Sunshine & Balloons - to be stuck in Barcelona (too busy to stick)

I haven't updated for a bit, have I? What's been going on, hmm? Well Amy has the worst case of chicken pox you could imagine. You know I once made spotty animals for the Tooting Bec tube poster? I did this for a whole month, and I kept having to replace the spotty animals. Well, imagine all the spots from those animals (only don't use the green and blue ones) then multiply all these spots by... hmm, about 1000. Then picture my pretty 6 year old covered with all these spots and saying, 'I'm itchy' and, 'Ouch, ouch, ouch' every 5 minutes. That's chicken pox at number 22B in sunny Tooting Bec.

I wondered how I could really leave her when she's like this? I have to go to Barcelona on Monday to blog about a poker tournament. Her Dad will be there too, he works for the TV company filming it. So my Mum is all set to look after Amy. But Amy was so ill yesterday, and my Mum isn't young, and is of a nervous disposition, I wasn't at all sure she could cope with 24 hour sessions of 'Ow, Ow, Ow' babysitting. I considered that the spots dramatically appeared in one day, so maybe they'd disappear just as fast? Well, it's a theory. Amy tells me hourly, 'I hate chicken pox'. I hate this poxy virus too. I hate it because I'll be too far away to see those spots fade and her smile again.

Today was a bit better, she hasn't said, 'I'm itchy!' once. Instead she just lies on the sofa not saying anything at all, neither smiling nor frowning. And even though she's still ill, I'm gratefully thinking, 'This is an easy to look after kind of ill.' It's still going to be hard to leave her...

I've been worrying too much about working in Barcelona. This has to be a professional blogging job, no mistakes, no silliness. To calm the nerves I've done plenty of preparation - this has effected my blogging output here. Yes, I've 'only' written 3 posts in 'draft mode', long ones I wish I'd finished, they're all about 3 stickers I stuck. From now on I've decided I want each post to be based around a sticker I stick. And I want to make stuff up too! I like the idea of writing fiction not fact. I may even do fictional blogging in Barcelona, if I can't count a poker player's chips properly, instead of saying 'a lot' I'll claim it's 25,007.

I doubt I'll post again until I'm back from Barcelona. Even then, I wonder, will I post as much as I'd like to? Will I ever finish those 'draft mode' posts? One important reason for the lack of recent updates is Steve. Lots of evenings where I might have blogged before, I've spent with him. He must be the best boyfriend in the world! I've missed him so much lately, he's been in Paris writing about the World Poker Tour. I'll see him for tonight, just one evening together, before I go to Barcelona. Then we have a few weeks as a couple, and then he goes to the WSOP for 2 and a half weeks. That's going to feel like the longest two and half weeks ever.

Imagine all the chicken pox spots on Amy's back - any colour you like this time - now times that by several million and six. You should now have a big number. And that's how much out of 10 I'm going to miss him.

Times that number again by another million or two, and that gives you how many points ahead of the competition I am, in the contest for romantic blog soppiness. I know, I just can't help it.

I hope I'll write lots more when I get back from this 'professional bloggers' job. You can read my witterings at www.pokerstarsblog.com, but I don't really want you to. I think it might be rubbish. I'll just be talking about poker and transcribing dull chip counts, I'm not sure that's my thing. But I am going to try my best, and I hope that I'll enjoy it. It should be good. So why am I so scared? I should listen to the best boyfriend in the world when he tells me not to worry so much.

And of course I'll be keeping to my new blogging rules and I'll be stickering in Spain. See post title.

Falafel. Up escalator, Tottenham Court Road tube station

We went to Gaby's for falafel after a film. Steve said, 'That's Brian Cox!'

I regretted adding so much chilli sauce and thought, 'Brian who?'

I was wondering if he might be a football manager, or perhaps a poker player? I decided this after I glanced around and didn't see anyone glamorous sitting at any of Gaby's formica tables. Although I did notice that we were sat next to some photo of Matt Damon being clutched by Old Mr.Gaby like he didn't want to let him go. The picture wasn't signed, just clearly labelled in bold capitals - 'MATT DAMON'

Steve explained that Brian Cox was in lots of movies.

He's since sent me his complete Internet Movie Database biography, and photos too.

Match Point, The Bourne Identity, Troy, X-Men 2, The Ring, For Love of the Game, Kiss the Girls, Braveheart, Rob Roy, even Red Dwarf!

Also Smallpox 2002, Strictly Sinatra, and The Legend of Loch Lomond. Steve admitted to me that, 'These three sound crap.'

I'm still unimpressed. No wonder he was in Gaby's. Ok, so Braveheart won Oscars... But still...No.

The ghost of a long eaten falafel nugget piped up to say that he'd once been in a big film too, eaten by an extra in the background of a key scene in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. He chatted to Vinnie Jones about the role. I listened to his story as I munched. I wondered if he had an IMDB entry too?

Even if he had I wouldn't have been impressed. If I'd seen that film actor falafel nugget walking down the street I don't think I'd stop and stare. You see he was just an ugly old falafel. He wasn't one of the beautiful falafel. He wasn't a glamorous film star falafel in a pitta bread limo, with his paparazzi salad entourage.

