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Fawlty Norwich

On Friday Angus and I strapped ourselves into the car and headed up to Norfolk, an area far north of London and a long goddamn drive from our little home. We were headed to Norwich, the city where my manager Jeff lives and is getting married. We were armed with Angus' tuxedo, my blue dress which I had planned to pair with strappy shoes and an Indian dyed and beaded pashmina, and sparkly Indian earrings, and some Skittles.

That, and a bottle of champagne.

Being a birthday after all.

Halfway up the drive my phone rings. When I answer it, it turns out to be the owner of the place we would be staying, a tiny little bed and breakfast called By Appointment. When I answer, his voice is ecstatic.

"Where are you? I'm so worried about you! Are you lost?" he coos.

I blink a lot. The man could've been an extra in Birdcage. I hadn't heard someone so flamboyantly gay since my theatre days.

"Er, we're running late. The M25 was closed in one section so the drive's been torture."

"Please make sure you get here safely!" Every other words is emphsaized. I'm usually pretty dramatic in the way I talk but he makes me look like the love child of Marlon Brando and a Borg. He gives me directions and I ring off, grinning wildly.

When we get there, we park next to a very old building. We get out and head into the entrance, only to find ourselves in the middle of the kitchen. Standing behind an industrial steel counter is our landlord, one half of a gay couple that owns and runs the bed and breakfast and the restaurant. He throws down his hand towel extravagently.

"There you are! Isn't traffic a nightmare!" He sighs and takes my suitcase and leads us up a tiny staircase that appears to go upstairs at a 90 degree burst. It's almost literally a straight climb up. He takes us through a maze to our bedroom, and when we get there, we are stunned. The room is full of antiques and nice touches-a case full of 1900's hat pins. Collars from the 1940's. A nightgown that probably hadn't seen wearing this side of the 1900's. It was just lovely. He tells us about the building, a former shoemaker's that dates back about 500 years.

I pull out my dress and Angus' tuxedo shirt. "Do you have an iron? We need to iron these."

He looks at my dress. "What fabric is that?"

I smile. "It's hemp." He curls his lip and I see on the nightstand a massive stack of Vogue magazines. Ah. Sorry mate, Versace my dress is not.

He sighs. "Hang them outside and I will iron them. God knows it means I'll have to get up at 5:30 am to get this all done, but I will do it."

I wonder if he's going to raise a hand to his forehead and, crunching a raw potato, swear that as God is his witness he will not go hungry.

We eat dinner in their restaurant, which is packed. It's a Michelin rated restaurant and the food was exquisite. I get the sparkling company of my dear boy, lovely food and fantatsic New Zealand sauvignon blanc, what more can a girl ask for on her birthday? We follow it up in our room with a bottle of champagne and sleep together in the antique bed like two peas in a pod.

The next morning, hangovers aside, we have breakfast (our landlord got up and made us fresh croissant. Fresh. And our clothes were finely ironed outside our room.) and then head out for a walk in Norwich. My back problems had flared up wildly, so Angus and I bought some heat spray which he would apply liberally.

Norwich is actually a lovely and thriving town. It has a castle.

It has a cathedral.

We stop in an antique shop near the catherdral and find a number of amazing finds at, to our southwest England minds are lovely prices, however we restrain ourselves and don't buy all the things we want. Angus buys a handful of turn of the century pennies and we find a fantastic 1920's art deco mirror for only £15, so we snap it up and take it home. We stop and look in the window of an estate agents' and find a number of homes that is exactly what we are looking for, and at half the price. The problem is, we just can't commute this distance to our jobs, so it's expensive areas of housing for us.

After hobbling around it for a while, we went back to the hotel. We chatted to the landlord a bit and then I asked if they couldn't help us call a cab.

The landlord sighed dramatically. "Anything else Madame wishes? Shall I come up and draw you a bath? A back rub?" Ah. Basil Fawlty is alive and well.

Upstairs, Angus very tenderly and lovingly made love to me in the sunshine of the bed, before curling up behind me and we nap. The temperature is perfect and I lay curled up inside of the shape of him, so wildly in love that I wonder if I am floating. When the alarm goes off I ease into a Lush bubble bath before spending some time on my appearance. When it's time to go to the wedding, the landlord gushes over us and helps pull my backless dress over my scary Bridget Jones pants.

And all in all, I think I cleaned up well.

But my boy looked gorgeous.

The wedding was an ok time, actually. The former Rocket Riding Gerbil project manager, a nice Kiwi named Bob, was there with his date, another nice Kiwi who's a plastic surgeon living in England. Angus and I spent the evening laughing and talking with the other Dream Job couples and relaxing. Jeff was in very high spirits and was deliriously happy to be married-I've never seen him smile so hard.

