Saturday afternoon, after we'd had a picnic of Camembert, red wine, and ciabatta. I was outside, taking the sheets down from the line on a warmish afternoon, hair in a messy rats' nest, glasses on, and wearing my standard boxers and Old Navy T-shirt. Summer has more or less bailed on us here in England, but it was a nice taste of a warm afternoon. A window opened from upstairs, and Mr. Y's head popped out.

"Have you seen Les Miserables?" he called down.

"Twice." I reply, clothespin in my mouth. I spit it out. "And read the book. Why?"

His head bobs back inside.

Curious, I finish the job and head inside to see what's up. I take the fresh clean laundry upstairs, deposit it on the bed, and walk into the study, where Mr. Y is busy on the computer. He turns to face me, big grin on.

"I wanted to do something nice for my girlie," he said, and I peer over his shoulder. He is looking at London shows, and trying to book one up.

"But you hate theatre!" I reply, marvelling.

He sighs dramatically. "This is what relationships are about. Compromise."

Before you know it, we've booked up a show (that I would never in a million years have guessed he would've agreed to see) on LastMinute.com, which often has a great supply of last minute tickets, I've taken a bath and have undergone a radical transformation worthy of Queer Eye-dressed to the nines in a little black dress with cleavage open and on display, and wearing tiny sparkly pink strappy high heels.

Mr. Y points to them. "Those are going to hurt your feet."

I do a girlie pirouette, pointing my toes. "No they won't. And aren't they fabbbbbulouuuuus?" I gush.

I feel so cute, and on the arm of my favorite guy also dressed up an lovely in a YSL maroon colored shirt (which he gets annoyed at since he hates insignias showing on shirts) we take the train into London for a meal and a show.

I have been to shows in London before, and the thing about them are, they are invariably in tiny-but-packed theatres laden with actors that you see in films. For some reason, American stars feel the need to flex their acting muscle in the small theatres here, so recently we've had Molly Ringwald, David Hasslhoff, Apple-loving Gwennie, and Calista Flockheart, to name a few. No wonder the English think there's an American invasion on England. There really is one.

I have also seen shows in Dallas, Stockholm, and New York, and the greatest difference is, in New York, some of the theatres are enormous. I think there are some people still wandering around in them, having gotten lost looking for the bathroom during an intermission. They may still be clutching a copy of the program for Cats in their nervous little hands, wishing they'd brought a pen with them so they could make the walls that they pass.

Once in London, we pick up the tickets and go for some dinner. Dressed up in lovely clothes, my Issey Miyake perfume wafting through my nose and my sparkly cute girl shoes killing my feet (but I am not going to tell him that), we go to the kind of place we both love. The kind of place that caters to my vegetarian needs, and proffers a gentle inspired atmosphere that takes in the ambience that a diner desires.

We went to a tiny hole-in-the-wall, crunchy-goodness-I-miss-the-60's type of restaurant in a basement, called Food For Thought, where both our meals together cost £6 (that's about 11 USD) and the place only serves organic whole foods type nosh. The place is packed and popular, with more hemp present than in Jamaica, and we sit at communal tables with people in batik tie-dye and dredlocks, making romantic eyes at each other and playing footsie under a scarred wooden table, where the water is free and the food without any additives whatsoever. To the right of us is a table on the floor with pillows strewn around it, which we just missed getting as it got occupied by a man in Teevos and his woman in overalls.

I loved it.

After we downed the good stuff with the wholesome properties, we go do what any other couple would do-we ruin it by heading into a bar for some martinis. That's right-we sat in a lovely bar across from the theatre and I downed cassini martinis, made of all kinds of liquor and syrupy girlie type stuff, while Mr. Y quaffed white wine. I felt a bit like Sara Jessica Parker, if she were about 6 inches taller and perhaps 40 pounds heavier and wasn't complaining about the pink strappy shoes with her toes made of iron. We giggled and laughed and I surreptitiously put some band-aids on my throbbing toes under the table. Then we went into the theatre, where we had another glass of white wine before heading to the theatre.

