12.12.05..10:19 am

The past three days have been little more than a blur, beginning with the thick
creamy red wine puke of a drunken moron that turned my lovely 73 bus into the vomit comet. Drunken Moron was still actually on the bus, no he did not have the decency like any other drunken moron to actually GET OFF THE BUS when being sick and puke all over the sidewalk. Instead he sat ON THE BUS, vomit dribbling in thick swathes of mucus over his chin and down his front. His hand was cupped daintily under his chin, a lumpy mass of expelled stomach contents puddle in his palm, into which he continued to expunge the Evil Red Wine Demon. Because fuck me if that puddle join the growing pond at his feet. Because THAT would be the height of indiscretion. And then Drunken Moron Two got on the bus and started chatting to Drunken Moron One WHILE Drunken Moron One began throwing up into his hand AGAIN! Drunken Moron Two was FUCKING FASCINATED by where Drunken Moron had been that night, what he had been drinking, how he had come to be puking on a bus.

1. Getting drunk,
2. Red wine
3. Total lack of ability in legs to remove vomiting self from bus.

These were the answers being screamed inside the head of every other passenger. Drunken Moron Two then attempted to engage in conversation with the two Spanish girls sitting behind Matthew and I. They must have looked at him some kind of evil because he began protesting in his Drunken Moron Drawl that he was only being friendly, and come on, lighten up! He eventually turned back to his new best friend, Drunken Moron One and whined about how people never talk on public transport. Drunken Moron One threw up his response. It was a Hallmark Moment of Drunken Harmony.

The flight was uneventful except for the unbelievably rude flight attendants who snapped verily to people who wanted to look out the window while the movie was being set up, or requested things like coffee, water or the vegetarian meal they ordered. The attendant who got the last one practically threatened to throw the passenger off the plane when she dared quibble the turkey breast. After that the passengers left the attendants alone, and we all got on just fine. This was the first flight I�ve ever been on in which I�ve had a truly ghastly airline meal. There was nothing served that wasn�t a week-old leftover. My fruit salad was the recycled waste of fruit salads of days gone by. It was horror beyond anything my stomach has known in years. Yet I still managed not to vomit on the plane and HOLD IT IN MY HAND FOR EIGHT HOURS.

It�s very odd being here. I can't remember how to use half the appliances, or where the plates are, or which channels will yield decent TV. It's minus 14 outside with a high for the day of minus 8.. I'm not complaining about the cold, but it does make wanting to leave the warmth of the house a lot harder, and I've simply got SO MUCH STUFF TO DO that not leaving the house isn�t exactly an option. There's not organic food in the house except spinach, my parents put butter on EVERYTHING - well, everything toasted, so not strictly everything.* I can't smoke inside, I don't want to bundle up to smoke outside. I've not had a poo, I've got three reviews and an interview to do for tomorrow, I can't remember the numbers of ANY of my friends, AND Matthew�s not here.

Mum's having fits about trying to remember to tell Matthew to remember to pack everything I didn't bring, so sent Matthew this checklist:

1. take out suitcase from underneath bed.
2. Open it.
3. Place inside everything I couldn't bring on the first wave.
4. Put suitcase away until packing on the 19th.
Don�t use a different suitcase.

5. You want to know one thing I'm REALLY going to like about having Matthew here with me? The Sistercreature will feel unable to "sneak" into my room in the morning and "kiss [me] on [my] freckly little nose!" and constantly tell me how much she loves having me here. It�s been less than twenty-four hours and already resumed the fears that my sister will become one of those heinous kitten-sweater wearing, craft sale fancying, Soccer Moms who smother their children out of healthy sexuality and become fodder for the Easton Ellises of the future.** I need a drink a smoke and a Matthew and not necessarily in that order.

*Ok, they�re actually very healthy eaters, but the amount of butter is INSANE. It forms pools in toasted air-pockets. AND they put dressing on their salads. Which I don�t do because I actually like the taste of lettuce and other salad ingredients on their own. Fine. I know. It�s nothing to actually complain about at all, it's just a lot more fat in my diet than I'm used to.
**And my sister�s not that bad. Just a little overbearing.

Regardless. So far I'm not too jetlagged, I am bowled over by being here though. It's very surreal. It's still yet to sink in that I'm in a different country on a different continent and I can't use my mobile. I will dislike much that a lot when it finally does.

I had a dream last night that my first major boyfriend, Brent, ran into me and you while we we're sitting in a cafe and that he was teaching grade 1 (equiv. year 1, duh) in some small town in Ontario and then we all jumped up and down for a bit. Possible the cafe turned into a giant trampoline without my knowing.

Last night I watched a new Family Guy episode and nearly peed! Yes, I was so tired that laughter had very nearly the power to disable my ability to hold it in. Yesterday I knitted a neck-warmer (not scarf, v important)/head-warmer (not hat, v important) while on the plane. I'm very proud. I also wrote a poem entitled A Poem for Matthew of Stoke Newington which I have included here today.

A POEM FOR MATTHEW OF STOKE NEWINGTON

I'm just about to go to bed,
all alone and full of dread.
My bum will be cold all through the night,
my heart shall refuse to give up the fight
of wanting you�re here instead
of in Britain.

Right. Good news over everything: There is snow everywhere. My beloved snow and I have been reunited at last.

****emmms IN CANADA!