No To Kitchens
Saturday afternoon, alone on hair-infested sofa, wrapped in smelly dressing gown.
Oh, there's a cat, a big fat cat, a furry red cat. It waddles over you and smiles sweetly. Then it turns around and farts in your face. Hypocritical cat. The stench is subliminal.
You quickly mix up a concoction of washing detergents, gluey green hand soap, boiling water and- why not- mashed grapes though nothing, not even a cloud of perfume, can unclog your nostrils. High as a kite, you stumble into the kitchen, desperate for distraction.
Why not cook?
Recipes always make things look easier. Yet be warned! Forget one step, one tiny little step and you're toast. You usually swap two or indeed omit one, what with the attention-span of an aging goldfish. You burn the cheese soufflés because you, being all womanly, dapple with multi-tasking. Perhaps baking, applying mascara and stroking cats is NOT en route to "happy husbandry."
Just when you can't decide whether to cook Italian Risotto or hang yourself trying, the phone rings.
Bless him. It's your friend, who simply happens to be a millionaire. People often cackle with envy but not you. No, you like him because he's your friend. You feel for him. After all, it's a tough line of work, all those responsibilities. Chauffeurs, gardeners, children, fake friends, real friends, celebrities, beggars, stock market people, hedge fund people, private yoga teachers, the whole shebang.
"Doing anything tonight? Fancy grabbing a bite to eat in Amsterdam? Or were you cooking?"
You sling the pots and pans back onto the shelf and nonchalantly say, "Hadn't really thought about it yet but, alright."
Why not cook?
FRIEND. RESTAURANT, NOT A SNACKBAR. AMSTERDAM.
That's why.
Half an hour later, a comfortable Jeep you wouldn't mind living and raising your five children in sleighs you to the capital.
Off the famous Leidscheplein.
He leads you into a cave, which dodgy-looking entrance you´d managed to avoid up until now. Why would a millionaire want to- Ah, that´s why.
Low-level lighting sweeps past the brick-stone bar. Lounge music tickles the beautiful guests, half hiding in each other´s shadows, as if preparing for the semi-darkness in which they will shag each other in eloquent fashion five hours from now. Possibly on his unsuspecting wife´s satin pillowcase next to her Chiwawa´s spare leash. Classy cocktails are supported by anorexic-thin glass stems, fragile like the bank accounts of the female clientele. Bejewelled hands are holding them. Women with perfectly groomed toenails inside expensive footwear tip their eating-disorder chins back at appropriate moments, revealing edible, swan-like necks. They understand the unwritten code, secret and sacred like a treasure hunt´s map: it´s vital to let Mr Chaperone believe he really is charming and entertaining.
"This is where I sometimes go if I want to escape the confines of my tiny shack," your friend says. You know he´s referring to his grand villa that can easily house fifteen African families and their cattle.
"Whahahahaha! You´re so funny!" you squeal with delight.
A pretty waitress with curly hair and haunted eyes, presumably post-bulimic, sidles over as if on rails and presents you with three complicated menus.
"Let´s not go into the restaurant, eh? So stiff and formal."
You love stiff and formal but you nod and agree with a horizontal smile. "Great idea."
"So much cozier here. Like we´re in someone´s living room!"
Possibly the President´s quarters, with an open fire for chilly American afternoons but once again you nod in agreement.
"You order. Anything you like," your friend says distractedly. A pompous Polish blonde is trying to catch his eye.
"Alright," you smile sincerely. Doesn´t happen every day. And you order six strawberry daiquiris, vodka, mineral water, cappuccino, lobster treats (for you two; the lobster has long been stabbed to death), cute miniature tuna burgers, veal (even though you´re a vegetarian), handmade fries (the menu says it took a whole afternoon to peel them that beautifully) and some Arab dishes you can´t pronounce but seem finger-licking delicious.
The waitress has an accent. You want to know where/ why / how. She refuses to provide details so you take an immediate dislike towards her.
"Her hair is fake, you saw that?" you whisper as she glides off with those cellulite-free legs.
But your friend is not really present. The polished Polish chick in her little French polka-dress is still stealing glances. The bitch. You´re not jealous, but it makes a conversation impossible.
"She´s stunning," your friend drools. "Albeit a little chubby."
"What am I then, a rhino?" you screech from your design chair next to the design lamp on the design table which are all living on a design rug spun from yak hairs. You do the maths and discover you may fit the Pole inside your jeans 2.51 times.
"What?" You friend drops some garlic mayonnaise on his inner-thigh, freshly squeezed from Quatar trees and flown in by private jet, in all likelihood. He´s not listening to you and you hate it when that happens. Hence without guilt you order another round of luxurious tit-bits and laugh at a joke he has not yet produced.
