The Dash and The Rash

It's that time of the week where I tell you all about what a fab weekend I hadn't, isn't it? Also known as "Tuesday". Never let it be said that, as a high-functioning Asperger's Syndrome gay male, I don't like to form a habit and then go strangely quiet and sit in my room staring at the wall when that habit is broken somehow. That would just be weird.

(starts to frown)

So, my weekend then.

(smile reappears)

Well, we didn't get to see my Mum. We also didn't get to see Gary Numan in concert, or go to XXL on Saturday night, all of which were planned. We did however get to see my repeated dashes to the toilet for the duration of Saturday afternoon and much of the evening. Yes, Dear Readers, I had a stomach upset. And very upset it was too. I couldn't console it no matter how hard I tried.

I woke up Sunday morning to find everything had, well, dried up, which was a result. So The Boyf and I went to get this year's Christmas Tree and spent the afternoon decorating it, accompanied with a Doris Day Christmas CD and copious glasses of sherry. We like to let our hair down. In a gay way.

Now The Boyf tends to go a bit quiet and stare at a wall if his plans go wrong. That would be Asperger's Syndrome again then. So, because he'd not been out on Saturday by Sunday evening he was starting to go stir-crazy, hence we headed out to the RVT to meet some friends, including The Drag Queen (who's part of the furniture in that establishment). We had a dance and a beer, and then moved to BarCode to finish the night off. Unfortunately I kept getting in the way of the mirrors in the bar, which stopped a short well-built guy constantly checking himself out. (For the record anyone under my height, 5ft 8, is classed as short). Such was his annoyance that he actually came over and pushed a gap between The Boyf and I, looked himself up and down in the mirror, did a "Hmmm, you look good" face (a kind of pout accompanied with a nodding head), gave me the evils, and wandered back to where his friends were standing, hoping of course that the gap would remain for him keep checking himself out. So we left the gap just long enough until, mid-conversation with his friends, he actually turned slightly to check out his bum, at which point The Boyf and I quickly moved back together, eliciting a scowl from the pint-sized narcissist. How we laughed. Ah, good times!

At 2am I finally managed to drag The Boyf and The Drag Queen out of the bar and home (The DQ was sleeping on our couch), where The Drag Queen started demanding that we cook her something to eat. Oh, and examine a rash that she'd gained on her bum, which she then decided was a stab wound. Not that she revels in the drama or anything. Nothing like a rash and a bacon sandwich at 3am on a Monday morning knowing that you've got to be up for work at 7. The festive silly season begins!