Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

No, this isn’t the name of my new crime novel. Yes, I am writing a crime novel, but it’s nowhere near to completion for me to spill the beans about it. Worry not, however, for you’ll soon be hearing lots more about my raunchy and outrageous new novel Pride and Prejudice: Hidden Lusts due out in spring!

As for the case of the missing glove, it is, in fact, a real case, and it takes place on the dark foggy streets of Londontown. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t so foggy when it happened…

Teddy Tedaloo and his mate enjoy a pint of Fruli beer

The mystery all began thanks to my famous social butterfly and bon-vivant bear Teddy Tedaloo and his Christmas meet-up with a mate of his, who was coming down by train from “oop north.” Ted was in fine Christmas cheer attired in a dapper Santa suit, replete with hat, which ended up coming in quite handy for warding off the freezing Siberian cold that had draped itself like an old lady’s shawl over our little island. Of course no meet-up worth its weight in ale can kick off without first paying a visit to a favourite drinking establishment in Covent Garden – particularly one that serves Fruli strawberry beer. We were already halfway to the floor drinking our lunch when Ted’s Uncle Geoff turned up, at which point things began to lean a wee bit toward the surreal. Though frankly, I’ve become so used to surreal that if Salvador Dalí gave me a melting clock for Christmas, I’d likely not bat an eyelash. (The fact that he’s dead probably wouldn’t faze me either.)

Teddy Tedaloo on Thames River Christmas cruise

We set off down to the river, where we availed ourselves of a Christmas boat cruise on the Thames. Little did we expect to be entertained by a commentator who could have put any of the top British comedians to shame, he was that good. Alas, nearly all of his humorous jibes went over the heads of our mostly foreign sailing companions, who seemed more interested in speaking as loudly as possible and instigating their screaming children to do likewise. But hey, it added to the hilarity of the moment, as did the gingery fizzy cocktail we were served. I mean, we really needed a drink to sober up after all that Fruli!

Once we’d teetered off the boat, we sobered up even more in the Arctic blast and had a look at the Christmas market set up on the South Bank, which featured among all the sweet sellers and soap pushers a babushka lady selling religious icons and statues from Minsk, Belarus. Now I ask you, what else would you possibly expect to find on London’s South Bank but a babushka lady from a convent in Minsk? It’s the first thing you think of, right? I have a feeling that Ted’s uncle was rather taken with her, but he decided to play hard to get by going off to buy some sweets, which we later stole off him, afterward topping up our hunger with some roast pork and sage stuffing sandwiches, which we ate while standing up, our frigid fingers clinging to our food for dear life. We next got some rubberised French crepes that were a challenge to eat, particularly with a plastic fork. These were eaten to the accompaniment of a musician whose hands were so frozen he could barely get any sound out of his guitar. Yeah, baby, it was cold.

Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo observe safely from the sidelines

We rounded off the evening by schlepping across the river yet again, this time to Somerset House to watch the ice skating, where we were joined by yet another mate of Ted’s. Enter the missing glove. Apparently somewhere between Waterloo Bridge and the ice rink Geoff discovered his right glove had gone missing. With no sign of Sherlock Holmes (Elementary, my dear Watson!), it was up to us to solve the mystery. A frantic search ensued, involving much harassment of the security people, neither of which yielded a result. We ended up inside the viewing galleries, warming up with tepid and obscenely overpriced cups of “hot” cider and dancing to some very peculiar Balkan-esque music being piped in, whereupon it was decided we’d find another pub once we’d escorted our out-of-towners safely to the tube station.

The pub never happened, which might, in retrospect, be a good thing. We were in the vicinity of Charing Cross station when our glove man, who was to catch us up after one more check with Somerset House’s lost-and-found, sent a text that he was returning back across the river to the South Bank to search for his glove. Had it been me, I’m not sure I would’ve gone to that much bother on a freezing cold night in a city that is exhausting even in the best of times. However, it was probably the temperature that drove him to seek out his glove rather than endure further torment.

Later that night when I got home, I texted Geoff to see if he’d found his errant glove. I didn’t receive a reply. My first thought was that he’d been mugged during his search or possibly even run off with the babushka lady. Indeed, perhaps his claim to return to hunt for his glove on the South Bank had been but a ruse to put us off the scent. I mean, you just never know with men.

