MORRIS MINI

Although I'd rather stick to pre-drafted entries about Vidoo, I want to write about the UK. And Germany. And the in-betweens.
Rotem called daily to arrange a rendezvous, but I kept having urgent agenda to address. Of course, I am busy. I run the program. But as head-of, most of my actions are mainly gear-greasing, no more. Practically, I could meet her at any given hour. But I don't.

Vidoo hated both the UK and me for nearly 24 hours. Then she discovered Fiona, a tall, long-mascaraed, plump Goth, who smoked like a chimney throughout the Seder Night. According to Vidoo's scale, you gotta be to'ally nipple to chug a fag during a religious ceremony; you cannot possibly get any cooler. Well, theoretically you could, if you possess a depreciating Brit attitude and are vehemently, wholesomely, proudly depressed.
So Vidoo is happy. She wants to settle in London and be part of the Punk Scene. I haven't the heart to tell her it's dead, and Pink Floyd fandom is so emo, dude. But let her be. I gotta run faxes and speakers and rambles and paintball massacres. I don't have time to attend to my daughter's fresh smoking habit. Die, emo kid, die.

On Festival Saturday night, I sift through printed email, memos and facsimilieu. There were a few from Rotem, requesting to meet at King's Cross, or Victoria's, anywhere, the bloody Tate.
'How about I stroll there with a freaking rose and parrot-head umbrella, and search for her?' I say, suddenly pissed.
'Search for who?' asks Vidoo from her king-size. Although we currently reside in a swell suite [paid by sugardaddy Rotem], she managed to turn it into a magnificent pigsty bohemia.
'Search for Rotem, that's who!'
'What are you so pissed about?'
'I am busy; busy, busy. And she knows it. I can't just go have a cuppa and chitchat with any old ladyfriend.' I swipe at the paperwork, adding to the mayhem.
'It's not any old one.'
'Can't. Busy.'

Suddenly Vidoo is by the toilette dresser, whipping the rest of my papers off. 'Know what's your problem?'
'Entertain me,' I surrender.
'You are just really, really afraid. You don't want to love people, because you're so fookin' afraid.'
'Deep, guv'nor.'
'Wait, not finished yet,' she says self-importantly. 'You're used to losing people, right? Or, never having none. So obviously you're avoiding her because sooner or later you'll lose her. You've got some hardcore abandonment issues, just like you didn't want to take me in because I might die –'
'Not exactly –'
'Hold your gob, girl's trying to talk here. You are scared that one day there will be no Rotem, and you don't want to be alone in the world again. But you won't be. But you still avoid her, because you're scared. It's like being scared of dolphins, or a VW Bug. You should stop evading, over-protecting, reminiscing –' she chews her lip. 'I forgot what I was about to say. I'm not too good in following my line of thought. Must be all those drugs I dropped in the Sixties. Anyway, my point was: go see her.'
'I hate psychobabble, but I love you anyway,' I tell her.
'All this pop stuff is your fault, moron!'

Early next morning, the hotel phone rings.
'Fookin-ay', whinges Vidoo. She hears them out, and adjusts, 'Fookin-bloody-ay!' Someone is waiting for us in the lobby.
We storm downstairs in our bathrobes, and there she is by the upholstered armchairs: long black scarf reaching the back of her knees, old Wranglers, a torn tee baring her thin shoulder blades, and her trademark mustard boots.
It hits me that this is what I came back for: the chopped hair, the wide smile, the strong hug.

'Vida, could I borrow your ma?' she asks, after embracing her fully. FACT: she is the only person recorded to have ever done so.
'Get dressed,' Rotem commands. 'We're going to Norham.'
'What?' I struggle. 'I can't. I'm working. And where's your family? And how are we gonna get there, it's all the way up north!'
Rotem chuckles. 'I pre-positioned a substitute for you. Plus you're not really needed. My family will wait for us at Claridge's, and I'm going to drive you there. I bought a car.'
'Go on!' exclaims Vidoo, who turns to atypical gelatinous matter in Rotem's vicinity. 'Which?'
'Thata one.' She points at a small red thing, engine still going right outside the gilded doorway and annoying the porters. 'It's a Morris Mini.' Registering our shock, she waves us, laughing. 'I'm over my macho Suzuki period. I'm all mini-Zen now.'
I relocate my jaw, but Vidoo informs us that will never get there in that.
'Mark my words,' says Rotem with mock menace. 'We will get there in six hours, so we shall! Now get dressed, I'm waiting.'