Picos Gemeos

wink_martindale is taking a bath. It consists of me boiling water in pans and the kettle, then taking them in there and pouring them by the faucet, being careful not to scald him. He thanks me everytime I do so.

He's reading a stream-of-consciousness novel written by one of John Waters' friends. I'm listening to Will Young's new album on Spotify.

Long time readers of this journal will remember how my apartment got flooded last year. This morning, I got a call from Kevin that it was happening all over again: water gushing down through our electrical fixtures in the bathroom, the walls wet and the wallpaper beginning to peel off. Luckily for us, Kevin had the day off so could easily place buckets in the worst areas and keep the water from reaching the carpet with towels. He called the housing association, Old Ford, while I tried the landlady from upstairs as well as Elery Crackhead (neither returned my calls - typical).

It turned out that the neighbour two floors above was flooded, affecting the upstairs flat as well as ourselves and the pensioner below us. Nearly everyone and their mother was called but when it came time for the housing association to speak to the guy, they told him he had the option to stay at work until 5 or return home to deal with the "leak". So he obviously stayed at work until 5pm, convinced it was just a minor problem. Boy, he must have sure been happy when he got home and realised the problem was a lot bigger than the housing association let on.

Kevin and I are becoming pros at dealing with disasters and calamities.

My colleagues and I spent the last two days, from 9.30am to 6pm, dismantling our old office and its attached exhibition, carrying it down two flights of stairs and shoving it into these two skips. On Thursday, I spent the morning inside the larger skip in the photo above, arranging the planks that were passed onto me so that we'd optimise the use of space. When I first climbed into the skip, there was old goo on its floor that smelled like shit and oozed like pig fat; it covered my shoes and trousers, and eventually my hands too.

Up and down two flights of stairs, all day, for two days. Wearing workers' gloves so that our hands wouldn't get hurt (but that didn't stop the rusty nails cutting gashes into my arms and legs.) Propping big pieces of wood on the side of the building then jumping on them until they were snapped into smaller bits. So hungry by 2, 3pm, that I could eat giant sandwiches from Arthur's Diner, plus a mountain of chips, and still want more. Coming home on Thursday and last night, dropping my clothes straight in the washing machine, sliding into a hot bath that was as mindless and stinging as my muscles were sore. Feeling like a zombie all night, then sleeping badly because my muscles woke me up when I turned in bed. And yet, feeling really good too because of a job well done, finally completed. There's nothing more satisfying then putting your body to use and discovering your hidden strengths and endurance.

Our boss has given us Monday off in recognition of our hard work. I might be able to hobble to Victoria Park's bagel shop today for some lunch. The image in the mirror is of a fit young man with panda bear eyes. And I'm very excited about the future of my organization, which has moved to a sleek new office building that overlooks Regent's Canal. February is nearly over.

I nearly took teqkiller to the bath this evening. She was sitting on my desk, pale and bare, her words hanging off her body. Then I thought she wouldn't like a wash: those words would grow blurry and slide down her skin, into the water. I lit a candle, turned off the lights and opened a honey bath ball from Lush that expired in June 2006. When I came out of the bathroom, she was still sitting on my desk. Maybe I'll take her to bed tonight.

I nearly watched sushidog get spanked yesterday. We were drinking coffee and eating cake (chocolate for me, something-heavenly for her) in Coffee, Cake & Kink. She picked up an S&M murder mystery novel because it was "cheap". Then she signed up to the cafe's mailing list. Then she wanted to see their gallery. Then she had a chat with the owner (they are closing down at the end of this month - re-locating - go visit them soon!) And then she would have joined the spank-a-thon line up if there'd been one. S&M first, followed by a visit to M&S for underwear. Five new pieces for me, turquoise bras for her.

I could have nearly fallen asleep on denalyia's floor Saturday night. She was having a small get together in North London. Everyone had to come as something beginning with the letter B. I wanted to be that song by the Pet Shop Boys, "Being Boring". But then I realised that to "Be Boring" I had to stay at home and not party. So that's what I did. Sadly, nobody at the party got to see my perfect outfit.

Clatty Pat's - Also known as Cleopatra's, disreputable Glaswegian club to be avoided at all costs. Clatty (a glaswegian slang for dirty) is the sort of place where you can find men making love to their own reflection on the dancefloor's mirror, or covered in puke and begging for a kiss (so I hear).