The next morning I had an email informing me of the sad news: the black glove was never found. On the bright side, however, Geoff happened upon a right-handed green glove that some other poor soul had lost, thereby giving him a proper (albeit unmatched) pair. The last I heard, he was still wearing it!

So now you know what happens to all those lonely gloves you see scattered around London. They eventually find a new partner, and live happily ever after.

Happy holidays!

Mitzi Szereto tucks into a deep-fried Mars bar

Glasgow. It evokes images of Trainspotting, Inspector Taggart, and heroin addicts. In fact, Glasgow has the highest number of heroin addicts in the United Kingdom. So what better place for me to spend a cold, rainy and windy Sunday afternoon in October?

Nah, I wasn’t skulking down some back alleyway in pursuit of a fix. However, I WAS skulking down the city streets in pursuit of something else: the infamous deep-fried Mars Bar. Yes, you heard it here first – they actually deep fry Mars Bars! Hard to believe, eh? Mind you, the Scots aren’t always known for having the most healthful of diets. Or at least not the Glaswegians. As someone who’s addicted to Walkers salt and vinegar crisps, I’m not going to cast any stones here.

My mate Ben (who’s technically from Kent, not Scotland) and his girlfriend Bex (who’s technically from Scotland not Kent) had never partaken of this fine delicacy – nor had I, for that matter (Scotland isn’t just famous for its beautiful landscape, you know!), so off we headed to Glasgow city centre, certain we’d have our pick of deep-fried Mars Bars establishments. Just to be on the safe side, Ben and Bex texted a slew of their Glaswegian friends, asking if they knew where we could make a score. Of the few replies that came in, most were downright offended by the query. It appeared we were on our own.

We wandered up and down in the wind and rain, our hopes dwindling by the minute as we encountered pretty much everything (including a woman peddling The Big Issue in song to what I vaguely recognised as a popular show tune) – everything but a place to get this treat. Hunger was overtaking us, but we persevered, opting to parlay what was supposed to be a late lunch into an early dinner. We (or at least I) had to have a deep-fried Mars Bar – and it was now a matter of life or death! Not wanting to disappoint his guest (ie me), Ben popped into a newsagents and bought a couple of Mars Bars. To be honest, I felt really let down; I thought he was going to fob off some boring uncooked Mars Bar on me to shut me up. I expected better, considering the incredible amount of hospitality and care I’d been receiving from him all weekend. I mean, this was the very same bloke who had a supply of Fruili beer in the fridge just for me, not to mention a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream for Teddy – the very same bloke who’d been cooking up some first-class meals for dinner and always making sure I had a cup of tea first thing in the morning.

I tried to hide my disappointment and loped along, angling my yellow umbrella so it wouldn’t be flipped inside out by the wind. Ben passed the two Mars Bars over to Bex in a rather covert fashion, whereupon she took off on a high-speed chase, with Ben and I struggling to keep up. The next thing I knew she’d dashed into an Italian chippie, leaving us stranded outside in the rain with matching expressions of befuddlement. I assumed the woman was buying an order of chips to tide herself over till our delayed dinner. Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Bex had a plan. And it concerned the Mars Bars.

Within moments she began to gesticulate at us wildly. We went inside to find out what she was on about, only to see her being handed a styrofoam container with what looked like two pieces of battered cod in it. Once again I felt let down. I wanted my deep-fried Mars Bar, and here Bex was palming off some lousy greasy fried fish on me. It was all becoming too much – the wind, the rain… and not a deep-fried Mars Bar in sight. Then suddenly it dawned on me. This was no order of fish and chips, this was the Holy Grail! Apparently she’d charmed the fryer at the Italian chippie into frying up the Mars Bars – and at no charge.

Off we went back out into the rain and wind, with me wondering when I’d finally get to eat one of the damned things, especially since Ben seemed to be holding the container a wee bit too possessively for my taste – and at this point I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. We ended up getting a reprieve from the rain outside the entrance to the Gallery of Modern Art, where at last we bit into our treasures, all of us expecting to be thoroughly disgusted. Au contraire! I was quite impressed. In fact, I’d eat one again right now if I could. Ben and Bex shared theirs, and I’ll admit to eyeing it greedily in hopes they wouldn’t finish it.

