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Her: “Wow Maggie, you used to be chunky”

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I got a call today for the other Maggie Gallant, the one in New York who continues to flaunt her appearances on Animal Planet as the ‘pet trends expert’ but fails to provide any way for people to contact her. Normally I just get emails through my website – the phone call suggest that her latest PR puff outclasses her recent Pupperware. If I wasn’t such an honourable person, I’d exploit the situation. When I say honourable, I really just mean lazy and unimaginative.

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Erik read my last blog entry. He needs to clarify a point. He’s funny. Read on.

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I ran a 23 minute 5k yesterday (3.1 miles). It equates to a 7:30 mile pace.

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Driving back from the comedy club on Monday night, I passed a building called the ‘Kolache Factory’. Kolaches, for those even less knowledgeable than me are sweet pastry rolls filled with savory or sweet stuff. They started out in Czechoslovakia, which used to be a country, and and are pretty popular in Texas. The Kolache Factory of Austin produces millions of Kolaches every day and provides employment for hundreds of former Communist orphans who would otherwise be destitute.*

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Why do I always get out of the way? Ok, I don’t weigh 300 pounds, and that’s a good thing, but does it mean I should step into the gutter just so that a bunch of drunken twittering girls linking arms, oblivious to anyone else, can go past? Or that I should manoeuvre my shopping basket around the idiots that have stopped in the supermarket aisle to have some inane conversation with their pals from the golf course. Yes, I am pretty good at manouvering around people and other obstacles, it comes from living in London. I’d have probably made a great agility dog. But London was always so crowded that it was easy to get revenge if someone pushed you or got in your way. A punch in the back or a kick on the shins is easy on a crowded tube train or when jamming through a group of French exchange students.

That’s not so easy here. Sometimes when I see someone headed towards me that’s making no effort to allow me room to pass, I square up my shoulders and flex my imaginary bicep and it becomes a game of chicken. But I just end up bruised. Whacked in the face by a backpack, or a real bicep. And then I apologise, while mentally pulping their pig-ugly face.

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Did shows at The Velveeta Room last night. Before the start of the show I was bragging to another comic about my trapeze exploits and how brilliant it all was.

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… and sort of do it anyway.

I did my first trapeze class on Saturday. It was terrifying, in a terrifying kind of way.

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I remember when I first heard Erik play the guitar. We were sitting in the living room of his incredibly spacious flat in Belgravia, a few nights after we got together at the AOL staff party. By this point, half my toiletries were already in his oversized bathroom and I was mentally packing up my flat in West Hampstead and getting ready to move in.

He started playing ‘if we never meet again’ by Jules Shear and I sat and watched him and drank wine. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. I know, it sounds a bit kumbayah-ish and maybe it was, but it beat sitting around at my place listening to my neighbour’s TV on at full blast or drinking Ernest & Julio Gallo with my sexually dysfunctional pretend-friend Stella.

That was over 9 years ago. Erik doesn’t pick up the guitar as much as he used to, but he did this afternoon and he played me the same song. He does know lots of other ones, but it was at my request. It was just a wonderful ‘take you back’ moment and it hit me with an overwhelming sense of love. And a bit of a hankering for that old flat.

I’m just off to skin and boil a rabbit.

Not really, but this was becoming a little nauseating. So tonight we’re going out to dinner, it’s a fancy one because we’re celebrating my birthday. Actually we’re celebrating my last two birthday’s, because I was too grumpy to do so on the actual day. I’ve starved myself for the last 3 hours in preparation. I’ll be wearing a dress. And possibly some make-up.