Highland cattle - Mythical red cows with big horns, originally from Scotland's highlands but now found near urban areas (such as the Pollok House). Strangely reminiscent of club girls spotted at basement Darkhouse-fest Basura Blanca.

Hen - term used for any Glaswegian woman. Top Hen is the woman who organizes a hen party and who may, or may not, provide drugs afterwards.

Ned - Wee fellows that will clob you if you are wearing the wrong football T-shirt. Better not wear any blue or green when the Rangers and the Celts are playing against each other on a Bank Holiday Weekend.

Jakie - Fellows who enjoy their alcohol as well as screaming at each other on the street.

MDMA - powdery drug, the colour of brown sugar, which tastes like rat poison, to be taken in a nightclub's bathroom cubicle. A pinch is enough for smiles, but not enough to get the mojo going on the dancefloor. May cause lethargy the following day.

Blether - Chatty gossip you learn at 2 A.M., when joints are passed around and CSS is on the stereo: Paul McCartney married Heather because he liked getting her stump up his bum; Camilla Parker Bowles got drunk at her son's wedding and danced to Wham!; and David Hasselhoff said, on a phone interview to Star magazine, "you don't hassle the Hoff".

The West End - Area of Glasgow where students and the bohemian middle-class live. A ground floor apartment facing Glasgow's Botanical Gardens: the home of an academic (conveniently away for the weekend in Turkey) filled with books, paintings, mismatched furniture, dusty world music CDs, a black cat called Marley, subzero temperatures in the basement rooms, an overstuffed fridge and rarefied air that makes less than 10 hours sleep impossible.

McShite Airlines - easyJet, Ryanair and all the other craptastic airlines that have lost this customer. Better spend the extra £100 on a proper airline and deal with people trained not to be assholes.


Will Mellor, spotted yesterday wandering around Glasgow Airport, hoping someone would ask him for an autograph.

Volta - You are back home, lying in a warm bathtub, just one red candle flickering against the tiles; you have an airport CD for company; you are angry at low-cost flying, the weekend coming to an end, and your empty fridge; You are the Earth Intruders, you are the Earth Intruders...

Why are there so many people in London who don't like to wash themselves? I don't mind it so much in the winter, where the only places you are likely to be gassed to death are library reading rooms and the sitting areas in Borders, but it truly becomes an unbearable nuisance after any hint of warmth.

Take today for example: I had a nice swim at my local pool, took a long shower, came home, brushed my teeth, collected my bag and hopped on a Tube train; but then the malignant, and familiar, odour reached me -- the scent of your typical London inhabitant who never learned the use of a toothbrush, who thinks that shampoo bottles are items we use to decorate our window sills. I stare at these seemingly normal people and wonder what they have against soap. I'm forced to get up from where I'm sitting and find somewhere else in the carriage that isn't going to make me faint.

I know I'm not imagining things or exaggerating because I've heard of many people like myself, who are not originally from here, that this place stinks in the Summer. The Tube becomes a veritable journey to hell, as people are crushed against each other under inhumane temperatures and forced to tolerate the general lack of hygiene of other travellers. There really doesn't seem to be a solution to this problem, save me ordering random strangers to go buy dehodorant.

The city is crowded
My friends are away
And I'm on my own
It's too hot to handle
So I got to get up and go

It's a cruel, (cruel), cruel summer
Leaving me here on my own
It's a cruel, (it's a cruel,) cruel summer
Now your hygiene is gone
- Bananarama

My 84-year-old grandma's favourite TV show at the moment is Dancing on Ice. I never thought I'd one day be sitting in front of a TV with her, drinking tea and eating biscuits, while a pair of campily dressed couples ice-skated to Bonnie Tyler's "I Need a Hero." Then we watched Casualty, possibly the worst hospital soap in the history of television.

Other than that, I spent the weekend chatting with her and catching up with gossip from my family in Birmingham. At 84, she's in amazing good health. She lives by herself and goes downtown at least twice a week. She only depends on my aunt to come on Sundays for some cleaning and bills sorting. Her apartment is small, cosy and pink; each room has a red cord which she can pull if she ever needs an ambulance; a widescreen TV sits by the window that overlooks her shared garden, with a small collection of DVD musicals underneath it. I gave her the anniversary edition of the BBC's Pride and Prejudice and when she learned that was the exact same series with Colin Firth in it, she gave a long and happy sigh. She also loved my M&S assortment of Viennese biscuits.

