January B(l)ooze

So, it is now nearing the end of January, which is the month I hate the most.  The weather is usually pretty crappy, the bills have all come in from our Christmas season of indulgence and the paycheck, which we so happily accepted pre-Christmas, ran out mid-month.  Oh, and everyone is on a diet and on the wagon. So, no money, no booze, no dessert, no sun. 

May as well join a convent in Antarctica.

But, the good thing is that this is the month when I get all my culture in for the year!  Yep, if you got no money and you’re trying to lose the Christmas gu-but, (friends, this is a word I am proud to have created, (and yet, not really?) as it is the bane of existence for all apple-shaped women out there: the unfortunate point when your gut and your but become one), then free museums are the answer!  And, if you foolishly committed to  a 100 mile bike ride in May (but, take heart, people this IS me we’re talking about – said bike ride terminates at the Shiner Bock brewery – can you say, free beer?), riding your bike as your means of transport seems like the answer. 

So, I wake up bright and early on a Saturday morning, inspired and renewed, pack a water bottle in my backpack and hop on my old trusty Silverado.  (and, yes, I did think about calling the bike Silver, just so I could say (in my mind, of course!) Heigh ho, Silver away!, but as Silver was just a horse and a Silverado was a car, I thought it might be a more optimistic way of looking at my new mode of transport.)  Now, people think I am nuts to cycle in central London, but I am always careful, I wear a helmut, reflective gear, use signals and never wear headphones.  What I do fail to do, usually, is have any idea where I am going.  I have the free maps that London Transport gives you, I have a fancy android phone that has gmaps and navigation tools and new a bike app downloaded, but, of course, I never remember to bring the maps and I have no clue how to use my phone.  (A friend at work refers to his as a text-machine.  I think that about sums it up.)  So, I take the scenic route often.  Like West London via Waterloo.  Which, for my non-London friends is about the same thing as going from Los Angeles to New York, via Brazil. 

But, luckily on my expedition to experience culture, I have friends I can call who DO know how to use their phones and managed to direct me to our destination.  (which, incidentally, was about 2 blocks from where I got “lost”).  So I zoomed off to the Victoria and Albert museum, where we had booked tickets for the Post Modernism exhibit.  (How cultured do I sound??)  Now, I have never been to the V&A, but I have had many people tell me that it is their favorite museum.  And, I also have no clue what post-modernism is, but my good friends seem excited about this exhibit, so, surely, it must be great.

Wrong.

Turns out the V&A is just a building filled with old crap.  And, the post-modern exhibit is just newer, uglier crap.   I know this will be a sacrilege to some of you, but, really?  I like a museum that has an order to it – the Smithsonians, the British Museum, the Imperial War Museum, the WWII museum in NOLA, the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C.  Those are all about SOMETHING.   The V&A just seems to be a place where all the stuff that no one wanted to buy at a flea market in the 70s ends up: an old comb, a bookshelf, a piece of cloth.  If I wanted to see that sort of junk, all I need to do is walk 5 blocks to Bethnal Green Road and look at all the tat stalls.  (for my American friends, that is code, for junk stand) 

And, the post-modern exhibit was just a strange collection of pictures of Vegas strip malls, a life-size model of someone’s porch, costumes from 80s’ videos (as much as I may have loved Devo’s Whip It, actually seeing the red plastic hat took a lot of mystery out of it for me) and, at one point, just a room with New Order playing.   Seriously? That is art? 

More like bad flashback to my teen years.

So, I zoomed through the exhibit and found the one part of the V&A to which I could relate.  No, I could not find shoes, but I did find the jewelry.  And, more importantly, the jewels.  (again, not interested in tiny pieces of hammered silver with chunks of rock, I don’t care how old it is.  And, a bone or shell pin? No thanks. I will take sparkly and shiny any day.)

Needless to say, my poor friends were disappointed in my failure to appreciate art.

So, the following weekend, we agreed to go for a long bike ride together and then meet other friends for lunch.  So, Silverado and I took off and had a long ride along the canals, dodging pedestrians, market stalls and, at one, point, a rabid runner who nearly took out a family of scared Eastern Europeans and threw a sharp elbow into my friend on the bike behind me.  Two hours later, we ended up a nice old pub in West London. 

Now, my days of abstinence had come to a crashing halt following a 14 hour day of intense contract negotiations earlier that week.  (I mean, seriously, if you aren’t having wheat or sugar and yet are forced to discuss termination rights for hours on end while watching everyone else in the room munch on cookies and chocolate muffins, surely, you deserve a glass of wine?)  But, to be fair, I did only have two glasses of wine, so, really, it was more of an easing back into booze.  So, naturally, a glass of wine following a two hour bike ride is surely no big deal.

Except, of course, it wasn’t one glass.  Or, even two.  To be honest, I am not really sure how many glasses it was as we switched to bottles and our 1:30 lunch ended around 10:30 pm.  Ouch.

Now, at one point, it did occur to me in that marathon session that I was going to need to get Silverado home.  And, that was not going to happen with me on it.  But, what failed to occur to me, clearly, was that while you can take your bike on some tube lines and you can get some taxi drivers to allow you to take your bike in their car, neither of these posed viable options from West London.  (none of those tube lines were anywhere near where I was and, remember, I am always broke in January and a taxi ride was going to run me about 40 pounds)  Well, needless to say, I did end up forking out the 40 quid and getting a taxi home, but not after a few false starts and at one point, ending up under my bike when it fell over on me. (and, no, I was not careening down the road when that happened; although the bruises might indicate otherwise)

So, here we are a week later.  And, this time, I am being much more practical.  No more museums or long bike rides to pubs.  I am going for a long bike ride tomorrow.

And a pub lunch across the street from my flat today. 

Even if January hasn’t ended officially yet, I am done pretending that I am going to be healthy, frugal and sober. 

Oh.  Well, until February 11^th, that is, when I go to fat camp. 

Crap.