Here are some lyrics the Killers wrote and then crossed out:
I’ve got Docs, but I’m not a doctor.
I’ve got a neck, but I’m not a necrophiliac.
I’ve got legs, but I’m not a legislator.
I’ve got plums, but I’m not a plumber.
I’ve got mince, but I’m not a minstrel.
I’ve got toes, but I’m not a toaster.
I’ve got soup, but I’m not a supermodel.
Today I heard Donald Trump described as looking like ‘the guy who would play the president in a porno’.
I don’t know who said it, but I like it, and am therefore making a note of it.
Dear friends: if anyone you’re seeing says any of these things while on a date with you, you should: a) put down your drink and collect up your belongings, b) politely make your excuses and leave, c) block the other person on all social networking sites, d) toast your lucky escape with a freshly made mojito, on the beach, with your friends.
I promise it will save you lots of trouble (and possibly money) in the long run. Continue reading
Scene: Logging onto Citibank US website to try and find out how to close a checking account.
Backstory: As a Brit, she likes to spend a little time roaming around the help pages getting frustrated, clicking the back button with her lip quivering like an enraged matador, before calling a customer services centre somewhere in Sunderland and having an icy, venomous exchange with a woman called Holly which ends with her having a delivery sent to the wrong address. At the outset of these sorry trips down gritted-teeth lane (“British customer service”), she sometimes open up the online chat box, just for kicks; but she has never in her life had anyone on the other end come alive and respond to one. Usually they just sit there winking quietly, fueling her impotent rage.
However, today, the Citibank chat box opens of its own accord. ‘Chat to us’. it says, in a mute American accent. ‘Chat to us’. So she does.
[After 2 second wait the screen goes BLEEP]: Agent has arrived.
Agent: Hi, I’m Michael! How can I help you today?
Me: I need help to close my checking account please. No longer living in USA so don’t need it.
[She is typing in shorthand, assuming it was a robot on the other end…How wrong, how foolish.]
Agent: Well, I am certainly very regretful to hear of your decision to leave us.
[Pause for effect]
Me: I know. It’s very sad.
Found it in my kitchen.
It says ‘Made in China’ on the bottom.
It’s quite heavy, made of ceramic.
For some reason I want to keep straws in it. Plastic, or maybe cheese.
This morning I stopped to get coffee and breakfast at my local coffee house- Oslo, in Williamsburg, which makes the best iced Americano I’ve had in New York.
I’ve never been in there before 9am, and was immediately very Britishly overjoyed to discover I had stepped straight into a New York movie set. The pretty red-head behind the counter was wearing a giant straw hat as she served espresso, bantering coquettishly with the dudes in the queue, saying “Yeah, when I was a kid, I just always wanted to be Anne of Green Gables!” I was hoping that while I was waiting, Hugh Grant or maybe Mark Ruffalo would be gazing at the redhead in such a daze that they would spill coffee awkwardly on their trousers (PANTS), and then she would have to mop it up in a cute fashion and they would giggle together …).
Last night I was standing on my doorstep, looking out at the road where I live.
I was watching the sun sink behind the grey towers of Manhattan and running my finger across a blister on my hand.
This twitter feed is special and makes me happy. Something about how laconic it is about the images. Doesn’t say too much. Just is.