13) The Eurostar
September 9, 2006
Certain things are not sexy: Argos, offal, low cost air travel, egg yolk stains, the smell of pee in multi storey car park stairwells, enemas and let’s not forget Hull.
Certain things on the other hand are sexy. Sun bathing topless on a hot breezy day, silent men with bare, oiled torsos who arrive to massage you and tidy your flat, Marks and Spencer Simply Food desserts, sandwiches and “gourmet” microwave meals, afternoon bathing with a gin and tonic, steamy novel and extravagant smellies, Kiefer Sutherland as Jack Bauer and the fact that you can travel from south London to the South of France in six hours.
Six hours from Waterloo, famed for a very confusing train station, Dickensian squalor, chilly drizzle and a dodgy ABBA track to Avignon, renowned for Cote de Rhone wine, Roman ruins, sultry heat and a twee little French Nursery Rhyme.
Two words….”yes, please.”
Or “Ola, danke” or whatever the French is.
High Powered Political Friend books the tickets.
We are four women in our prime. We will travel for six hours. There are 17 carriages of men who cannot escape for at least six hours. We share the book “What Makes A Woman Sexy” for guidance.
Our aim;
a) To meet a handsome man who owns a Vineyard and wants to lavishly wine, dine and seduce us
b) To meet a man who wants to take us to a vineyard and buy us a bottle of wine.
c) To meet a man
d) To meet a bottle of wine
We intend to shamelessly deploy any techniques that might make us sexy in order to complete our objective.
The book claims that men like natural looking women. This is obviously rubbish. Everyone knows that more is more, i.e., more eye make-up, more breast, more heel. “If in doubt more” is, was and always will be the motto. However, for the purpose of the exercise and against my will; I dress down.
Baggy combats, dirty old T-shirt and chimney sweep cap. The look is “Stumpy the Road Protester meets one of the Dingles at a soon to be demolished launderette.” It is so comfy within 5 minutes I have dozed off and spilt tea down myself.
The book claims that our natural scent is sexy. In the olden days people put hankies and apples under their pits. Then they danced around a bit. When the article was sufficiently sweaty they gave it to someone they liked the look of. Ovid, the master of ancient seduction, suggested a goat under the arm in The Art of Love. Goats are hard to come by in North London. I could probably do a goat curry, but that’s not suggested in any books on seduction that I have read.
The book says we have to be confident. We say “ but we are confident”. We agree we will be louder.
The book says we need to think about sex all the time. We say “but we do!” We buy Cosmopolitan and Heat just in case.
High Powered Political Friend leads us to our moving modern love chariot. She gives a flamboyant gesture to indicate the buffet car. She accidently drops her ticket. We all watch as her Eurorail love token flutters under the train.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my god!” she hyperventilates demonstrating her calm response in a crisis.
“What do we do?” we cry to a slender lady in a navy Eurostar uniform. Slender lady shrugs.
“Hmm. Slim and stroppy. Bet she’s French” We are murmering, when we are distracted by a man in a navy uniform running towards us brandishing a long pronged metal device. Like a heroic gladiator he appears, gets down on his knees, wrestles with the train until finally producing the flighty ticket. Oh how we love to see uniformed men on their knees. We giggle. High Powered Political Friend, nearly in tears of gratitude, asks his name.
“Gerard” he growls in Golloise gravel.
“Gerard” we all squeak. Then simultaneously remembering the book “Gerard” we all shout. We all look a bit shocked, our combined mega watt output is enormous.
Once onboard, we take it in turns to walk the train and pinpoint the handsome vineyard owners. The book says sexy women take small steps and they wiggle as though their feet are bound and they are wearing a tight skirt. I don’t tell them but the others look like pissed penguins as they attempt this on a fast moving train. I wait for their return while Satan The Small Child In The Seat Behind plays this brilliant game where he pulls his little table down and then slams it back up again and again. I wait for seven minutes. Then I lean over the top of my seat. I fix my eyes on Satan. I smile. It is a long suffering smile useful for Chekhov auditions and say,
“Oh would you mind not doing that with your table. I’m so sorry to ask but I get travel sick and I really think I might vomit everywhere.”
The little demon just stares at me. Then Satan’s mother appears, baby on hip, screaming, she whacks the little devil. Satan The Small Child In The Seat Behind waits approximately half a second before wailing for the rest of the journey. I am aware that my future husband probably won’t be amongst the people of this carriage as they would all like to see me suffer for eternity.
The girls return. They have all chosen the same man. I set off with the knowledge that I will pick someone different. It has long been acknowledged that I tend to prefer the more aesthetically challenged man. My Beautiful Sister has for years maintained that I should stop picking “The Ugly and Grateful Variety.”
Old habits are hard to break.
I wiggle through the train. Every man has a wife, and children. I get hurled into a man reading a French newspaper. I put my arm the back of his seat to stop myself landing in his lap. I get a pungent whiff of BO. “Smelly French Man” I think as I wander off. The smell of the Smelly French Man doesn’t leave me.
“Oh God!” I think as I subtly sniff my own armpit. “I honk like a dog.”
I look up and there he is. My future husband! It is unfortunate that the first time he sees me I’m smelling my own armpit but I’m sure we’ll laugh about it at the wedding. He smiles. I blush. The book says blushing is good. He’s lovely, slightly chubby with a lopsided look about him. Perfect for me. I remember his seat number.
I head to the buffet car. Gerard the French Gladiator is behind the counter.
“Ah. Ah. Gerard!” I say loudly in a French accent.
“Ze cheese and ham toasties are popular.” he volunteers. “Where are you going?”
“Oh Gerard” I think “you fill your uniform in all the right places, but I’m on a train which travels non stop to Avignon.”
“The Isle of Mull!” I shout. I think meeting Chubby Lopsided Future Husband has made me giddy.
Gerard the French Gladiator looks at me blankly. I buy my pain au chocolat and run away before he can practise anymore of his English on me.
I pop to the loo. I nestle the pain au chocolat in my armpit.
“What has my life come to?” I think brushing flaky pastry off my combats.
I wiggle back to Chubby Lopsided Future Husband. He’s asleep. “I love sleeping, we’re made for each other!” I think excitedly. “Hmm, I’ll head back to my seat have a little nap and come back later.”
Back in my carriage Satan is taking his clothes off in the middle of the aisle. Satan’s father is standing above him with a mobile phone saying
“I’m going to telephone the driver if you don’t put your clothes on and get back in your seat.... 1...2...3. Hello?hello? Is that the driver of the Eurostar? I’ve got a very naughty boy here. Oh, will you stop the train? Yes! You’ll stop the train so he can’t go on holiday.”
I clamber over Satan,his clothes and his family to get to my seat.
High Powered Political Friend is breathing very deeply.
“They’re not being entertained or stimulated. They should have brought crayons or story books. I’m getting angry now…shall we have a glass of wine?
“It’s not even midday.”
“We’re in France now. Yes it is.”
“Knew I’d love France.” I smile.
I drink my Rose and doze. I dream of Chubby Lopsided Future Husband and I taking our children on the train where I read them stories of Chekhov and Gladiators and sex. “Hmm, no, not sex” I think, waking up with a start.
I open my eyes and there is Satan sitting at my feet. He is wearing only a pair of orange pants. He is eating a Pain au Chocolat.
I feel for my own dank, smelly, squashed underarm Pain au Chocolat. It’s gone. I turn to High Powered Political Friend in a panic. She is smiling serenely.
“It fell out earlier and I just tapped it with my foot in his direction. Llisten. Peace, now he’s eating.”
I look at Satan.
He smiles at me.
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25) Guardian Soulmates Online