{dream a little bigger}

This is the Dog & Bone of one Mr. Eames.

I'm quite clearly unavailable at the present time, for reasons either fair or foul, but most likely a bit of both.
Please do leave your name slash pseudonym and your message after the beep, and i'll endeavour to get back to you at the earliest convenient opportunity.

Cheers.

Dear Diary.

Just got back from Rome...

Please mark this down for years to come as The Day That Will Live In Infamy.

Also known as the Day I Learnt How To Hate Someone I Love.

Fuck you, Arthur. Fuck you so fucking much.

Fuck.

Dear DiaryChronicle of the Fabled Lovelife of one Mr. D. W. Eames,

We just got back last night from a 'Business' meeting in Edinburgh. I say 'we' and I of coure mean myself and Arthur.
I've not written for a few weeks. I've not had the chance. I've been incredibly busy fucking Arthur, and just as busy being fucked by Arthur. And kissed. And licked. And bit. And blew. And all sorts of bloody wonderful things.

I'm not even going to pretend to know what this is, if we're together. In my head we are, and I suppose it's fine to be completely delluded. It wouldn't be the first time i'd let myself believe something patently vague and possibly untrue.

But it feels like we're together. He's been staying with me for two weeks now. Since he returned from New York. 'Returned' in this instance meaning 'Came Back From The States After Having Left Paris Where We Had Sex Three Times'.

We're together, aren't we Diary? I'm not just being a hopeless romantic, and i'm not just letting my feelings run away with me.

We fuck each other until we can't walk. We read the morning paper together. I cook, he does the washing up, and we share the drying. Last week I persuaded him to go on one of those little boats with me on The Serpentine in Hyde Park. This morning I baked oatmeal cookies for him. We go to bookshops, and Museums, and Galleries, and to the Theatre.

Sometimes we talk about jobs. The ones we've done together, and plan ones we might do in the future.

Mostly we talk about everything else.

Now I know how those ridiculous teenage girls in Every American Blockbuster Ever feel.
I KNOW HOW COMPLETELY OFF MY BLOODY ROCKER I SOUND. I HAVE LISTENED TO MYSELF LATELY.
But... I don't care.
I'm happy. And extremely well-shagged.

And in other related news... I bought a remodelled old-style Polaroid camera last week when we went shopping in Portobello Road Market. Having taken it with us up to Scotland for the weekend - for no particular reason I wished to share with Arthur at risk of sounding like a 14 year old girl - i'm going to leave these two photos slipped between your pages, Diary, for safe-keeping.
For the world's best (and sexiest) Pointman, he's not very observant if he didn't notice me taking photos of him in our hotel room. Either that, or he was completely aware and chose to allowignore me.

( {Two Polaroids; Mr. Arthur; October 21st, 2010; CANDID; Hotel Room, Edinburgh...}Collapse )

Patisserie Valerie is a lovely place to sit and think.

And where a fellow can stuff his face full of whipped cream, strawberries and french cake, whilst mulling over the utter bloody fucking mess that is his lovelife.

Dearest Planner,

If it wasn't for the fact that my entire life is filled with a mass of illegal activities, and that I don't really desire to become a Wanted Man in my own country and therefore have to leave my perfectly lovely apartment for the rest of time... i'd go to see a Shrink.

I quite possibly need to.

Right now its just gone 4am, and Robert is passed out in my bed. He really did drink far too much tonight, Cory needs to take better care of him when they go out together on the Pull.

I don't have the slightest bloody clue what i'm doing with Robert Fischer, what i'm trying to achieve, what the hell is going on between us.

I'm fond of him, granted, and very attracted to him  - obviously - and things are beyond comfortable between us. That might, however, be it.
Everything is so easy between us (TOO EASY?), so 'domestic' (when we're both sober), and yet there's none of that 'spark' bullshit all those RomComs talk about. Not on my end, at least. Is that shit even real? Do people even feel 'sparks' as though they've licked their finger and stuck it into an electrical socket? Is this all some unrealistic expectation forced upon me by romantic fiction? Have I been Incepted by film and television?!

Rationally I know that i'm very much obsessed and hung up on Arthur, that bloody wonderful dick, and that everything I do is just muddling through and easing some odd sense of loneliness because he's the most sexless emotionless automaton on Planet Earth.

I'm definitely getting old. I should really stop writing these introspective 4am Journal entries.

Ok. To Do:

• Do Laundry in the morning. WASH THE FILTHY SEX SHEETS.
• Mop the kitchen floor properly before Ants invade. Disinfect. (Remember to thank Cory properly for spilling an entire bottle of chocolate milk everywhere.)
• Pop down to Marks & Sparks for some Oranges and a block of Somerset Brie. (Also, CHOCOLATE *****)
• Iron black suit for tomorrow night's Dinner With Lilah & Her Murdering Boyfriend.
• Complete Local Council Tax and Water Rates form and pop it in the post.
• Nip in to Boots/Superdrug whilst out. Ran out of Lube.
• Call Arthur.

I wish my last two chores were in any way related...

Deleting whatthefuckamidoing.docx. Ugh.

Hello, Word Document.

It's 5am in Kyoto, and i'm bored, and maybe slightly drunk, I just don't know. Jury's out.

But anyway. I don't know what i'm doing.

Fischer texted me earlier. Hmmm.... Robert. I actually agreed to go see him in LA when i'm done here. He invited me to stay with him at his flat. This is possibly a really bad-good idea, and i'm very much looking forward to it.

He saw my projection of Arthur, and he knows about my... problem.

LOOK. IT'S NOT A PROBLEM, OK. IT'S JUST A THING. A THING I'VE HAD WRONG WITH ME FOR A LONG TIME. I deal with it.