I couldn't see any fans eager to smother him with their chilli sauce, impatiently brushing his salad aside, to tenderly lick him clean of his hoummous with their tongues... No. This was just a talking, ghost, falafel nugget.

So I drew a falafel sticker to stick beside the magic Up escalator at Oxford Circus. I wondered if anyone would stop and stare? Or be impressed? I didn't think so.

If Brian Cox had noticed the sticker beside the Up escalator I knew he might smile. I thought this because I know he likes falafel. And he eats the pickled chilli peppers too.

Yet even if Brian Cox passed up the Up escalator eating movie-extra, talking ghost falafel, with extra chilli sauce and pickles, then saw my sticker, smiled, peeled the sticker off the poster and ate that too - I still don't think I'd be impressed.

Brian Cox? Oh..! Yeah. Yeah Yeah.

Wowowee!!!

I don't think.

Green and yellow stripy ladies pants. Hayward Gallery poster, Tooting Bec tube station platform

Steve and I have a cute-thing we do. We laugh about pants. I have pants of different grades, best pants, and worst pants, all shades and styles of inbetween pants. Pants that were once best, now only worn when the laundry basket is bulging. Pants I bought cheap that can make me forget their humble status; understated plain pants, that'll-do pants, sexy enough but comfortable too pants. My pants range from multi-pack-modest everyday pants all the way up to expensive show-pants. Some pants make me feel over dressed; remind me of using the tube to go to a wedding. I know my pants, and I understand my pants grading system, but so far Steve has not been able to see me in my pants at all.

Don't worry, the naughty stuff is fine. It's not that. We just enjoy the coy-thing, the hiding and the peeking, and over anxious demands to, 'turn the lights out!' The laughing, as we cuddle up and joke about the, 'you can't see me in my pants' rule.

Of course I know that he can see quite well with the lights turned low, even low-lights and glasses-off. Of course I know that sometimes he's only pretending to hide under the covers as I dress or undress. It's a game, but it's a fun one. One day it will end and then we'll enjoy a comfortable nakedness, shyness conquered. I hope so. Or maybe I don't hope for that? Not yet. This in-between newness, this nervous excitement, this will-he won't-he see - it's fun!

Steve didn't know what colour my pants were last night. I told him blue, but he couldn't see the exact shade. I don't like my blue pants. These were C-grade, I forgot to change them. Blue is not a good colour for girls pants. I don't think.

We talked about pant colours. I told Steve that I need to buy some new underwear and suggested he choose the colour. He said he liked white or black. Of course he said he 'doesn't mind'. I know this matters more to me than him. But more important than a lunch hour trip to John Lewis lingerie, is that we laughed about the idea of green ladies pants last night. These can't be bought. Nor yellow either. Nor stripy ladies pants. No, not at all. I simply cannot imagine any lingerie shop that offered green and yellow stripy ladies Pants.

So I drew a sticker for this, and stuck it on a poster at Tooting Bec tube station, northbound platform.

I wondered if anyone would see this sticker, and what they might think..?

Perhaps a Portuguese lady... Who'd moved to Tooting Bec three months ago, and wasn't sure she liked the area. The strange little sticker wouldn't make her feel any more at home.

The Portuguese lady was bothered by the Asian shops, not that she was prejudiced. She was a stranger in London too. And she liked that the Asian shopkeepers were so polite, that they avoided talking unless words were necessary. They politely quoted the price with a 'please' and the rest was clearly signed directions - to pay, or to put the basket back. They always packed her bags; she liked that too. It was easier for her not to talk, not to need English in the English shops, not Tooting Bec shops. Her English was good, but she liked easy no thinking, liked to forget her strangeness here.

Sometimes she did feel strange. Sometimes it worried her that she'd come to London, and found it so unexpectedly foreign. In the Tooting Bec shops, run by Asian shopkeepers with reluctant English, there were aisles of Polish pickles and cans. Perogi or tinned borscht, the shopkeepers wouldn't know anything about these products she was sure. No wonder they pointed and smiled, to make things easy. To forget strangeness.

She wondered about the green and yellow underwear sticker. Was there was any significance to the poster it was stuck on? A poster for some modern art gallery. When she considered English art she thought of pretty landscapes or portraits of costumed ladies. This was a poster of a grotesque face, a white mask with a too-big nose. She couldn't tell if it was a man or woman underneath. She didn't want to know, and she wouldn't visit that gallery.

Her job was for a website translation service, adding to the database of words. The basics were there first, the bread, milk and butter words. Then came the more complex words, expressive phrases - like sliced, skimmed, semi-skimmed, spreadable...

Steve joked to me in a recent email that he was 'quite rude for a Northerner.'
He's from Chester, I'm from York. I tell him he's not Northern at all, that Chester's almost in Wales. I tell him that he's nearly Welsh.

He lived in Cardiff for a while, so he shows off a Welsh phrase in his reply. I didn't know what this means but I tell him that it sounds a bit like, 'I'll have a milky coffee'.