Angus and I crawled into a cab around midnight, after hours of dancing to the best of the 70's (oh my God, I just remembered us all dancing to Abba's "Dancing Queen" and singing the lyrics at the top of our lungs. Oh my God. I'm so embarassed.) We crawled into bed and Angus very kindly nursed my terrible back and severe hangover the next day.

That man is a keeper.

-H.

PS-Random Pensees, who is a sweetie and a great guy to eat hummus with, has asked me some questions based on these rules. Ergo, here is my interview :)

1. You live in London and have lived in Sweden. Has living abroad changed your understanding of your own native country? Do you sometimes feel as if you are the designated American representative on all issues?

Living abroad has taught me some extremely valuable lessons. In the first instance, it has taught me that as we were raised in school being told that America is the greatest country in the world, they were also being raised in Sweden being told that Sweden was the best, and in England that England was. Patriotism is localized and efficient, and the belief in one's country is a well-oiled machine. It's not necessarily propaganda in these country-it's just pride (which can, in some places, become rabid). But I no longer think that any one country is better than any other-they all have pros and cons, they all have good and bad.

It has also taught me that although we are brought up to believe that everyone is desperate to come to America and be American, it's simply not true. In all my travels I have only met one person that wanted to be an American more than anything, and he was a Turkish man living and working in Stockholm.

I definitely have to become the protector and defender of Americans and America. It's a position that I don't like and don't want-I get annoyed when people come to me with "What's the matter with America?" or "What's the problem with Americans?" That generally results in a defensive knee-jerk reaction from me along the lines of: "I don't know, what's wrong with your mustach?" or "What's not to understand?" I try to keep my patience but if people come to me and tell me that Americans are "so stupid" or, even worse, if they have all of these negative opinions of America and yet have never been there, then I do get angry.

And when people ask me to explain how it is you can get fined $50 for showing a thong in Virginia, I have absolutely no response other than to say: Guess the local police force are bored.

2. You are on death row and it is time to pick your last meal. What is it and what would you drink with it. Assume no limits.

I'm a simple girl. I can cook gourmet but I return to the comfort foods every time. I would want a sampling of risotto with field mushrooms and asparagus with a starter of red onion and goat's cheese tart. For dessert, I want Tesco's finest Devonshire Fudge yogurt (my latest addiction). And the drink? Champagne, baby, and lots of it, since it looks like a hangover isn't on the cards.

3. You've won the lottery and are going back to school to do a doctorate. In what field and why?

Literature. Then I'd be paid to be reading books and talking about them! I would love to be a physician or a veterinarian but my brain cells simply don't squeeze to the chemistry. I could also consider some crunchy granola form of sociology-like "Death and Dying" or something along those lines.

Totally useful stuff, really.

4. If you could go back in time and apologize to someone, who would it be and why?

I'm so sorry for that hospital room and Kim. I never, ever should have walked out of that hospital room. I should never have left him to die on his own and I don't even have the Punisher to hold onto in the quiet spaces. I know what he wanted then. I know what our pact was, that if one of us were suffering the other would pull the plug and follow. I just couldn't do it and I will feel sorry for it for the rest of my life. I just couldn't take him away like that. I just couldn't. And even if I couldn't pull his plug, I should never have left him like that. I should have been there with him, held his hand for the end of the road.

5. Do you think that men who prefer woman who shave their pubic hair are threatened by real women?

I think that women who will shave ARE real women. I think the hallmark of a real woman is that she's willing to be flexible and accomodating when it comes to the look and feel of the pubes. I think it's wildly sexy when men actually pay attention to the shape and scope of the hedge trimmings, so if a man wants the shape to be shaved then to me it shows the signs of someone that likes to be different, that likes to be naughty, that likes to feel the stubble as it comes in. A real man can tell you he likes you to have different shapes. A real woman can tell you that sometimes yielding to what the man wants is the most liberal of all feminist learnings.

6. Why do you blog? What do you get out of it?

I was thinking about this the other day. I started it since I had so much flying about my head I just had to get it out. And, weirdly, I was convinced that if I put it out there, if I hit that "publish" button, it meant I couldn't go back and edit it, I couldn't burn it, I couldn't destroy it. It meant I had to deal with it, and that's what I needed. It has become a way for me to work out my own thoughts and sound out the noises in my head. Maybe someday I will quit, but right now I still need it.

Which cartoon character do you identify more with, Tom or Jerry?

Tom. Totally. I'm always stepping on rakes and smashing my face on the handles.

Posted by Everydaystranger at April 4, 2005 07:50 AM .

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