The Contessa is out of the country on business again. And while the Contessa's away, the Male Trailing Spouse will play.
Or not. I have working non-stop, round the clock, on my novel. I've chopped it down to 48,000 words from 65,000 and been studiously editing it in 10,000 word blocks. So many notes and scraps of paper to go through - some dating back to 2009 and 2010. At some point, I should do an Ian Fleming, and complete the damn thing in one 2-3 month block of concentrated effort. Once that's done, go back to page one and re-edit the manuscript. Days. Weeks. Months. It's a grueling process. And lonely. You spend all of your time working and thinking about work. It's enough to drive me back to the land of vodka martinis.
No fear of that. Taking a wee break from the grind is a good thing. I have been doing a recce of the local Atlanta nightlife. There are no casinos full of scantily clad Eurotrash girls and intrigue, no, far from it, the local bars and restaurants are full of smelly bearded men in plaid shirts and women with nose rings and tattoos (Ed Note: stop going on about this). However, I have been reaching out to the indigenous population (I.E. conversing with crazed drunks and crashing bores in the alehouse). I even managed to make friends with a local artist (a good one) who told me, in the great tradition of the American storyteller, a tale about his rather complicated love life - replete with gory details about his nymphomaniac girlfriend, who broadcasts home made sex tapes on the Internet, and has a penchant for sixty-year old sugar daddies who have their own yacht.
Sugar daddies came up in another conversation with a neighbor. She told me that the girls of local Emory University are just wild for "sugar daddies" - older men with a lot of dough. For a red-blooded Emory girl, having "a daddy" is the must-have accessory this season. Rest assured, dear reader, unlike my more wadded peers, I won't be stalking Emory's campus to dog at the girls. But how does this arrangement work? The pretty young material girl gets a life of kept luxury and the sugar daddy gets what he wants - a Viagra fueled bunk up and the envy of his male peers. There's no fool like an old fool. But avaricious young ladies dating some sleazy, past-it codger is nothing new. As for these aging men, what about bagging a hot lady of a more appropriate age? There's loads of single ladies who are desperate and gagging. According to a study that came out last year, there are 80,000 more single women than men in Atlanta. It's a good city for a heterosexual bloke on the pull. The competition? An arch conformist in a plaid shirt who has never done anything of note or merit. Go figure.
I'm too broke to be a sugar daddy. Too jaded. Too sensible. And American girls are world famous for their Princess Psycho TV movie behavior. Good thing that I am married to a level-headed English girl. But what about her, who exactly is she married to? Last week, an identity crisis I have had, for most of my life, was resolved with an official letter from the State Department. It turns out that I am an American Citizen. Dad the Yank had me registered at the Consulate in Liverpool (now sadly gone) when I was born. How am I going to celebrate? By voting for Trump and buying a gun. It's what the locals would do.
Eight, nine, ten days and the Contessa is back in town from her jaunt round Europe. I cleaned up the house just in time and chucked out those two Russian pole dancers that I picked up in the local casino. Though I am elated to see her back, safe and sound from the terror torn continent, she who must be obeyed forgot to get me Benson and Hedges cigarettes in the Duty Free, and I am stuck smoking American cigarettes until one of us makes another jaunt abroad. C'est la vie, c'est la guerre. Maybe I should give up smoking? No. Cigarettes are way too cheap in my new home from home.