UNROMANTIC WEEKEND

So, it was Charlie’s and my wedding anniversary last week.

We’ve been together for eleven years; married for four of them.  Just bliss *rolls eyes*.

So, in typical fashion, we organised a night in the city to celebrate.

Now, here’s the deal; I organise the accommodation, and Charlie organises the entertainment.

Entertainment does not involve special cuddles.  Well, not just special cuddles.  I need more ‘stimulation’ than that.

So, I kept my part of the bargain, and organised a night in a hotel we’ve stayed in before, called the Hotel Charsfield, on St Kilda Road.

It’s a beautiful old hotel that’s been magnificently restored, and is nestled amongst all of the modern, angular monstrosities that is modern architecture.  It’s quite a visual surprise amongst the concrete jungle that is St Kilda Road.

What did Charlie organise, I hear you ask?

Fucken nothing.

His plan was to take a tram ride up St Kilda Road to China Town.  On our wedding night (we got married in the afternoon), we had a meal in Chinatown, and it was beautiful, so he wanted to go back there.  Lovely sentiment on his part.

However, that would require planning and booking; something completely foreign to him.

Then after dinner, we would catch a movie and go back to the hotel for some lovin’.  (The ‘lovin’ bit was the important part of his plan, me thinks).

So, we get into the city about 7pm (because Charlie had fucken golf in the afternoon), check in, dump our stuff, and head out to catch a tram.

Now, I’ve only been on a tram twice before.  Once on the City Circle Tram with my bestie peeps, and once on the Tram Car Restaurant that hoons around the city.  Now that was an awesome night out.

Anyway, we jump on the ridiculously crowded tram, and she, who suffers from motion sickness, is standing on the turntable part of the tram; you know those long trams with the accordion bit in the middle? Well, they have a ‘turntable’ inside so the accordion bit can flex.  So yeah; that were I’m standing.

Having never really travelled much on a tram, I was unfamiliar with how they are driven.  When they take off, it’s like a fucken rocket.  The tram is then driven like it’s stolen, before the anchors are thrown out and we come to a screeching halt at the next stop. 

I spent most of the trip being thrown around like a fucken ragdoll, and I’m sure at one point, I was flying at a ninety degree angle to the floor, clinging desperately to the rail.

I lasted ten stops (quite proud of that) before I grabbed Charlie and declared that we need to get off this fucken roller coaster before I throw up the packet of Twisties I had on the way down here.

Not a good start to the night.

So, we jump out (for our lives) at Flinders Street, and are greeted with the comforting smells, sights and sounds of a city alive at night.

There were people everywhere!  I couldn’t believe it!  We’re supposed to be heading into a recession!  Why the fuck weren’t these people at home watching telly or something?  Unbelievable!

So we beat our way through the throng, toward Chinatown.  I will say this: pink hair, short dresses and thongs seem to be the fashion for young ladies in the city at the mo.  As for the men; don’t even get me started.

We finally get to Chinatown, and I’m ready to eat my arm I’m so fucken hungry.  Of course, the smell of the region doesn’t help my case, because that familiar, common ‘Chinese food’ smell was everywhere. 

We wandered along the strip, checking out a few restaurants, and realised that at 8.30pm at night, there really weren’t a lot of places to eat.  They were either full, had long queues waiting to get in, or were too expensive.

This is the point where I wanted to kill my husband for not booking or organising anything for us.  I fucken knew this would happen!

My distress was relieved when I stumbled into an Asian gift shop that was full of Hello Kitty stuff.  I walked out with a new phone cover, and that pacified my mood for…. Ooohhh… a good thirty seconds, then I was back into ‘kill’ mode.

Fuck I was hungry.  Not a good position to be in if you’re diabetic.  Something I made very clear to Charlie on one occasion.

There was a ‘beat boxer’ on one of the street corners, with quite a crowd around him.  He was pretty awesome, actually.  I think Charlie was new to the ‘beat box’ thing *rolls eyes* (this is what I live with) and stood there for a good five minutes listening before I physically dragged him away. 

By the time we reached the top of Chinatown, I was tired, cranky, bruised from bashing through the crowd, and way past hungry.  It was 9.15pm.

I turned to my poor husband and declared ‘I’m done.  Take me back to the Hotel, and we’ll get room service.  I’m fucken done.’

Poor Charlie’s head dropped; he had failed, and his beloved wife was not happy.  Dog. House.

So we trudged back down Chinatown and turned toward Burke Street, where I knew we would find a taxi rank.  That’s when we stumbled across a little Asian café that was busy, but had a couple of people leave as we walked past.

We were in.

We had a lovely, simple meal of wontons for the starter, and Beef Satay and Sweet and Sour Pork (old skool) with rice for mains.  We even lashed out and took advantage of the dinner special; $1 cokes with every meal!  Oh yeah!  We were livin’ large!!

Charlie then took me to a fine establishment (7 Eleven) for an ice cream (no expense spared), before we took a cab back to the hotel.

At 10.00pm, I slipped into my jimmies, watched the end of the footy with my beloved, and promptly fell asleep on his shoulder.  I was nudged awake, told to put my cpap mask on (cos I was snoring), and did not wake until my bladder interrupted my sleep at some ungodly hour of the morning.  My eyes didn’t open again until 8.30am.

Breakfast was enjoyed in the hotel dining room, with a massive selection of breads, condiments, cereals, fruits, juices, yoghurts, croissants, muffins, teas and coffee.  It was awesome. 

After checkout, Charlie and I risked another tram ride into the city, which fortunately for him, I was able to get a seat on. 

We wandered around the Arts Centre market, where I marvelled at the talents that some people display.  The crafts and handmade items were just beautiful.

We wandered around Federation Square, which I think is an amazing place.  Sure; it looks like someone dropped a ceramic tile and glued it back together again, but I love it.  Charlie had never been there before (OMFG), and when I took the man that fabricates steel for a living into the atrium, he was lost. 

I swear he stood there staring at the steel work for about ten minutes, muttering some incoherent babbled about steel, mazes and jigsaw puzzles.  I dragged him to tables and chairs nearby and made him sit down so he could look at the structure without concerning security and embarrassing me.

After more tram rides, getting lost in Crown (they’ve changed the food court/movie entrance around a bit) and walking past shops that we could never afford to shop in, the Buttlers called it a day, and headed home.

Yep.  One of the most romantic weekends I’ve ever had.

Romantic peace out.