Two major events have occurred since my last update: First, I was offered the opportunity to remain in London, tasting the good life and getting into adventures, for the duration of my boss’s film shoot, and I accepted. Second, my purse was stolen.
About the purse—there was not too much in it, only my wallet, my camera, my calendar, my various notebooks, the tiny voice recorder I use to record standup sets, the novel I’d been reading, and my Blackberry, filled with the names and numbers of celebrities of varying type, quality and renown. It rather lessens the blow, honestly, to imagine Christina Applegate receiving a giggly 3AM phone call from a drunk English hood:
“Tee hee hee. Right. Is that Kelly Bundy then?”
Indeed. The thought of that phone call almost makes the whole purse-thievery seem worth it. Luckily, the one item missing from the bag was my passport, which I found securely tucked away in my hotel room’s ever-depleting mini-bar. Thank god. Imagine the headlines:
“Jewish woman is informed that her daughter must remain in the UK forever and her head explodes.”
The scene of the crime was the Big Chill Bar, a place that was, despite its name, quite a-buzz with drunken white people. I sat on a bench, purse at my feet, engrossed in an intense conversation with my friend Vicki, when some lout ran off with my bag. At least, that’s what I imagined happened when, some time later, I gallantly offered to buy the next round of cider and discovered that my bag had gone missing. It is extraordinary, considering the size and weight of the bag, that the thief was able to make off with it undetected. As soon as I noticed it was gone, I canvassed the bar and the street outside for witnesses:
“Pardon.”--They don’t understand “excuse me” here.
“Pardon. Did you see someone hobbling down the street, groaning under the weight of a 40-pound, bright orange, faux leather, ladies’ purse?”
Amazingly, nobody saw him. It wasn’t until later, back at the hotel, as I comforted myself with a Hillary Duff movie and a $16.00 Toblerone that I realized my blunder.
“Kilo! I should have said, 18.143-Kilo, bright orange, faux leather, ladies’ purse. Then they would have understood! They would have helped me! Damn you, Metric System!!!”
(Please imagine me shaking a half-eaten Toblerone at the ceiling of my coral-plaid hotel room, cheesy pop soundtrack playing in the background.)
Incidentally, the thief left Vicki’s average-sized, barely-filled, English purse untouched. Twenty-four hours later, however, someone smashed the window of her flat and stole her brand new television. Which just goes to show…something, I’m sure.
Petty crime is so 80’s, don’t you think? What’ll they get into next? Graffiti? Angel Dust? England is so cute!
And she moves onto her second pot of tea. And her pen begins to shake.
It was maybe the day after the bag got nicked that my boss offered to keep me at Claridge’s until Thanksgiving (and fly Greg over as well).
After weighing the negatives and positives…:
Negative: I’ll miss my boyfriend and my friends.
Positive: Free room service.
Negative: I’ll miss October in NYC.
Positive: I’ll arrive at my 10th high school reunion with jet lag and a vaguely British accent.
…I decided to stay. Which means many more updates to come, so stay tuned.