So I had a very relaxing weekend. Lots of sleeping and reading (Still Alice, great book, super sad). Saturday I went to the adult pantomime which was actually pretty funny. It's one of those crowd involvement spectacles where you yell out things like 'He's behind you!' and 'I realize why this only cost £15!'. It's full of bawdy humour and scantily clad women. Martin obviously loves it because he's been like 10 times and all he ever says about it is 'I like the snow queen. She's cute.' She's the character that wears a bikini for most of the show.
Pervert.
Anyway, so that was fun. Then we went out for dinner to this Italian place which was nice. Sunday I slept until noon (I'm milking this jet lag thing for all it's worth) and then went to dinner with the neighbours and their adorable daughter which was fun. Then I went to the pub and got shitfaced with a bunch of old men. One of them said he could get me tickets to Glastonbury which is amazing. I've heard it's absolutely crazy and full of tons of great bands and illicit substances, so I'm pretty pumped!
Anyway, I was debating whether or not to put this story on here, but I think I have to. It's super embarrassing for me, but if I am going to be candid and open in this blog, I have to let it all out.
Here goes. Oh boy.
So yesterday, Martin had asked me to bring down my dirty clothes (after he told me to make my bed and clean the bathroom). Anyway I took a big pile of them downstairs and he said, 'Oh, just leave them by the washer.'
I wasn't really thinking about it so I put them down and went about my day. A couple of hours later I come downstairs and see all my clothing - including my underwear and thongs - set up on this drying rack right at the front of his house. This means he had to actually take out my unmentionables from the washing machine and put them on there one by one! Ugh. Anyway I was fairly mortified but just decided silently to myself that I would obviously be doing my own laundry from now on.
I didn't really think about it again until we were at the pub last night. It was me and four older men, mostly in their 30s and 40s. We'd had several pints and were chatting about how I was getting along living at Martins. I said it was fine and he'd been very gracious. Then one of his friends, Richard, pipes up and says, "Well, Sue drove by Martin's house the other day and says, 'Does Martin have a lady friend staying with him? There are pink knickers hanging in his front room!" Those were MY pink knickers that everyone in the fucking town now knows about. I had no idea how nosy people in small British villages are but I guess I had to learn the hard way.
Anyway they had a good laugh about that while I turned bright red. Then someone else pipes up "Yah, well at least those thongs don't have much material!" Then they laughed again and I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I couldn't believe four grown men were sitting around talking about my under things right in front of me!
Anyway it's my own stupid fault for not doing my own laundry but I really could not be more mortified. Afterward, Martin's neighbour told me not to worry about it but I mean, shit, I just moved here and already I'm the 'pink knickers' girl. Fuck. I have to get out of here fast. Just one more reason to keep job/hunting and find a flat!
Alright well I think I have embarrassed myself enough for one day. I'm off to see Nowhere Boy this afternoon which is about John Lennon and should be fantastic. I'll write my review tomorrow!
Cheers,
Patsy
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