I always cry at weddings

I am going to a wedding tomorrow, its a strange thing really, marriage like all other institutions is to me a place people end up in when life has spun out of control like a 28 day detox or a short spell in jail. It seems to be about giving up, settling for less, throwing in your chips. I got married once in Las Vegas – I booked the ceremony online one night drunk (I don’t drink anymore funnily enough) it cost about $132 to get married at the Little Church of the West. I choose the church because Angelina Jolie had recently divorced Billy Bob Thornton sighting ‘a change in priorities’ and they had been married there the year before. Noel Gallagher got married there as well and he had just gotten a divorce – I think when he sobered up and realised she was a bloke. So I chose a chapel with a high incident of divorce near the Mandalay Bay Hotel because I wanted to see the shark reef right after. My husband to be was someone I had been trying to leave for the previous three and half years, we stayed with my son who was the best man by miles in the Hilton hotel because he was a ‘Hilton Honours Member’ and it was free. When we queued up for the licence I started to cry – I was watching the idiot in front of me shadow boxing, while his pregnant bride to be and her truck stop hooker mother stared into middle distance beside him. ‘These are my people now’ I thought as the tears rolled down my face. A couple of nights later again sobbing – gulping down Vodka and Redbull I got dressed and we took a cab to the chapel at 8pm. The women who ran the chapel tried to give me a loan of a bunch of carnations which I declined, never too upset to have bad taste. No guests, no wedding dress it was pure Bruce Springsteen. The priest ( or whatever he was) had drunk as much as me but he could speak and I couldn’t – I remember seeing his lips move but I had no idea he was talking to me or that I was suppose to be saying ‘ I do’ instead of ‘whaaaat?’ It was a holy mess but the best thing was the tan lines lasted longer than the marriage. Six months later I was free of it all I got away and stayed away. In feeling so trapped I learnt that freedom is my most precious gift.

A dogs life

Every dog I meet in New York is a neutered male. The American Kennel Club is a notoriously brutal organisation, constantly hacking and snipping at puppy flesh as though they were born incomplete and sent to America for ‘finishing’. I haven’t seen a set of furry balls since I got here – there must be a ‘ball mountain’ some where upstate, I expect they appear unannounced in fast food joints all over town or perhaps they are processed and fed back to the dogs in the form of puppy chow ‘with extra vitality’ . Its very strange, in Manhattan I see no female dogs and no last season dogs. Last year pretty much every one had a Pug – this year no Pugs only French Bull Dogs – what happened to the Pugs? Are their pictures peering pitifully out of the sides of milk cartons in the mid west? Dogs live around 10 years they can’t have all died of natural causes, are they being bumped off in favour of seasonal changes – thrown aside like last years sneakers?

Variety is not the spice of life

I find myself miles from home in New York doing all the things that I like to do every time I come here. I look up at large buildings and wonder if I should take the tour, I flick through Time Out and imagine that I should do all kinds of torturous things to justify my carbon footprint. My friend and I were going to go to Fire Island today but when we discussed the logistics we put off the trip possibly till tomorrow maybe indefinitely. I know we would sit on a train talking about celebrity plastic surgery for 2 hours – get off , march to the beach like lemmings – stare hopelessly out across the ocean for 10 minutes, walk back to the train – ride into town and go to the same restaurant we were in every night this week , order the same food and feel only relief .

A northerly wind and bringer of cold air

To be beloved is all I need

and whom I love, I love indeed

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Image: Boreas by John William Waterhouse

Fight or flight

I had a good seat but unfortunately I still had to sit a little too close to comfort to other people. I wish there was a clause on the ‘manage my booking ‘ section that let me choose not to sit next to men , unless I get upgrade an can sit with Keanu obviously, or people who, eat meat, drink alcohol or smell. The thing is if travel wasn’t cheap I wouldn’t be travelling but the down side is lots of scuz balls get to travel too. My friend says the Orlando flight is the worst in the world since it’s full of dreadful common families taking their over fed kids to the theme parks. She said her return journey hit turbulence and half the passengers were throwing up there Mc dinners everywhere. I spent my whole trip transfixed by my neighbours dirty Converse shoe thinking that better not touch me or my stuff . I found it all quite frightening really – I had a good view of the wing which was less than comforting it looked as though parts of it might drop off about 30 minutes into the journey. I normally don’t feel afraid on planes; I travel with friends and family who are normally so irritating death would be a merciful release. Today, alone, in my guise as international traveller and pleasure seeker I felt a little jittery. Firstly, take off would the plane get into the air and then when I realised how high we were would it stay there. If BA engineering is the same standard as their cleaning I had definite cause for concern.

It’s definitely not the journey, it’s the destination

Travelling is really a drag unless you are member of the super rich elite with servants and stuff. Saying that I worked for a rich guy once and sent him to the airport with the wrong passport – so you would need to be super rich with team of servants that didn’t include me ! Packing is distressing – how I am supposed to get excited by my trip while being confronted with the fact that I have nothing to wear? Toiletries are worse because they are heavy and they are likely to leak all over the place – I want to leave them all behind but I don’t want to look like a troll. Hairdryers are heavier and even if you take one to America it will work only with the equivalent blowing power of an aphid. Airports are boring – 2 hours hanging about dabbing on skin cream in duty free trying to figure out who the hell buys packs of expensive smoked salmon to take on holiday.

Bedtime stories

Toile de Jouy is a wonderfully intricate fabric print often consisting of pink rural themed illustrations on a base of white or creamy fabric. Originally created and used to make casual dresses for Marie Antoinette to kick about in at Le Petit Trianon a chateau in the grounds of the Palace Versailles. LPT was originally commissioned by Louis XV for his mistress Madame de Pompadour. It was in fact Madame du Barry a subsequent mistress of the amorous sun king who lived there in the end. When the King died and she was sent off to repent (for his sins!) at the local convent. Louis XVI became King of France and gave it to his wife Marie Antoinette so she would have a little holiday home to hang out in away from the formality of Versailles. Two more facts, I sleep on the toile de jouy bed linen from Liberty and Peter Saville and Julie Verhoeven created a beautiful kinky sex version of the traditional French print entitled Forget-me-not