And I don't need to write in a bloody Word Document on my laptop "AM SORTOF IN LOVE WITH ARTHUR" because you're a bloody piece of technology, not a shrink, and it's more complicated than all that.
I don't even know what the whole 'Being In Love' notion even means. Whatever.
I like everything about him, even when he's a dick. I'm completely obsessed with him and helping him and just... working with him.
I admire him a lot. A LOT.
And sometimes I feel like my whole world fucking hinges on him and I feel completely ridiculous.

I AM REALLY FUCKING RIDICULOUS. AND I SHOULDN'T DRINK SO MUCH. IT MAKES ME INTO A STUPID ARSEHOLE WHO TYPES UP HIS 'FEELINGS' AT 5AM.

And then there's Robert.

Who isn't actually about to kill us all or have us arrested.

And he's sweet, and funny, and sexy as hell, and has a really great arse. And I shagged him in New York. And I definitely will again in LA. And... whenever else he wants me to, I get the feeling.
It's easy with him, everything feels easy. It was actually bloody weird how relaxed and stressfree and fun it was between us.
Sometimes I think about just how fucked up that makes me... fucking a former Mark. Somehow befriending him. Whilst in love with a complete dick who might respect me but probably quite hates me.

If my dear old Mum was alive right now, she'd tell me to sort myself the hell out.

Might raid the minibar again. I hate 5am.

Dear Diary/Planner/Whatever you are,

Bloody Hell.

It never rains but it pours?

For weeks there was nothing to do, I was twiddling my thumbs and passing the time on complete nothingness. And now I feel like one of those bloody suited & booted types down Canary Wharf, needing a Blackberry and a Personal Assistant.

• Arthur has been and gone. (DO NOT WANT TO WRITE ABOUT THAT.) Too... something. Maybe if I end up watching a sad romcom and stuffing my face with Icecream and Doritos i'll want to splurge my feelings down on paper like some gigantic foolish Pinata.
• Tomorrow it's off to Cardiff with sweet little Miss Murphy. I find myself hoping strangely that she does well. It'd be such a shame to cut her loose. She can be so gratuitously entertaining.
• And then upon my return to London, direct to New York for that meeting with Fischer. God almighty. Fischer. I have no idea what to do about that... but Arthur can't come. I've decided. What if it's a trap? I could do without Arthur in the line of fire. He'd only get bitchy about it, afterall. Besides, Fischer did say to come alone. So i'll go alone.
• Oh yes, and then to Japan for that mysterious job offer from Mr. Saito. Lovely. Income. Fair compensation for the enormous amount of imminent jetlag.

I feel absurdly busy, and suddenly wish for a simpler life, despite being bored stiff for the past fortnight.

Nervousness perhaps about the Fischer Situation.

If this is my last Entry, please somehow throw yourself in the fire, Planner. Because i'm clearly dead or rotting in a CIA prison.

Shit. Bloody hell. Fuck.

Fischer knows.

I know i'm not supposed to write about Panic Attacks in you, Planner, but this is a rather serious situation.

Fischer knows.

Arthur is on his way... he'll be here soon. Should I have gone grocery shopping for him? He has expensive tastes. I don't know how well Beluga Caviar would go next to the gigantic bowl of Stawberry Jelly in my fridge. Probably not very well.

Not that Arthur will be engaging in a romantic candlelit dinner with me at my humble abode, nor would he likely accept edible goods from me, despite having promised time and time again that I won't poison him.

Maybe I should have popped out earlier and got a Baguette and a block of Brie. He likes his everything en Français, doesn't he? Classy insufferable wonderful pain in the arse.

Speaking of arses... his will be here soon. I need to tidy. And make the bed. (NOTE: Best Linen! You never know when Hell might freeze over.)

Oh yes... and by the way, have you heard, Planner?

BLOODY FISCHER KNOWS.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity FUCK.

If this is my last Planner entry... it's because i've been murdered by gruff American mercenaries under the employment of a pissed off Multi-Billionaire. Great. Just... great.

Arthur will be here soon. Hurrah!

I'm going to be a ridiculous schoolboy with a gigantic crush and draw a tiny heart next to this.
OK I ADMIT IT. I have a crush: ♥

Bloody hell.

Hello again, Planner.

Rather thought i'd mislaid you somewhere between Shanghai and Sao Paolo.

But no, you were afterall the only place I didn't think to look, lodged down behind the liquor cabinet.

Right then, down to business, since business is your primary occupation, isn't it? Being full of very writable paper, and such:

• Meeting with Miss Murphy at the Mirador this afternoon - bloody awful place. Work really isn't going well for her, now is it. Interesting girl, though. There are a lot of interesting girls around lately, though. Pretty, too, for an American. Lots of them too! Bloody yanks seem to be everywhere lately, and don't seem to fancy returning my texts.
• Call Lilah and leave a disgruntled-but-coaxing Voice Mail, since she won't return any more texts. (MUST DO SOON)
• Consider a trip to New York in a few weeks to hunt Lilah down and get her drunk/Bother Arthur. Preferably both. Particularly the second. (NOTE: MAKE SURE ARTHUR IS IN NYC AT TIME OF TRIP)
• Purchase new straw Trilby, as favourite one was blown into the bloody Med during that fateful post-Extraction boat trip back to shore in Tangiers.
• Call dear Ariadne and see if she's interested in an Istanbul job next month. Could rather do with a decent Architect, and the money is good.
• Pop down to Sainsbury's later and purchase new bottle of Gordon's. Old one empty and quite fancy a G&T.
• Also, a few packets of Chocolate Digestives. And some Salt & Vinegar Pringles.
• And a punnet of Strawberries and a tube of Whipped Cream.

All for now, Planner. Don't fall behind the liquor cabinet again, dear.