"Looks like you were nervous before your night out. You choked the chicken or strangled the monkey and some came on your jeans?" you remark.
"I did not "help myself" before I went- you´re teasing me."
"Yes, Mr Business Man. So, you normally squirt in diagram style? Just to keep up with the latest stock market trends?"
He laughs. You laugh. All is well again.
Completely in line with your regular clumisness, you throw his fork off the table, drop some delicately over-priced food on the floor and accidentally let bits of spinach pizzetta fall out of your mouth. He doesn't notice.
"I just don't know how to flirt anymore. Do you?" he laughs haughtily, not taking his left eye off the Pole.
"Well, I...," and you summon a muscular waiter. You flick back your uncombed hair and smile, "Could you bring me a fork?"
He repays your grin with a long and hard stare and breathes, "I'll give you two..." He disappears with a wink.
"You saw that?"
"What?"
"I must be a natural. I didn't even try and he flirted, that was an absolute flirt, didn't you see? He held my gaze longer than necessary and it really wasn't necessary. A fork isn't particularly sexy, is it? Unless you use it to gauge someone's eyes out after unsuccessful intercourse."
"Huh?"
"I mean," you rant on, beyond caring, "I once learnt that dropping the word "naked" in the conversation three times does the trick. Such as, I feel so naked without my mascara, or What a naked sky, without those soft, fluffy clouds, and what about rubbing the table and churlishly saying, So naked, without a cloth..."
"Naked? What? You?"
Beat that, pouting Pole! Attention is all yours again, for a minute and a half. Two minutes later someone's lowers an Iphone onto your lap.
"You got an Iphone too?" The millionaire looks up, surprised.
"This isn't mine," you hint subtly before dismissing the modern machine in the direction of the sofa on your right.
"What? That quickly? How did you..."
You happily discuss the finer techniques of flirting when suddenly two things take your breath away.
In walk the longest legs you've ever seen, hugged by short hotpants, cropped high up. Very high.
"Oh My God, would you look at that!" you hiss. "I'll never be a lesbian but that woman..."
Strangely enough, your private millionaire gnaws on another uniquely formed potato chip, completely unperturbed and says, "What a relaxing place. We should do this more often."
"What?" you snap your head back to your friend and wonder how long you'd been staring at this woman's stelts. "More often? Yes, please!" What a fantastic place. Forget the Pole, you've got your own distraction now.
Not fair! How does she do that? Her legs are smooth, shiny and unblemished. She either works as a running-machine-tester or she's married a plastic surgeon who "does her" for free. You can't strike up a conversation. She's too beautiful for you. Way out of your league. Handsome millionaire? Piece of cake. Beautiful woman? Tricky.
Hang on... same thing happened years ago, when you met Belle in that West-Midlands pub during a Deaf Club Night. With loud music. Petrified to talk to her, you left it to the every end of the evening. Then you talked to her in British Sign Language for ten solid minutes.
"You deaf or hearing?" Belle signed eventually.
"Hearing, but I can sign," you signed back.
"Me too," Belle replied.
Stupified, you stared at one another for nine seconds before bursting into laughter. Now you've been the best of friends for the whole of nine years!
Now you need another way in. Let's see. Ah. The guy opposite her. He'll do.
to be continued...
Off the famous Leidscheplein.
He leads you into a cave, which dodgy-looking entrance you´d managed to avoid up until now. Why would a millionaire want to- Ah, that´s why.
Low-level lighting sweeps past the brick-stone bar. Lounge music tickles the beautiful guests, half hiding in each other´s shadows, as if preparing for the semi-darkness in which they will shag each other in eloquent fashion five hours from now. Possibly on his unsuspecting wife´s satin pillowcase next to her Chiwawa´s spare leash. Classy cocktails are supported by anorexic-thin glass stems, fragile like the bank accounts of the female clientele. Bejewelled hands are holding them. Women with perfectly groomed toenails inside expensive footwear tip their eating-disorder chins back at appropriate moments, revealing edible, swan-like necks. They understand the unwritten code, secret and sacred like a treasure hunt´s map: it´s vital to let Mr Chaperone believe he really is charming and entertaining.
"This is where I sometimes go if I want to escape the confines of my tiny shack," your friend says. You know he´s referring to his grand villa that can easily house fifteen African families and their cattle.
"Whahahahaha! You´re so funny!" you squeal with delight.
A pretty waitress with curly hair and haunted eyes, presumably post-bulimic, sidles over as if on rails and presents you with three complicated menus.
"Let´s not go into the restaurant, eh? So stiff and formal."
You love stiff and formal but you nod and agree with a horizontal smile. "Great idea."
"So much cozier here. Like we´re in someone´s living room!"
