Sexiest man in Jamaica

I’m sitting on the sofa in my mate’s apartment, listening to David Bowie and Mint Royale and waiting for her to come back from the lab. She has a sweet apartment- all finds from thrift stores and house sales and dumpsters. She’s covered a table with paper from newspapers and cartoons, magazines, calendars and varnished it. It looks really good. But she does have something she bought- a large brown soft and comfy sofa. It is really one of those you just lean back on, bigger than you, it seems to be giving you a hug, inviting you to rest your head, put your feet up.

The flight out of heathrow was delayed a bit by high winds, but when we got airborne there was only slight turbulence, where I missed MrC’s hand to hold on to. I’m not that keen on flying- too much of a control freak. Paris Hilton was on my flight, and I was pretty sure bad karma was going to bite me in the ass and the plane would crash. She was with some dude with dark hair queuing beside me, she in the 1st class fast lane and me in my cowboy hat and newly resoled cowboy boots in “world traveller” or whatever euphemism they use for 3rd class.

At security the man asked me “What sort of name is that”. It’s gaelic, I told him. I’m Scottish. “Ah, that explains it” he said. He asked me who I was visiting in the bronx. I told him about my friend, how I met her, her middle name, and things he probably didnt need to hear. “We worked in a corn field together” “Uh-huh”. Och well. Fingers, thumbs and eyes photographed and I was outta there. I met a girl at the baggae reclaim who recognised the bok in my bag- Novel About My Wife by Emily Perkins. I asked her if she was a literature student, but she was in fact a writer who had been reading from her book at a literary festival in the UK. I asked the name of her book- One More Year. I told her I liked the book I read, but didn’t really understand the ending. And that I found the character Tom, who was telling the story, a bit depressing. “You mean the husband, the narrator” she said. I got my bag and left, telling her I’d check out her book. I just looked it up, her name is Sana Krasikov. Maybe I’ll get her book to read on the plane home. My mate said I shoulda got her to sign my book. “But she didn’t write it” I said. “Yeah, that would have made it cooler”.

On the plane I watched Gran Torino and Yes Man. Both passed the time in their own way. I went to bed at 430am UK time, woke up 5am US time. Now I am very hungry, it being 1pm here and 6pm in the UK. I want lots of lovely food and I want it now. There’s always something cool about going to the supermarket in a foreign country. I remember that about the first time I came to the US, having previously been to France, Belgium, Spain: the US was so foreign but they all spoke English. It freaked me out. The pavements are so wide, the road signs are in a different font, the milk is 1 or 2%, the temperature is in the 70s.

I want a bialy. I want reese’s peanut butter cups. I want hershey kisses. I want pumpernickel bread. I want pastrami. I want canoli.

Just managed to blue tooth an image from my phone. Amn’t I cleber? That’s the table and me reading a book, just started the Grave Diggers Daughter.