Wedding season continues, minus a wedding. We went to Marseille for what should have been our bestest friend’s big day, now postponed. (His fiancé is still married - the divorce got interrupted when his ex’s lawyer went missing. It turns out the lawyer was involved in some legal problems of her own, and skipped town for a while. Marseille!) They did have something to celebrate: fiancé’s been offered a job on Morocco, so they’re moving in September. Same-sex marriage isn’t recognized there, so the wedding will still be in France. I hope it will be soon, romantically because true love and hearts uniting, and selfishly because I bought a new dress just for the occasion and I really want to wear it.
Just as every fall I reread It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfucker, summer means it’s time to revisit the Guardian liveblog of the longest match of Wimbledon, the story of one blogger losing grip on reality.
6.25pm: The scoreboard is barely visible through the grass and weeds and trails of Spanish moss. It shows that John Isner and Nicolas Mahut are locked at 37 games each in the final set.
I’m wondering if maybe an angel will come and set them free. Is this too much to ask? Just one slender angel, with white wings and a wise smile, to tell them that’s it’s all right, they have suffered enough and that they are now being recalled. The angel could hug them and kiss their brows and invite them to lay their rackets gently on the grass. And then they could all ascend to heaven together. John Isner, Nicolas Mahut and the kind angel that saved them.
7.45pm: What happens if we steal their rackets? If we steal their rackets, the zombies can no longer hit their aces and thump their backhands and keep us all prisoner on Court 18. I’m shocked that this is only occurring to me now. Will nobody run onto the court and steal their rackets? Are they all too scared of the zombies’ clutching claws and gore-stained teeth? Steal their rackets and we can all go home. Who’s with me? Steal their rackets and then run for the tube.
It’s 48-48. What further incentive do you need?
8.45pm: A tweet, a tweet from Mr Andy Murray. “This,” he says, “is why tennis is one of the toughest sports in the world.” Thanks for that Andy: wise words indeed. Actually we were hoping you were tweeting to say when the angel was coming to rescue us all. Instead we get that. You sit comfortably, and eat your nice dinner, and spare us the tweets. Unless they’re about the angel, that is. We still have hopes for the angel.
I fell down the stairs. Rushing out of the apartment to go to a baby shower, I slipped and my feet went out from under me. My arms took the brunt of it, so now I’ve got this scrape and my elbows are pretty sore. Paul heard the crash and came and picked me up and got me ice and ibuprofen, and complimented me by pointing out that as bashed up as I was, the bottles of champagne and orange juice I’d been carrying were intact. So I fell down the stairs, but I’m okay. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, I suppose.
Fête de la musique was good. Saw so many bands, drank so many beers. I called it a night around one am, but Paul stayed out until dawn. When I got up Sunday morning, I found him passed out on the couch, numbers and letters written all over his arms in Sharpie. I asked him about it and he shrugged and said ‘Instagram’, then fell back asleep.
It’s Fête de la Musique, how we celebrate the longest day of the year in France. Concerts (of variable quality, sure) everywhere, all day, all night. Noise regulations are not in effect, and cops pretty much turn a blind eye to selling and serving alcohol in the street. At our old apartment, we hosted a block party - these are picures from 2008, 2009, and 2010. We’ve since moved, and now we live above a bar, which is a pretty cool arrangement 364 days out of the year. But it means we can’t serve free punch out of a plastic garbage can, and I can’t dance (or flail around, whatever you want to call it) to this song, and we won’t do a balloon drop. We will walk around town, and check out lots of live music that we missed in the past. There are at least three groups playing on our street right now. Happy longest day of the year, everybody.
I applied for a job and survived a meeting I’d been stressed about for days and Paul surprised me with tinto de verano and France is up 3-0 and it’s warm enough that I’m a little sweaty and it’s Friday.