Saturday morning, unaccountably, we were both up with the lark. Packed and breakfasted, we followed satnav out of Watford in the direction of Chatham. I'd looked on the map and assumed we'd go round the M25 anti clockwise. Imagine my horror dear reader, when I realised we were being directed OVER THE DARTFORD BRIDGE!!!!! Greater only than my fear of flying, is my fear of heights. And with the demon bloody driver behind the wheel. My palms started to sweat and the soles of my feet to tingle. Oh god, oh god, oh god. I'd survived chemo only to be ricocheted over the edge of a seriously f**king high and terrifying bridge by a grumpy old man worn down by my nagging. I stopped sulking and started being nice. Just in case.
I was unwillingly familiar with the bloody bridge. Years before, when I'd been doing my post grad degree, I'd driven over it on my way to the Uni of Sussex once a week. The night before I would either have nightmares, if I was lucky enough to sleep, or fail to sleep at all. As we got closer, I told myself that I'd faced death and won, done chemo despite my sheer terror of it and that I could DO this without being pathetic. I was wrong. I WASN'T however a total gibbering idiot. I was scared but not totally terrified. Which frankly, was quite an improvement!
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It was FABULOUS to see Steve. He's such a little love despite being 6' 6" tall. In some ways we're totally different (my rabidly left wing politics opposed to his consumer society middle of the road stance) and in some others very similar (he appreciates the uniqueness of Princess just as much as I do AND is a total sex addict although I'm merely aspiring). He settled us down, R from the traffic and me from the bridge with a cup of tea that he ordered his partner, G to make.
Then it was off to the station and back into London; or rather, Soho. We trawled the gay bars getting tipsy. The more I drank, the happier I got. We had a nice meal, yet more junk food (I could feel my waist expanding even more) and then headed into yet more gay pubs. I was having a lovely time. R wasn't quite as enamoured, at least not until he spotted a fellow Geordie in a black and white football shirt. He was in like a shot. The 2 of them got on famously chatting and gradually got elbowed further and further away from me, S and G.
Eventually, the poor football fan twigged that R wasn't a poof out for a quick knee trembler and made his escape while R was in the loo, just checking with S where the other gay venues in Soho were. R returned from the loo very disappointed to find that his pal had gone, blinking in confusion when S enlightened him. I don't think we're in Kansas anymore Toto!
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