An email or two later and I write to him in Portuguese. Portuguese seemed like the most obscure language I could find at the online language translation website. I hoped he wouldn't decode my email. I tried to be funny, and Milky Ways got a mention... And believing he couldn't understand what I was saying I decided I could be bold. I said things I would never say in English.

The Portuguese lady thought about Tooting Bec shops. Bread and milk and butter were in the database, yes. Her job involved scanning long lists for words their customers used that weren't recognised - with the most commonly of these flagged for her attention.

Her sister was a fashion designer. Of course she was jealous of this interesting job. She imagined her sister creating better than bread, butter and milk clothes, even better than semi-skimmed and spreadable fashion. She thought of mentioning the yellow and green stripy pants to her? She'd never seen lingerie that colour. It would be different. Surely her sister would just laugh if she said this?

Her supervisor stood over her, he was Asian like the Tooting Bec shopkeepers. Only he never said please or thank you.

Green, and yellow were in the database already. Pants too. Stripy? Yes, of course that would be there.

Sometimes she liked to guess the words that she might add. She liked the game of adding a word she might use herself, a word that meant something to her. She'd been in the job long enough that such tedium relieving games were important. It was the nature of her job that the longer she spent at this game the harder it became.

I mentioned to Steve that 'rubbish' was 'rubbish' in Portuguese too. It's a word I use a lot, a friendly word that might mean anything unsatisfying. 'That's rubbish!' I declare most days about something or other. 'Rubbish' does for anything that bothers me. I like that I can be comically upset about life's problems in a Northern accent.

I knew that rubbish couldn't really be the word 'rubbish' in Portuguese. This had to be a failure of this web translation website. Their failure 'rubbish' in itself.

I thought of writing to the translation site about this? It was the sort of thing that Steve might do.

Steve had a fat folder of letters from companies and government offices, letters sent and replies received. He acted when something bothered or upset him. I loved him for this. I loved that 'waving, screaming, charging at things head on' attitude to life he had. That 'waving, screaming charge’ had led him to share my taxi to Tooting Bec on the night we met. A taxi that really wasn't 'going his way' at all - he lived miles away, in Blackheath.

As we shared the cab I remembered telling him what in life was sometimes brilliant, sometimes rubbish. As he smiled, he seemed to understand, and I think I started to fall in love.

The Portuguese lady read the strange email. It wasn't often that people wrote to her department. Some concerned customer was requested the addition of a word. Rubbish..? 'Lixo', meant garbage, trash, but in English she knew the word had a common usage meaning something unsatisfactory. It wasn't the same in her language. This made adding the word unsatisfying. Rubbish..? She could do it, but she couldn't be sure the translation would work in the sense this customer wanted.

Was she supposed to reply to this email? That wasn't part of her job... She'd just add the word, close the email. No 'thank you' sent for a reply, it wasn't her job. Some polite Tooting Bec shopkeeper would always say thank you, not her.

Back to her list of words, as she wondered what to cook tonight. She'd have to call at the shops on her way home. She'd buy English bread, square and sliced. She closed the email. She needed more milk too, always needed milk...

On the way home she noticed that the sticker was gone, only a torn remnant of paper remained. The strange big-nosed white mask still scared her.

As she passed the first Tooting Bec grocery shops she wondered about a delicatessen. She missed interesting food - olives, good cake, bread with uneven curves, not small-shop packaged food in plastic wrap, and cloned tins.

Steve found a translation website and translated my Portuguese email. He saw that my favourite word appeared in apparent Portuguese as 'rubbish' too. The rest of the email made sense to him now too...

The Portuguese lady mused about nuts, spices, good oil, roasted peppers - red and green and yellow. Green and yellow, like the underwear stuck on the poster. She imagined wearing this for her boyfriend. Standing in front of him semi-naked. But underwear like that couldn't be bought. Not even her sister would invent it.

She passed the last of the Tooting Bec shops before her turn off. She needed bread, square-sliced, and milk, semi-skimmed. All the shops had these, as well as strange jars and packets of Polish products. She didn't understand these things. She bought unsatisfactory bread. She knew her boyfriend wouldn't mind, he didn't complain. She musn't forget to ponha para fora o lixo...

I hurried home, smiling, thinking about my emails in Welsh and Portuguese. I was expecting Steve. I realised there was no bread and not much milk at home. Perhaps Steve and I could go to the shops? We might laugh at the funny jars of polish pickles, or tease about the poor lack of choice? I thought about my pants and which would Steve see? Blue or pink? White or black? Green and yellow stripy? Or perhaps none at all?

I checked my emails, saw that Steve had translated my Portuguese. I was glad that he had. I was smiling...

'Rubbish is rubbish in Portuguese.' That had been a very easy clue to help him guess which language I'd used.

I was glad he'd read it. Now I could tell him about writing to the web translation website. They hadn't replied yet - they were rubbish!

No... Nothing was rubbish. What was the opposite of rubbish? Would this be the same in English and Portuguese?