Since we were already at the Gallery, we decided to go in to get a break from the weather. At least it was free and dry and we were able to regain our energy for what was promised to be an authentic Scottish meal. And what better place for an authentic Scottish meal than an authentic Irish pub replete with authentic Irish fiddlers playing in a back room and a surly authentic Scottish waiter who ignored all the patrons? Of course being an authentic Irish pub they were out of Irish stew. I didn’t care, since I ordered a plate of haggis, tatties, and neeps in whiskey gravy (though I didn’t get a buzz off it). I also stole some black pudding off Bex, and it proved to be surprisingly tasty, unlike a nasty version of the stuff I’d once tried in the Lake District. A pint of McEwan’s took away the pain of life and left me a tad glassy-eyed, therefore I considered having another, except I knew I’d end up needing the loo.

At this point I’m not entirely sure whether I should write an erotic tale about Glasgow, if I end up doing a fourth volume of my Erotic Travel Tales anthologies. I might need to return for another of those deep-fried Mars Bars and see if inspiration hits!

Mitzi Szereto in Camden Town

Ever have one of those days where you know that if you stay home you might very likely chuck yourself out from an upstairs window? Well, that about sums up last Sunday. Therefore I decided to go to Camden Town for the afternoon to distract myself and scout out some bargains, despite the fact I hate to shop (though necessity prevails). As a starving writer and a woman who refuses to give in to the moneyed gentlemen she’s met over the years who’ve offered to keep her in high style (though as we all know, there’s no such thing as a free lunch), I’m not in the leagues of Bond Street or Harrods; there are no Prada handbags or expensive designer dresses in my closet. So it’s Camden Town for me, though many of the shops there are still out of my reach! (Let’s get my books and short stories selling, alreet?)

The day began in a manner that made me wish I’d stayed home, despite the dire temptation of the upstairs window. My train journey into the city consisted of having to listen to the Essex geezah behind me making and receiving endless calls on his mobile phone, most of which were of him threatening his mate with dire consequences if he didn’t cough up the 450 quid owed him when he got to his house. Okay, fine, it didn’t affect MY life, save for the fact that his language was highly inappropriate at half past eleven in the morning (just as it would have been at half past midnight). Mind you, it seems the majority of men in Essex cannot speak without every other word being an obscenity, most of which are particularly offensive to women. If you’ve ever encountered any Essex males (usually visible in a crowd by their West Ham shirts), I’m sure I need not elaborate.

Things really heated up when the fellow seated across from me (whom it was later revealed was an American tourist to our fair isle) decided to take a photograph of the landscape outside the train window, which apparently was directly in the range of Mr. Geezah’s personage. Well, Mr. Geezah took none too kindly to what he construed as a photo being taken of his fine Essex self, and things began to turn nasty. In caveman-speak, he laid into the fellow, demanding to know if he’d been photographed and why, which escalated into a threat to take the camera and smash it (and, I gather, smash its owner’s face as well). The exchange went on for a good fifteen minutes, in between more phone calls as to the whereabouts of his money. Finally we were left in peace when he exited the train – no doubt to pursue the poor bastard who owed him the 450 quid, as somehow I doubt he was heading off to a late Sunday service.

I eventually made it to Camden Town, which was bustling with people out for a day of posing, shopping, and eating. Is there a recession on? If so, I saw no evidence of it in Londontown. Mind you, I was hard-pressed to actually see any actual English people buying anything – the only ones who seemed to be taking out their wallets were Spaniards, Italians, and Russians. Oh, and me, who by a stroke of luck did manage to snag some bargains, which included haggling a market trader down by 25 quid on a purchase. I’d managed to recruit a friend along to play mule by carrying my bags and preventing me from going psycho in the crowd (I don’t “do” crowds). Happening upon a pub that served Fruli (my favourite strawberry beer) on tap didn’t hurt either. I suppose I got in my friend’s good graces when I naysayed his potential purchase of a rather pricey belt made up of bullets that looked like something from out of a spaghetti western. The thing looked fabulous dangling from a wire, but it quickly lost its appeal when worn. Although his intention was to wear it to heavy metal gigs, I was certain he’d end up being arrested as a suicide bomber before he’d even made it through the door.

I’m now wondering if maybe I should’ve bought the bullet belt myself, and possibly a gun to go along with it. It might come in handy next time I’m on the train…