April 21st, 1990
At the Adler Haus, Dusseldorf, Germany
Stephen and I got slightly carried away with our fake sex marathon last night and could barely keep a straight face when we showed up, bleary eyed, for breakfast at eight am, sharp!
I’d been in the kitchen not even two minutes when I felt Herr Adler’s stubby fingers on my bottom. I motioned to Stephen who, without speaking, conveyed; “Don’t worry, I’ll sort him out.”
During breakfast, Stephen not only “accidentally” spilled milk all over Herr A’s freshly pressed trousers but managed to “drop,” a dish of strawberry jam into his lap, prompting the removal of Mister Wandering Hands from the breakfast table. Ah, how I love my imitation boyfriend!
Breakfast was very formal, complete with fine bone china and a beautifully laid table. There were platters heaped with sausages and other kinds of meat I didn’t recognize! Very different from my usual breakfast of tea and toast. I’d be as big as this house if I ate like that every morning.
Caught the train into town with Macon and Mathilda but they had some stuff to do in preparation for the party and said they’d meet us back at the house for lunch, at one. That didn’t give Stephen and I much time to look around, but what we saw of the town was very nice. Stephen asked if I wanted a drink and it was still early, but he reminded me we’re on holiday so we found our way to a lovely little Tapas bar where I gulped down several glasses of wine and a few yummy tidbits.
We had to make a mad dash for the train but missed it and while we sat on the platform, I felt my head spinning. We arrived back at the house at precisely three minutes past one, to find Herr Adler standing on the front step.
“Come along, come along!” he shouted, pointing to his watch. “You are late!”
We apologized profusely, and sat down to another round of meat filled platters, the sight of which had me running to the bathroom.
“Are you alright, darling?” Stephen asked from the other side of the door.
I finished the task at hand and slowly opened the door.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“I’m not used to eating so much meat, especially first thing in the morning.”
Stephen opened his mouth to make what I can only imagine was a crude comment but instead he just smiled his cheeky smile.
When the meat fest was over and all the dishes had been washed and put away, Stephen claimed we were suffering from jet lag (!) and asked if anyone would mind if we took a nap.
Pervy Paws stood in the doorway of the bedroom and put his finger to his lips.
“Sshhhh,” he said, gyrating his fat, round body in a move I believe was intended to mimic sex.
Tonight, was Macon’s birthday party (the reason we’re here) and what a fantastic night it was. The party was held in the fully stocked bar in the basement, set up like an American sports bar. Stephen played bartender for a while and with his heavy-handed pouring, it didn’t take long for me to get more than tipsy.
The partygoers were absolutely lovely and I wished I spoke German, even though they all spoke impeccable English. At one point when I was behind the bar, taking pictures, Slippery Fingers sidled up beside me and managed to squeeze his girth between me and the wall. When I felt his hand graze my bottom, I kicked my foot up behind me and hit him right where I knew it would hurt. He let out a yelp and I spun around to face him.
“Shhhhh,” I whispered, stomping with my all my might on his twinkle toes.