The theatre, the Cambridge Theatre, is a small theatre with perhaps enough seats for 200 people. The seats are plush red velvet that have seen better days, with gold railing lining the balconies. After walking up the large stairs and we took our seats.

When the show started, the music swelled. The cast, stunning in their ensemble, filled the room with their voices, streaming over the completely sold-out audience. I felt the sopranoes hit notes on my spinal cord, tumbling into the rafters. Mr. Y sat, dubious, watching the stage, and we heard the magical words fill our ears:

"She's a chick with a dick! A chick with a dick! A chick with a diiiiiiiiiiick!"

That's right.

We bought tickets for Jerry Springer, the Opera.

And it was hilarious. And I wasn't the only American chick watching an American comedy of a show taking the piss out of an American tv series in London, I heard lots of us. The best part is, Mr. Y seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself, as I heard him chuckle quite often.

Jerry Springer was played by David Soul, of Starsky and Hutch (was he Starsky? Or Hutch? I never know. Don't really care, either). The first act was about him interviewing people on his show, and the second act was about him in hell, trying to come to terms with the consequences of his show. I have never, ever seen an operetta like that in my life. First, the singing was fantastic. Secondly, I have never been dressed up like that and hear things such as how midgets give great blow jobs, how a grown-man wants to wear a diaper and have his mother change it, or heard Jesus tell Satan to "talk to the hand". And that's not even including the scene where they make fun of the KKK, whom are tap-dancing their way through a scene.

At intermission, another glass of wine waiting for me with Mr. Y, I use the toilet. To my surprise, the toilet paper has musical bars on it, with the words: "This is your Jerry Springer moment." written on them, which is one of the big songs in the show.

I tell Mr. Y about it over a cup of sauvignon, served in a paper cup. He snorts. "It should've said 'This is your Jerry Springer movement'."

What a clever boy.

The show ends, and we both are pleased to note we spent a lot of it laughing our tails off. I hadn't expected to like the show, but I really honestly did. It was a parody of a parody, a piss-taking out of the show that made "trailer trash" a household term. It was unexpectedly funny, and it charmed me to know that Mr. Y would brave a night in London by booking a show like that for me.

We head home, and at Waterloo we decide to buy some goodies at Marks and Spencer to eat on the train home. We pick up some foodie bits and some wine, and wait in the queue. A very tall man with his shirt untucked and the amazing swerving and swaying ability that only the drunk can manage, is behind us, bottle of wine in hand and impatience on his face. We wait for ten minutes, and finally reach the checkout at 2 minutes to 11.

The clerk refuses us the wine, as they can't sell alcohol at 11.

Indignant, we point to our watches-there's 2 minutes to go and anyway we'd been in line for ten minutes!

He refuses.

We demand he calls management.

Management in the form of a small round man comes out and refuses, as well, even though we point out we've been waiting forever and we still have one minute to go. He refuses, and doesn't even bother with an apology. Drunken man behind us goes ballistic, but I decide to stay calm.

I look him in the eye and coolly say in my best schoolmarm voice, "Aren't you ashamed of yourself? That this is the customer service that you offer? Isn't that a tragedy?" He shrugs, in an I-don't-give-a-shit kind of way. "I think I shall never shop here again, I am so disappointed in the lack of customer service here." I reply, pursed lips.

He shrugs again in a "pick up the pieces of your shattered life and move on" kind of way, and we walk out.

We walk around and clip to the train, and I am giddy and giggly. I am the chick that would never send a dish back to the kitchen if I was unhappy. I am the chick that will generally not say anything to people when they cut in line, I just experience a rise in blood pressure. I am the chick that will be at the airport 2 hours ahead if the airlines instruct so, since I don't want to cause waves. And in one week I not only went toe to toe with someone from Teledick, I told a manager of a shop how disappointed I was in the service.

Maybe Jerry Springer is rubbing off.

Feet hurting, head happy, and mood high, I sit on the train next to Mr. Y and fall asleep on his shoulder, filled with organic food, dizzy bubbles, and the lyrics "this is....your Jerry Springer moment.....".

-H.

PS - Congrats to my lovely, lovely Simon and his new baby. How wonderful

PPS- Am off today to deal with Von PettyPumpkin. Wish me luck

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