on a silk skirt or something. He then talked about how he thought it looked kind of oriental in style, and we started talking about the Fashion Awards the night before and fashion in general.
I was getting really sleepy, and I closed my eyes. Just for a moment. Really I meant for it to be just a moment, but when I opened them hours had gone by and HP was in my bed next to me, his arm across me, his face turned towards me. His hair was hanging down over his eyes, and as I brushed them out of his face he woke-up, and pulled me closer towards him.
‘You can’t stay here tonight,’ I whispered in his ear.
He made a sleepy moan and said, ‘Just a few more minutes,’ and then kissed me on the nose.
I ran my fingers through his hair, and then got out of the bed. I knocked on Posh’s door and hoped she was home. She finally answered, in her tiny pants, rubbing her hands through her hair. She’d been asleep.
‘I’ve got a mate around from Glasgow who’s fallen asleep in my bed, but I can’t move him into the lounge because [Fife]’s on the sofa. Can he sleep here?’ I asked.
‘Why do you want [Fife] to sleep at mine?’ she asked still groggy.
‘No. Can my mate crash here?’ I reiterated.
‘Yeah. Whatever,’ and she walked away leaving the door open.
I went back into my flat and got HarryPotter and walked him sleepily over to Posh’s. She put a few duvets on the floor in the lounge and another one for him to sleep under. HP asked that I wake him at about 6am, so he can drive back to Glasgow for work.
Now, I’ve got Fife on my sofa asleep (I’ve tried to wake him and move him into the bedroom, but he won’t budge) and HP next door. Yet, I’m still alone in my bed. Oh well, Fife will be up in about an hour. Maybe I’ll feel better when he’s left the house.