This week I’m patiently waiting for someone to chat to me about moving to Sydney. They will fix me with an inquiring, almost accusative stare and ask: What are you running away from? I will continue looking in their direction but way past them, and reply in expressionless monotone: I don’t know. But I’m not far enough from it yet.
On Friday we get back to London but I won’t pretend that I’m even that upset – I’ve been preparing myself for this moment forever, every day is the day that I return from a holiday in my life, every day is like Sunday, every day is silent and grey.
So we drive to Scott’s home and we catch the end of the Olympics Opening Ceremony, an event I don’t recall ever having missed in my miserable life so far – with an orgasmic climax four years ago when it took place in Athens, my hometown – only to discover that Scott has never watched one before.
Then I make an appointment to have my hair cut because an unkempt outdoorsy bouffant does not go with jet black Ladytron hair and then I go to Toni & Guy, where a very tired Sophie proceeds to work her – limited – magic. I have not been to a hairdresser’s in about three years, because I’ve been cutting my own hair like the proletarian lad that I am, but I seem to remember that you’re supposed to chat, gossip and banter mainly about your (i) weekend, (ii) holiday plans and (iii) love life. Being in an extremely precarious position of (i) being there on a Friday, (ii) having come straight from a holiday and (iii) being gay, I decide to put a halt to any socializing aspirations of Sophie and start playing with my phone the moment I finish telling her that she can do what she wants, I don’t care about my hair, I never have and I never will.
On Friday evening I cancel plans to meet up with Donnell because an episode of Miss Marple that I haven’t seen for ages is on, order a bacon and olive pizza from Pizza Hut and the biggest and cheapest ice cream I can get, watch my show, consume the food, go to bed.
On Saturday daytime I guess I go to the gym, where I haven’t been for a week, and in the evening I meet up with Donnell, Donnell’s friend G and Scott at a “coffee shop” in “Soho”. Then Scott and G leave and Donnell and I meet Alexei and his friend D outside the “coffee shop”, where we proceed to stand and chat for the next fifteen minutes.
After Alexei usefully informs us that the Olympics Opening Ceremony was the biggest spectacle in the history of the world ever (he’s drunk) we disperse and I go home, where I…
…log on to facebook and search for every single member of the male British Gymnastics team from the Olympics 2008 and Commonwealth Games 2006, and send them invites to be my friend. Chances are, ONE of them will be gay. What the hell – ONE must be.
Then I do the same for all the gymnasts, divers, wrestlers, swimmers and some track & field athletes (there are too many of those) from the Commonwealth Games 2002, because I decide that the chances of them accepting my friendship are higher, due to the fact that:
a) If they only qualified for the Commonwealth Games and not the Olympics, they can’t have been that good so they’re likely to have lower standards
b) If they competed in 2002, they are more likely to be near my age now
And now we’re playing the waiting game.
Mind you, I’m an idiot. I should be trying to add Australian sportsmen – that where I need to meet people. Any suggestions welcome.