Late last Saturday afternoon I was sitting in Orrery Epicurie (not good, btw) on Marylebone High Street drinking tea and thinking about how it was about this time last week that I fainted during Black Swan, when my thoughts were interrupted by a man and his seeing-eye dog as they passed the cafe/deli/whatever it was on the other side of the street. I love when London feels small. I had seen this same man and his same incredibly beautiful, sweet looking black lab earlier that week at Kilburn Station (a station that people don’t tend to use unless they live around there, and is not super close to Marylebone) taking his young daughter to school…as she jabbered his ear off.
I was in the area because I had been out for dinner with some LSE friends on Friday night at Ishtar near Baker Street and I had left my makeup case, so I had to return the next day to retrieve it. Whilst I do admittedly struggle with vanity, I do not carry around my makeup case wherever I go. No, I had it with me because I have come to the conclusion that any amount of time on the Met line magically transports from a normal being to haggard beast, so I carry my beauty supplies to work with me on Monday, get ready at the bright, spacious vanity in the bathroom there, start each workday with a fresh face…and then I bring the bag back home on the weekends. I went out right after work. I left my makeup bag right after finishing my Turkish coffee and scoffing at how the “optional” gratuity was not, in fact, optional. (I know, I’m horrible - I’ve become stingy and European about tipping… But it was more the principle that if it’s optional…it should be bloody optional.)
The restaurant is a nice enough little gem. I think it was reasonably priced, but I am not quite sure because 2.5 years in London has meant that I have an incredibly distorted view of “reasonably priced”…even for someone who isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, categorised as being in the higher earning bracket. Come to think of it, maybe £5 for hummus isn't reasonably priced...even for London. It was an upscale Turkish restaurant, but in my option really just meant - Turkish food + nice decor. It claimed to serve “modern
Turkish cuisine”. So modern, in fact, that some of it wasn’t Turkish at all. Salmon and new potatoes? So I went for the grilled
selections in hopes that they would be more authentic, and I chose quite well (although it came in one of those sliced wraps that looked strangely similar to a southwestern wrap from Chilis...). I went for the Sarma Tavuk Beyti (sounded Turkish enough), which, upon further inquiry, I discovered was considered one of the 2 “signature dishes”. The portions were generous and well spiced, and the Turkish wine was quite friendly as well. Then came my Turkish coffee. And my good fortune. CJB was inspecting the dark, silky grounds for The Grim when she discovered that I am not doomed for imminent death, but just plain romance.
I swooned at the cinema just as the movie was ending. Literally loosing my conscious self in a movie has happened to me only once before – during Revolutionary Road – but the friends I was with never noticed because I bent over to return the blood to my head and passed out so gracefully that they thought I was just looking for something in my purse… for a long time. I don’t know their excuse for not noticing that soon thereafter I started stripping off my clothing and trying not to vomit in said purse…
This time I had been holding out for a long time. I couldn’t believe this was happening again - I’ve totally seen [and been fine with] more blood than this. Ugh, but I was also hot. So hot. And breathless. And weak. I could feel my pulse because it was so weirdly slow it was draining all my energy from me. Movie, please END. Sip of coke. No help. Gulping air. No help. Remove jacket. OhmygoshI’mgoingtovomit. I throw my purse into N’s lap, tell him to watch it and head for the door. I need air. And maybe to puke. Luckily, N knows me and my history with slow, graphic, but not necessarily gratuitous, blood scenes and he followed me out…otherwise he would have found me lain across the exit to the cinema. Just as I reached the door it all went black and I went down...down…down. I was moving. Bumbling along in the black lighter than my usual self. Down, down, down again because I needed a little nap. Wait, no! Back, back, back. Um, well maybe after the nap. Just for a second. Silence. Resting. Hmmm… Suddenly I can feel: I feel my legs (bent, pushed together) swirling around in a jerky motion. Suddenly I can hear, very far away: “are you ok?” “should we call someone?” “no, she’s fine”. I’m fine. Where the hell am I? Wait, who’s fine? Are they talking to me? I can see: Omygosh there is someone trying to push my knees into my chest, or lift them above my head… and N keeps pushing my head so that I face the left. What’s to the left? Where the hell am I again? I can think and reason: Balls. I’m lying on the floor outside the cinema aren’t I? I fainted? I sit up…ish (Oh, gonna puke. Lay back down.) “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just mortified.” All my senses are back, including the always important sense of personal shame that comes with lying down outside the cinema as people exit the movie. My kind helper leaves after I assure her that I am fine, sit back up prematurely to prove it and then fight the urge to vom all over her and disprove it. A kind middle-aged woman who works at the cinema bends down to see if I am ok. “What movie did you see, honey? 127 Days?” “Uh, no. Black Swan.”
