Excitement makes you poor April 3, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
…or is bad for you.
So I recommend drug- or alcohol-induced torpor, guaranteeing an eventless but pecunious life.
And it’s bloggers wot’s to blame.
Life is currently a string of excitement-rousing blog-meets. In fact, my Berlin social life is now riddled with bloggers. If I’m not meeting a blogger here, then it’s another blogger there. If it weren’t for the odd poof and the Russian’s post-Soviet connections, I’d hardly know a single person who doesn’t see fit to self-publicise online.
And thank fuck for that. Because I think we’re all fab.
So, on Friday, I met blogger and all-round good egg Daggi and her pal HRH for a concert. Daggi had public-spiritedly noticed that Marko Haavisto was playing in Berlin, and, knowing my love for all things Finnish, gave me the tip. And I public-spiritedly recommended she join me at it. Which she did.
But, darlings, I can’t tell you a single thing about the concert because I was puking from excitement at meeting a new blogger. Mr. Haavisto may be a mega-star in Finland – Taiga, can you confirm? – and may well have written songs that have been deemed suitably mournful to appear in Kaurismäki films and may well have said entertaining things as intros to his songs along the lines of, “This one is about when you look in the mirror and just hate yourself so much…” but that was before Daggi and HRH arrived and I didn’t pay a single, solitary second of attention to the music after that and grilled the newly-met bloggers for the rest of the evening to see if they were from nice families and would make suitable spouses for my children.
And they do. Phew!
But why would that make you poor?
Because, in my excitement, I, at an unrecorded (unfortunately) point in the evening’s proceedings, must have worked myself into such a frenzy that I hurled my passport away. Clean away. And retracing my steps with a magnifying glass, even if I do possess a pair of Sherlock Holmes trousers, and contacting every lost-&-found office in Berlin, and Her Britannic Majesty’s Embassy, and the establishment where Mr. Haavisto crooned, has left the trail cold.
So I am now sans papiers.
Now, casting all caution to the wind, as I had done with my passport not long before, I decided to risk losing everything and go to one of RFM‘s booze-ups yesterday. That was crawling with bloggers. Like flies they were. If it wasn’t this lovely gent here, then it was that lovely gent there. If it wasn’t one lovely lady here, then, stone the crows but there was only another lovely lady there. If it wasn’t one Chinese-speaker here, then fuck me with a big stick but there was another Chinese-speaker there. And there was even a new (to me) blogger for good measure.
I was so excited I lost all my clothes AND my left arm.
Having said my hellos and asked folk how they were, I ranted about the cost of bureaucracy. I drank some Dutch-courage-giving absinthe, stood on the table, and shouted at each and every one of them, “You’re to blame! You and your bloody excitement-rousing. If it weren’t for you lot, I wouldn’t have thrown away my passport in an unrecorded (unfortunately) moment of excitement. And it’s going to cost me 300 euros – yes, 300 euros! – to replace my passport so that Her Britannic Majesty can get me into places without let or hindrance.”
Turns out I was lying. It’s 200 euros. But still. 200 effing euros. For the sake of no let or hindrance! (And, with the new, improved tariffs, should I ever want to invite the Russian to visit our fair Kingdom ever again, he will now pay 300 euros for an entry visa!) Someone is so raking it in.
But that wasn’t all the excitement. Having put my clothes back on – still can’t find my arm, though – and sitting sobbing quietly in a remote corner, I kept an eye on the door just in case there’d be a drop of INTERNATIONAL blog-meeting. Oh yes. International. Because Slammers is in town. Luckily, she couldn’t make it yesterday, though, as otherwise the evening might have cost me an arm and a leg. Boom boom.
Still, we’re meeting this evening. I don’t even want to think of the consequences.