Chicken. Death. Banana.

My Dear Fellow,

Tonight was Princess Normal night. She is great. She basically texted me with a plan, organised everything and all I had to do was show up. I love that.

We met up at “Café de La Poste” which, as the name suggests, is a renovated post office on South Clerk Street. It is very cool inside, lovely tiling, art-deco lamps and a very authentic Frenchy vibe. The food was beautiful. Even better, we discovered that we are both “food-sharers”. We love to sample and to offer up our own plates. Essentially this meant I got 2 puddings. Score.

It was the Princess who sent me today’s photo by text earlier in the day. It was accompanied by this:

I am officially old. I stood in front of this jumper and laughed (after muttering something about the rest of it being missing).

She continued on this theme when we talked at the Café. She’d been discussing it with her husband (Prince Normal) who ventured that it was probably to make the most of one’s “underboob”.

“All you’d get with me is underboob,” she laughed. “I’d be like, ‘What’s tickling my knees?’”

However, our deep and intellectual musings were disturbed by a couple of Fringe performers. “Guys, guys,” said some bossy little lady. “I’ll be doing a short monologue in French followed by a piece by my friend in English.” This was not up for debate. This was really happening. CULTURE. Interrupting our chat.

And it went on for AGES. And there were lots of dramatic pauses. Every time I’d try to speak to the Princess, she’d start up AGAIN.

“MAIS! L'amour est mort, dans mes yeux, dans ma bouche, dans mon cœur!”

“She doesn’t sound happy…” I started off to the Princess –

“ET!  Aussi dans mon corps, mon âme, mon être même!” the French lady interrupted.

It was pointless having a conversation. The Princess merely repeated the odd French word she recognised. “Something to do with death,” she muttered.

“Yes, I got that too.”

“I think she said something about a chicken there.”

“I’m pretty sure she mentioned a monkey.”

The barefoot poet continued to prowl the restaurant while a man played Candy Crush Saga on his phone and people drank. Heavily. A woman fidgeted with her handbag. The poet capered about and stared at us. I smiled back. Well, I didn’t want her going off at ME about whatever it was that had upset her. “Maybe she needs chocolate,” suggested the Princess, nudging me knowingly.

Afterward she came around with a bucket for contributions. “Do you speak any French?” she asked. No, we replied.

“Not a word?” she asked. It was like a rebuke. As if we weren't allowed to eat French food if we couldn't quote Voltaire.

“Maybe a word or two,” said the Princess. She tried to think of one. “Banana?” she said. The French lady went away unimpressed.

“There ARE some others,” the Princess said to me after she’d gone. “Chanson d’Amour. Baguette. Haw-haw-hee-haw.” That was it. She had cracked herself up. She was off.

But then the English monologue started. It was another fairly snippy bit of poetry that went something like this.

“I tend my garden and pull out the weeds.
I deserve love. I love myelf.”

Princess Normal raised her eyebrows. “Self-love,” was all she said.

“I am a woman. For years I looked in the mirror and cried.
Now I love my body.
You tried to crush my spirit,
You tried to break me,
But I am a goddess.
I am perfection.
I tend my garden – “

“Lady-garden,” interrupted the Princess.

Now look. Neither the Princess nor I am against women building self-esteem but it was all a bit much. “I’m perfection??” said the Princess. “She’s a bit up herself.” And it went on and ON like this. The Princess’s face was a picture. “I think she might have been able to tell you weren’t enjoying it when you covered your face with your hand,” I told her afterward.

“Really? Did I do that?”
“Actually, it was BOTH hands.”

It was true. At one point I looked over at her and her nose was pushed to one side. One bored eye peered out from behind a lattice of f***ed-off fingers. 

"My emotions always show really clearly on my face," she sighed. "I can't help it. The blokes I work with tell me their favourite thing is to look at me during team meetings and laugh at the look of despair and disbelief."

But you know how things that are sh*t sometimes ENHANCE an evening? It might have been painful while it was going on, but afterward it gave us something to have a good laugh about. And then the Princess took me to see Tape Face. I have to warn you now that he is a mime. Traditionally, I HATE mimes. But as it turns out he is also very funny. I had trouble breathing at certain points. The Princess has excellent taste, I should never doubt her.

Afterwards we sat in the Pleasance Courtyard. It was a lovely evening and I had a great time chatting and laughing with the Princess. She asked me what I would miss most about Edinburgh, and although I didn’t say it I hope she knew it was just this. Just sitting and talking NONSENSE with a best friend on a summer night. It was nearly one in the morning before I knew it and we had to rush off.

Actually, I don’t need to leave Edinburgh, I miss last night already.

Thank you Princess Normal.

Parsones

P.s. The following day I received an email from the Princess which read:

I am going to storm into a restaurant tonight, kick off my shoes and start banging on about intimate gardening.  Should go down well in Martin Wisharts.

Then I am going to shake my buckets.