The Misfits II

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Yesterday, µ, who is Greek, dragged me to a chic piano recital in the Hellenic Centre of London. I had picked the ideal occasion to look punk (for my standards). I had a dirty hair and was wearing baggy jeans and my torn T-Shirt of the Kinsey Sicks, an American drag queen quartet. (H’s brother is a drag queen called Daisy Buckët and I am éperdument in love with her. On the picture above, Daisy is the one with a finger up her nose. I used to tell H to tell her bro that he’s sitting on my right boob, but I guess he’s not sensitive to that kind of tribute).

Everybody else was super dressed up – borderline Christmas tree in some instances – but we sat down on the first row anyway, to have a better view of the pianist born in 1984. These prodigies younger than me just get on my nerves. I was also concerned that Daisy Buckët on my chest would distract him from his score but we were all safe in the end.

When he sat (late) at the piano, µ told me in a whisper: “He has a very stiff upper body. He would need some body-mind centering.” 

At the interval, I picked the program of the Hellenic Centre and we headed to the ladies bathroom. µ turned around and asked me (about the program): “Did you find anything interesting?” As she was saying that, she intercepted the gaze of a gentleman in his 50’s who was coming out of the male toilets. There was a moment of suspension and the man seemed super confused about the nature of the question. I told him: “Don’t worry Sir, she was talking to me.” He looked visibly relieved and said: “I was trying to think of something to reply!”

We rushed into the bathroom and peed our pants laughing.

After Beethoven and Chopin, we hanged out to eat petits fours and make connections in order to exhibit at the Hellenic Centre. µ talked to a poorly dressed plastic surgeoness who requested a proposal by email. Then an older guy chatted us up about social dance, cha cha, jive, ballroom tango, and was like “Call me, we’ll go dancing at the Rivoli together!” Sure.

We continued the evening at the pub around the corner and ordered 2 peppermint tea leaning on the bar. Colombia was playing against Japan and we were shouting at Colombian players because we wanted to see their victory dance when they score. The bartender asked us: “You are not really Colombian or Japanese, right?” I think he was trying to figure out what a regular dressed girl and an overly dressed girl with fucked up accents were doing in a Marylebone pub shouting at football players with a cup of peppermint tea in their hand.

Yeah. That’s just an average London night for µ & I.

Our life is about throwing people off.

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