Like my previous visits, I tried to get as many stories from her about the past as possible. I learned this time that her grandfather, from her mother's side, was surnamed Urly (my aunt is trying to trace our family tree), that her family owned a famous bakery in Birmingham during the 30s and 40s that delivered freshly-baked bread on a horse-drawn wagon (and that she loved to steal scones when she was a little girl), that she spent a few years living in Notting Hill as a young girl and went fishing in Hyde Park's pond, that she checked bolts in a factory during the 2nd World War, and that many people mistook her for Italian because of her dark hair and tanned skin. It got me thinking that perhaps I should buy a tape recorder and try to save all these stories, for the day when she's gone.

This morning, my uncle Michael and my cousin Michael dropped by to say hello. I left them around noon and only got back into London by 4pm. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire made me good company in the coach. I took a much needed bath (with just a camomile candle for company) and cooked dinner. After catching up with LJ, I'm going to watch the brilliant Agatha Christie's Marple, on ITV1.

I came home, soaked a sponge with fairy liquid, wiped the bathtub, lit a camomile candle, filled a glass with cold water, turned off the light, locked the door, took off my clothes, turned on the tap, poured Body Shop coconut soap into the water, took a crap, felt the heater burn me up, cleaned up, got inside, submerged, throbed like a burst blood vessel, and heared the boiler on the other side of the wall hum like a trapped Darth Vader.

Now I'm out, just in shorts, letting my warm body readjust to the room's temperature. The Editors are on the stereo, Sissy Jennifer is her bedroom, Kevin & Sissy Allison are at a kickboxing class, and the evening unfortunately looks too short.

I was introduced today to an Irish man who spends half of the week in Cork, and half of the week at the NT. People at my work had been talking behind my back about how Kevin & I are looking into moving out of London (Cork is our latest target for next Summer) and someone pointed me in the direction of this man. We sat at the National Theatre's fourth floor and talked for an hour about Cork: job market, rent, crime, how gay-friendly it is, the size of the city, etc. He was incredibly nice, to the point where he offered to keep in touch and help out with more tips when it gets closer to our move. Looks like the wheels have been set in motion and the Brasilian circus will be leaving town sometime next Summer.

But, never fret mes amis Gothiques! Flights from Cork to London during the week are about 40 quid! And this is to Heathrow, which means I'll have plenty of chances to come back for visits. Yes, I can hear you all say that I never go out and I live in London, but maybe the heart grows fonder with distance? I dunno... it's up to you to send me loads of cyberhugs and convince me it's worth my while to finally attend Slimelights.

The plan for tonight is to continue work on the random short-story exercise. I'm having a lot of fun with it.

We haven't had television, or internet, since Sunday. Coming home has been an affair with the radio, with books, with conversation and with Candle in the bathroom.

Like last night: I was home by myself until 10 pm, because of Kevin's evening creative writing course. After I ate my spinach & cheese quiche, drunk my Earl Grey tea with a pinch of Baileys and wolfed down half a chocolate bar, I figured it would be nicer to sit inside a pool of hot water, accompanied in the darkness by one flickering flame, than sit by myself in a cold red bedroom flicking through boring radio stations.

We call it "Bath with Candle" - in the singular. Candle is almost an entity, a presence that reassures. We light Candle with a cheap pink lighter we keep beside "him". We also keep Candle in the bathroom. Candle is quite thick, round, and he gives off a hint of vanilla when he is burning in the night.

I filled up the bathtub and locked the bathroom door. I turned off the light and lit Candle. I put him by the window and slowly lowered myself into the scalding water. There were bubbles everywhere. The tiles quickly became slick with moisture, Candle's flame waved in the air with happiness. I must have laid in the water for an hour, watching my skin shrink like a prune, watching Candle watching me.

Candle inspires me, somehow. I have the strangest thoughts in his presence, in the water. I should have had a tape recorder last night so I could have spewed out all the recollections and ideas that bubbled to the surface. But, just as Candle took my imagination to places unexplored, he also trapped me in the water as if I were just as evanescent as the steam. I didn't want to go anywhere, I didn't want to think - despite so many ideas. As Candle flittered and flickered, I succumbed to a half-life behind my eye-lids.

I wonder if Candle will like the new apartment, the new bathroom. I told Kevin that Candle will be happy because we have a beautiful skylight. He can look at the stars when he is all alone, when his wicker is not burning. I'm also contemplating asking Kevin if we should get a little brother or sister for Candle.