Well, it’s all come to pass.
We have a sparkling, new, beautiful shower, and I managed to successfully attend a concert for the first time whilst flying solo.
Kaiser Chiefs are top-notch groovemeisters, so I pretty much just showed up, danced like a mad woman for an hour and a half, and then hit the road.
(The four glasses of wine I consumed before heading downtown may have had something to do with how easy the whole thing seemed. I’m normally a two-glass max kind of gal, so take this as you will.)
The one thing I will say was that I was a little bummed out about the fact that they hardly played any of their new material (or really anything from their catalogue post-2008.)
They have so many fab songs other that those featured on Yours Truly – Angry Mob and I had been eager for the chance to hear them live.
For instance, I was gutted that they didn’t play Man on Mars, a tune that I have been pretty much listening to on repeat for the last two weeks. Seriously, it’s the first thing that finally managed to knock The Decembrist’s Calamity Song off of my top jam list.
Ricky Wilson told the audience that Vancouver was their last stop on their tour, so they were probably pretty exhausted and burnt out and didn’t want to take on anything too taxing.
But overall, I must say I had a great time period, and there is always something to be said about going to a concert where you (and every other person in attendance) knows every lyric to every song that is played.
I’d give it a solid 8 out of 10 cats.
On my way home, sitting on the metro, I was trying to concentrate on anything other than the dull ringing in my ears, when a very young man sat down next to me.
The fellow was just a little too eager to strike up a conversation, so my spidey senses immediately started tingling.
Because I am a crazy weirdo, I did what I am often do in awkward situations – make them even more awkward (this time by speaking in a really terrible accent.)
This is hilarious to me, but probably insanely disconcerting to the other parties involved.
If I could muster up the appropriate amount of compunction I would, but then I always ask myself, what’s life without a little flare? A little intrigue?
So, egging myself on, I sometimes try out mein deutsche, and other times moya ruski.
This time I was from jolly old England.
Unfortunately, the dude was totally undeterred.
Even after I told him I was seven years older than him, he still asked me out.
Youth these days, I tell ya.
Either deliver my paper on time or get off my lawn!
I will give him props for gumption and guts, but needless to say, I will not be seeing him again.
(Until my next late night train ride, goodness knows.)
The next morning, I was moving a little slower than usual, due to the after effects of my solo dance party, finishing the bathroom, and the eleven kilometre run Mr. M and I completed during the previous day’s afternoon.
I figured the best thing to cure my Sunday sluggishness, was homemade crepes with fresh fruit, nutella, walnuts, whipped cream, and tea, devoured on our porch, basking in the warmth of the (long lost, and now finally found) sun’s rays.
Edit: for one bloody day at least! It just makes me want to yell out: Come on Biscuit you can do it!!!
I mean spring!
Come on spring, you can do it!
But at the time, it was, for lack of a more poetic descriptor, absolute bliss.
Then, M and I tore about our place, vacuuming like a vacuuming things, dusting, washing, scrubbing – wiping away all the dust that had accumulated over the course of our reno, encrusted in our corners and nestled in all the often missed nooks and crannies.
Seriously, nothing is as good as clean feels.
A friend of mine remarked, after reading my post from last Friday, that I would probably pick up a ton more traffic to my blog if I posted photos of myself doing mad cleaning in my underwear.
I’m not going to lie – I briefly considered this as I tore about our place, but in the end I decided it just wasn’t worth it.
That, like my English accent, should not be encouraged.
Not without copious amounts of wine, anyway.
Isn’t that right, guvnah?