doggish

Saturdays spent in the kitchen. There is something in English houses that always makes me end up in the kitchen, sitting at the table and waiting for the time to pass.

First of all, I’d like to set a few things straight. I am not homesick. As far as I am aware, homesickness means wanting to go back to a familiar place - desperately so. I am not looking for familiarity, but that doesn't mean that I don't enjoy other people's company. People, with whom a decent conversation is possible - not some girlish, i-am-so-kind-nice-and-middle-class person, that is. People like this are nice, indeed, but I find them hard to talk to or to take them seriously. I mean, where's your brain? No one's going to respect you for being nice, but everyone's going to have a great time at you expense. Not for me, thanks.

So, I need people. The thing is, though, that as long as you're alone, you'll never get to know anyone. If you have friends already, you'll always find more. So task 1 is: Find that first person that sets off the rest. It's just game, but knowing the rules doesn't make it any easier. Defying the rules by not drinking and not being all-smiles-and-pink-icing-nice does not further your cause, either. Anyway, task 2 is far more challenging: Once you got enough people, get rid of those that don't fit into your life or that don't share your outlook on life. Oh, come on, don't tell me you don't do that or that I am being cynical. It's the way to go, people. This is a hire-and-fire society, we're being made redundant left and right - so why not do the same in private life? At least it allows to focus on and stay with the people that are worth it. And believe me, a lot are not.

Yesterday evening was... liquid, sort of. Very. Flower wanted to go for a quick drink and then head off; Dazed just came cause I gave her a pleading look and had been complaining about being utterly bored, and there was some guy with us (Let's call him Buscemi) and he was all the penitent petty criminal, slightly thuggish but in a good kind of way. Buscemi. Anyway, one drink turned into two into three into... you get the gist. We were joined by two other guys - I can't recall their names, but that doesn't really matter here, so let's say they were TheLad and Dal. I got chatting to Dal - he's ten years older than I am, has been to India for two years or something and speaks Dutch. The latter was a fact that received repeated attention throughout the evening, the knowledge of foreign languages being deemed exotic. And if there is a truly exotic language, it has to be Dutch. Clearly. It's right on par with Xhosa and some Dari dialect. Oh, well.

Anyway, I had fun and ended up armwrestling with Dal. He challenged me and then wouldn't play fair, out of deference to me being female. It is kind of boring if a man thinks he's doing you a favour by first challenging you on his own territory and then not even giving you a fair chance to lose. Fair is foul and foul is fair? Not so, I should think.

I am a little sick of being patronised throughout. For my language, for my sex, for anything. As long as you don't give me a chance to lose, I can never win, either. But that's ultimately what they're scared of, isn't it. Because: What would have happened if I had really beat him? Weakness is shame - just not in a woman. It's nice to know we're weak but to allow us to lend ourselves to the illusion that we weren't. The knowledge and ensuing sense of superiority must be overpowering. After all, I am subject to your mercy, aren't I?

Armwrestling, however, is not the most vivid memory of last evening. Partly, because I was shitfaced by then, partly because what struck me far more was that at some point Dal commented on my intelligence (I guess I said something like 'I am not stupid, you know' to get across some weird point I was trying to prove) and me, always the curteous and humble person that I am, remarked that I was well aware that I was intelligent. Honestly, I think so (when I am drunk), though I try not to say it in public. Why? If you had seen the face Dal made, you would know. It's the face you always get for stating those obvious things about yourself that you're just not supposed to say. After all, knowing your own worth is not the best of qualities - it makes your opposite aware of the fact that you're a scrutinising, criticising, upfront bitch who is probably expecting you to be convinced of your own worth, too. You know what? You're right.

There isn't much I can think of that I find more despicable than someone behaving like a beaten dog. I guess if I were a proper woman (You know, this creature from 1950s television), I should feel pity and nurse the poor thing back to life and joy. Instead, I have the urge to beat it some more; I can't say whether in order to put it out of its misery or add to it. I want a t-shirt saying "I was told that boys don't cry, so why the fuck do you have to?"