This weekend I moved into my new abode, assumed the role of a scullery maid and spent a lot of time in an attractive man’s armpit.
Having gone through a little bit of hell to find my old flat I was a little disconcerted when I found out, less than a week into my six month contract, that the contract had already been terminated by the owner. But this is to be expected, apparently, so I grinned and bore it. After a short search, my flatmate and I found a new place that overlooks a very useful amenity: a cafe pre-stocked with hot men who wear nice jumpers. (I haven’t actually been there since we moved, because I’ve been busy looking for my pants and passport, but from our balcony there is a direct view in through the cafe’s long, shuttered window – so my plan is just to rig up a telescope and nip in there looking creative and interesting whenever a nice man wanders in.)
The new apartment, if you give a rat’s arse, is awesome. It is on the sixth floor and has a view/balcony scnenario which leaves me weak at the knees. I am sitting looking out over it right now; I can’t see much because it’s 10.40pm but the experience of writing a blog while looking over a city skyline makes me feel like I’m really cool, youthful and contemporary. Those of you who have read more than one of my blogs will know that this is not the case but never mind. Meanwhile my poor housemate is dying of hypothermia because I have had the french windows open since we moved in on Friday night, in spite of the fact that it is still winter here. It’s just that I’ve never had a balcony in my life. It’s just too much! I want someone to photograph me on there in the evening, wearing a long oriental silk dressing gown, smoking an elegant cigarillo and sippling a tumbler of Malbec.
Before signing the contract we made a few tentative furniture demands were pretty astonished when they were all agreed to. The real triumph was that they agreed to supply a washing machine. Let me be clear: NOBODY has a washing machine in this town. And yet our new landlord just smiled and said yes! We left her office and screamed our heads off.
Then we moved in and discovered that someone had dumped an old white water barrel in our kitchen in the place that had been reserved for the washing machine. “Er…” we said to our landlord. “Someone has put a crappy old plastic tub in the washing machine’s space. When will the washing machine be delivered?”
I’m sure you do not need me to tell you that the shit old tub is actually our washing machine. Here is a picture:
If anyone knows how this thing washes clothes, please contact Marie Claire as a matter of urgency. I am totally lost. I’ve therefore spent several hours swilling my own clothes round a basin. There’s no way I’m touching that thing without going on a full training course.
Anyway. Last night I went to a Milonga, which is a place where folks go to dance Tango. I walked in declaring that nothing, under ANY circumstances, could persuade me to try Tango myself. Within ten minutes I was on the dancefloor with my face in the armpit of a very attractive man. I stayed in his (very strong) grip pretty much all night. He wore impeccably tailored trousers and a smart, tight black shirt. He had very neat, muscular physique and he was an outstanding dancer. I must have stabbed his foot with my heel a trillion times but each time it happened he just scowled sexily and then smiled and stroked my back. Ideal!
Those of you who have done it before will know that it if the woman has her face in the man’s armpit then things are not going well. You are meant to be close, but certainly not that close. So yes, by way of confirmation, I was rubbish. But the man – Hernan – who looked EXACTLY like Paul Mercurio in Strictly Ballroom (I hearted him so much as a thirteen year old) – was extremely nice and told me that I was “willing” and “patient” and “sexy.” He gave me his card and ordered me to meet him at midday on Monday for coffee, then lunch, then drinks, then Tango in the evening. I was bewildered. Is this normal?
I’m not sure what I should have done. I thought he was glorious to look at but his armpit smelled really bad and I am not used to being asked on 12-hour Monday dates. It scared me a little bit. So I have just messaged him to say I can’t make it. Did I mess up? Was I being too fussy? Is a whiffy armpit an inevitable side-effect of dancing the Tango?
I’m not sure. I just… oh, look readers, here’s the thing. I don’t think I am cut out for the strong, attractive, smartly-dressed man with honed muscles and funky armpits and masterful tango skills. I think what I really want is a slightly absent-minded chap who smells of nice washing powder and forgets where he left his glasses and has never been to a gym in his life. I’m sorry, but it’s true.
The search continues.