teddy & tart

Posted on February 20, 2009

2


i would love to take a short trip to london with you where i lived for a number of years. but i cannot even afford a single weekend away from my chores. i feel like sitting on the back of a horse gallumphing through an ice storm, crystals freezing solid on my face which maintains an eternally evil grin. eventually i get fed up with feeling sorry for myself and make ready for the journey.

since easyjet doesnt let me take my teddy bear along (the leaflet reads: “glass beads can cause serious harm when thrown at 600 mph”), i am restricted to mind travel. first stop: long acre – walking past coffees hops galore full of tourists with funny faces. a mexican restaurant where the ‘waiter’ means ‘making you wait forever’ until they bring cold burritos which smell like king’s cross station and look like dead rats wrapped in yellow carpet.

on to the fielding hotel on brewer street where i once stayed – but “no smoking only”. i must inhale by the open window, then i cannot get it closed again. for a new room, i need to lie to the friendly receptionist from santorini who entertains me with a story involving 20+ close relatives stuck in a terrible mess somehow linked to the occupation of cyprus by the turks. i sneak off before the climax of the tale. evening program: no tickets for royal opera left (postmodernised, playing “batman in venice”). bummer. since i dont feel like spending the evening alone, my second option is making kinky sex fantasies real. an escort who calls herself rebecca ravish, measures 6’10” and has no head on her site seems right for my somber mood. i need to look up to someone tonight or else.

when rebecca arrives i suddenly dont like feeling dwarfed and i have qualms about the size of my shoes. she is game with taking a stroll instead and we walk across covent garden. lovely air, and i buy a new hat for teddy. rebecca talks like an oxford don which makes me feel like eliza. she really looks classy – great company for the opera for which i still dont have tickets however. we end up in christopher’s american grill on wellington street where i used to go for business lunches.

suddenly i experience a flashback from a meeting with the later minister of industry, the right honourable gerry bolzback. gerry was late as usual and had reserved half the room for his entourage, a mixture of slimy bureaucrats and slim bodyguards (“a man of consequence can never have too many other men sheltering him” he once said to me). after the meal he pulled out a massive engagement ring and before i can decline, he says “this is for dorothea donegal-footle penningsworth the widow of lord penningsworth who died of swallowing a fly when riding his ducati last month. do you think she’ll agree to marry me?” i succeed in wiping the remainder of this conversation from memory.

rebecca’s appetite (“i am having the pork chops and the veal”) is ravishing indeed and i have to talk to the maitre d’ when guests at a neighbouring table complain about repeatedly being kicked in the shins by a large brunette sporting a leather whip. though i am embarrassed, i also relish the show. rebecca winds up paying which means i am alone after dinner and cannot go back to the hotel because her pimp might wait for me there and break my legs.

after spending the night in a cardboard house on embankment that belongs to a bum named mr hamstring kettlefish who says he used to be a major player in the city “until fuckin’ wall street let us down them cock suckin’ yankees”, i have got one more precious memento to go to: marx’ grave on highgate cemetery, next to waterlowe’s park up on highgate hill overlooking half of london while the other half never sleeps behind your back. but i cannot get through to the tomb because a group of asian tourists is blocking the way. i get to hold a lot of cameras and learn how to operate the latest digital doo-da from japan. the group leader is a pretty, large brunette – i recognise in her my old acquaintance rebecca ravish who makes me swear in a stranglehold not to snitch about her other occupation.

i am impressed by rebecca’s knowledge of late 18th century history until i learn that her real name is karlotta marx, that she is a great-grand-daughter of the man himself and has a advanced degree in phrenology from the university of ulan-bator in kasachstan. being with me and teddy the night before spoiled her taste for escorting she says and she wants to spend the rest of her life with me. teddy vetoes that – he is afraid to have to play second squeeze – and reminds me that all this is nothing but the figment of a very tired and strained writer’s imagination. so i leave rebecca alias karlotta at her ancestor’s mighty pedestal and return to my real life after cuddling the maiden to sleep.

at home, everything is as it was, and i swear i’ll be back.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt

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