Alright there friends!
I think it may have been a while since my last blog. Forgive me. I was staying in a hippy town and got lost in batik skirts and home-made jam for a while. I don’t know what came over me. There are pictures of me wearing knitted hippy headbands (featured) and there were even reports of me sitting on a wooden log in a forest, meditating. I’m so sorry.
Please be reassured that normal service is being resumed. I am writing this from Nuequen Bus Station where I find myself nine hours into a twenty five hour bus journey to… Buenos Aires! The last bloody place on earth you’ll catch me in a skirt with bells on it!
Why? Well firstly I am slowly but surely travelling north along the Andes and the further north I go the more uncomfortable I am finding my current wardrobe of thermal underwear, wooly Peruvian hats, sturdy hiking shoes and arctic socks. I have a suitcase of clothes for warmer climes in Buenos Aires and I’m not afraid to use it. But, while it will be exciting to be reunited with luxury items like skirts (SKIRTS! SKIRTS!) and jeans that haven’t taken on the shape of 1940s riding breeches like my current ones, I do need to manage my expectations a little. Because what I really want will not be in the suitcase.
I really want underwear that is not grey, holey and rabidly functional. I really want nice white vest tops that do not look like recycled dishcloths. I really want fashion. And ironed clothes. That smell of Ariel purple liquid. Plimsols that are not brown and do not have toe ventilation flaps. A matching pair of earrings. A pendant that has not gone pink like all cheap faux-gold jewellery.
The second reason for my brief sojourn to the capital is that I am (shhhh) about to turn 31. Who knew! When I think of this time last year… blimey. Another world. It’s odd to think of that slightly insane girl being, well, insane about who would turn up to her thirtieth birthday party. She seems so far away. Quite young and silly. Not that I consider myself to be old and mature, suddenly, just a bit different. Hopefully a bit better.
So on Friday night I shall be throwing an asado (Arge BBQ) and then going raving in BA with my bestest BA buddies. I think we will go and dance to Kylie in gay club Amerika. That’s how effing cool I am.
Anyway. As I head back towards the capital on an overnight bus I’m of course thinking about The Man – who came to feature quite heavily in my time there – and I’ve decided that you were due an update. I had presumed that you’ve lost interest in my love life now that I’ve done the unforgivable and Met Someone but last week I had five private messages on Twitter – from complete strangers – asking what the hell was going on with me and him. I was very amused and also flattered to think that anyone would give a rat’s arse. So for what it’s worth…
1. The headline of course is that nothing is going on; he is in London, I have been running around in a poncho doing interpretative dance among the trees in a little commune near El Bolson.
2. But the romance has rumbled on. We speak whenever we can. We email. We text. We skype mush. I don’t know how better to put it than that. We just sort of mush.
3. We are going to travel together as of July. Don’t – it brings me out in a panicky rash every time I think about it -but in spite of my fear it does feel like the right thing.
4. Oh to hell with it, I love him.
Oh god. Gross! Barf! Vom-o-rama! Lucy Robinson in love! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?
I’m sorry guys. I’ve let you down. But I blame it on him. He just barged into my life – literally, I found him on my doorstep – and then after what I presumed was just a brief five-day fling he proceeded to romance me from the world’s most inhospitable place. He called from a satellite phone in temperatures of -40 and sent me a penguin lens-cleaning cloth and a love letter. He came back to Buenos Aires, turning down jobs left right and centre; he cooked for me, tangoed with me, rubbed my stomach when I had trapped wind, taught me about stars, shaved his beard at 4am because I forbade him from coming anywhere near me with his spiky face, fixed my (disgusting, medieval) toilet, went through my suitcase of grubby pants and smelly socks when I was in Brazil without a phone charger, helped me move out of my flat and into a rucksack and then once I buggered off travelling and he went home he commenced sending me daily photos from his life in London, plus lovely, witty, kind, sweet, awesome and (sometimes slightly naughty) emails.
He’s amazing. I don’t deserve him.
That’s the update.
*Robinson shuffles off shame-facedly while her readers boo, hiss and pelt her with rotten tomatoes. What kind of a dating blogger is she? It’s the pits. Someone should complain.*