Possibly the President´s quarters, with an open fire for chilly American afternoons but once again you nod in agreement.
"You order. Anything you like," your friend says distractedly. A pompous Polish blonde is trying to catch his eye.
"Alright," you smile sincerely. Doesn´t happen every day. And you order six strawberry daiquiris, vodka, mineral water, cappuccino, lobster treats (for you two; the lobster has long been stabbed to death), cute miniature tuna burgers, veal (even though you´re a vegetarian), handmade fries (the menu says it took a whole afternoon to peel them that beautifully) and some Arab dishes you can´t pronounce but seem finger-licking delicious.
The waitress has an accent. You want to know where/ why / how. She refuses to provide details so you take an immediate dislike towards her.
"Her hair is fake, you saw that?" you whisper as she glides off with those cellulite-free legs.
But your friend is not really present. The polished Polish chick in her little French polka-dress is still stealing glances. The bitch. You´re not jealous, but it makes a conversation impossible.
"She´s stunning," your friend drools. "Albeit a little chubby."
"What am I then, a rhino?" you screech from your design chair next to the design lamp on the design table which are all living on a design rug spun from yak hairs. You do the maths and discover you may fit the Pole inside your jeans 2.51 times.
"What?" You friend drops some garlic mayonnaise on his inner-thigh, freshly squeezed from Quatar trees and flown in by private jet, in all likelihood. He´s not listening to you and you hate it when that happens. Hence without guilt you order another round of luxurious tit-bits and laugh at a joke he has not yet produced.
"Looks like you were nervous before your night out. You choked the chicken or strangled the monkey and some came on your jeans?" you remark.
"I did not "help myself" before I went- you´re teasing me."
"Yes, Mr Business Man. So, you normally squirt in diagram style? Just to keep up with the latest stock market trends?"
He laughs. You laugh. All is well again.
Completely in line with your regular clumisness, you throw his fork off the table, drop some delicately over-priced food on the floor and accidentally let bits of spinach pizzetta fall out of your mouth. He doesn't notice.
"I just don't know how to flirt anymore. Do you?" he laughs haughtily, not taking his left eye off the Pole.
"Well, I...," and you summon a muscular waiter. You flick back your uncombed hair and smile, "Could you bring me a fork?"
He repays your grin with a long and hard stare and breathes, "I'll give you two..." He disappears with a wink.
"You saw that?"
"What?"
"I must be a natural. I didn't even try and he flirted, that was an absolute flirt, didn't you see? He held my gaze longer than necessary and it really wasn't necessary. A fork isn't particularly sexy, is it? Unless you use it to gauge someone's eyes out after unsuccessful intercourse."
"Huh?"
"I mean," you rant on, beyond caring, "I once learnt that dropping the word "naked" in the conversation three times does the trick. Such as, I feel so naked without my mascara, or What a naked sky, without those soft, fluffy clouds, and what about rubbing the table and churlishly saying, So naked, without a cloth..."
"Naked? What? You?"
Beat that, pouting Pole! Attention is all yours again, for a minute and a half. Two minutes later someone's lowers an Iphone onto your lap.
"You got an Iphone too?" The millionaire looks up, surprised.
"This isn't mine," you hint subtly before dismissing the modern machine in the direction of the sofa on your right.
"What? That quickly? How did you..."
You happily discuss the finer techniques of flirting when suddenly two things take your breath away.
In walk the longest legs you've ever seen, hugged by short hotpants, cropped high up. Very high.
"Oh My God, would you look at that!" you hiss. "I'll never be a lesbian but that woman..."
Strangely enough, your private millionaire gnaws on another uniquely formed potato chip, completely unperturbed and says, "What a relaxing place. We should do this more often."
"What?" you snap your head back to your friend and wonder how long you'd been staring at this woman's stelts. "More often? Yes, please!" What a fantastic place. Forget the Pole, you've got your own distraction now.
Not fair! How does she do that? Her legs are smooth, shiny and unblemished. She either works as a running-machine-tester or she's married a plastic surgeon who "does her" for free. You can't strike up a conversation. She's too beautiful for you. Way out of your league. Handsome millionaire? Piece of cake. Beautiful woman? Tricky.
Hang on... same thing happened years ago, when you met Belle in that West-Midlands pub during a Deaf Club Night. With loud music. Petrified to talk to her, you left it to the every end of the evening. Then you talked to her in British Sign Language for ten solid minutes.
"You deaf or hearing?" Belle signed eventually.
"Hearing, but I can sign," you signed back.
"Me too," Belle replied.
Stupified, you stared at one another for nine seconds before bursting into laughter. Now you've been the best of friends for the whole of nine years!
Now you need another way in. Let's see. Ah. The guy opposite her. He'll do.
to be continued...
