London Cynicism…Part 2

Following on from last week…despite being sat at the water’s edge with our dangled feet playfully splashing the Venice canal I had no idea what he was about to ask me to do.

I wasn’t sporting the white dress at the time, although it would have been entirely appropriate for such a scene.

You, unlike I, have probably guessed what came next; yep, he suggested swimming to the other side of the canal naked. Now before you think of me as a miserable, hardened, Teflon-coated-to-romance Londoner for not embracing such rare romance in order to feed romance-starved friends over drinks in Covent Garden (‘we spontaneously swam naked under the stars in Venice next to Ponte Dei Miracoli’) let me elaborate on the scene.

Yes Ponte Dei Miracoli is the most exquisite church the Venetians have made, true the stars were out, indeed it would be splendid to swim naked with a Hector like smouldering Adonis. Yes I will admit that at one point while we shared a cigarette an actual fucking lily floated past sending ripples and momentarily shattering the near perfect mirror of the bridges and church reflected into the dark chasm of water.

But before you spontaneously combust at the thought of this nauseating waterside perfection it wasn’t as far removed from the Thames as you might believe.  There was a veneer of slightly questionable oil-like substance on the water with suspect log-shaped turds floating haplessly by. Now that felt more like home. Nothing like a floating Thames-shaped turd to make a Londoner feel nostalgic. Not to mention the fact we would have disturbed our neighbouring Venetian tramps with our naked display under the stars.

I hasten to add no naked miracles were enjoyed under that church that night. Although Hector did insist he wash, or should I say ‘bathe’, my feet in the Bidet upon our return from our depressingly platonically ‘romantic’ night.

Now don’t get me started on the feet washing thing. I had to pass my laughter off as inane girly giggles at him gently tickling me. In reality he was washing my dirty mosquito bite ridden canal feet, encrusted with weeks of flip flop matter. When his Adonis like hand grazed caressingly over my bunion I knew it was time to take myself to bed.

And thus ends the admittance of my cynicism during a summer as a bohemian actress playing the part of one English rose in a white dress.  I’m now back in the dirty, cynical capital of England and actively rolling my eyes at romance.