The events of yesterday evening and the slightly askew atmosphere in my appartment this morning can be explained by the following e-mail copied-and-pasted that I sent out to the world en g�n�ral this morning.
Y'know, if I had to pick a scene from a Douglas Adams novel that I wanted to live out, I would have picked falling down and missing the ground, or perhaps that in-flight sex scene, or perhaps having a slice of 'zza with Dirk Gently himself.
I might pick a moment aboard the Heart of Gold, I might pick any number of scenes involving Colin the fucking happy robot and an aluminum baseball bat.
Or I wouldn't mind having a word or two with those damned mice right before shaving them and coating them in vaseline and setting them loose in an all-boys private boarding school.
What I would NOT have picked was the scene from The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul (or was it the first book? Je ne me souviens plus) where there is a couch wedged in the staircase.
Contrary to my personal orientation vis-�-vis the realm of living out moments in literature, however, it was precisely this scene that fate and her big shiny-and-creatively-barbed enema-stick decided to visit upon me last night.
There is a sofa stuck in my hallway. It is big and gold and very seventies-french looking, with a fold-out bed part that seems to randomly enjoy falling on my head when I try to squeeze past to visit the toilet.
It is standing upright and behaving in a downright menacing fasion. It smells faintly of the rain it got caught in while I stood out in the street last night begging passers-by to help me carry the damned iron-framed thing up three flights of stairs.
It would be a very quaint and old-fashioned fold-out couch if it didn't happen to be so stubbornly positioned very much OUTSIDE my s�jour such that the visiting Mr. Pyke is going to have a delightful time trying to take a shit in the morning. 'specially if he's as big as they say he is.
Ahem.
Who was it that said that "anything can happen in Paris"? Find them for me, I gots a coupl'a words I'd like to share with 'em. Most of them start with "ow-ow-ow-ow".
:)
Gila.
Wanna know whats bothers me most about the entirety of the event?
Not the ultra-modern decorating style that I have stumbled upon. Oh no, an overstuffed sofa upright in my hallway strikes me as delightfully anarchista.
What bothers me most?
The way I stood out in the damp street and played puppy dog eyes at passing men to convince one into helping us lug the damned thing usptairs...
...because as a weak little blonde I didn't have the strength to carry the thing myself.
And when the bright-eyed young man who took a half hour out of his evening meander to help a young woman in the street, shook my hand and left, his breath was beading the mist in short gasps and I had the nearly irrepresible urge to go cleanse myself.
For the first time in my life, I had to ask for help...
...and suddenly I feel all too helpless.