In which I make amends for the last blog post

So, it appears I'm no good at faking it. My husband who came to New York with me read my last post and complained it was boring and not at all representative of the time spent in the Crabby Apple. I admit, I was having a 'lights on but no-one in' day at the time. I was lying back and taking it for England so to speak that day and it simply did not do. No. So today, I make amends in a sheer nightie, soft lighting and anchors away sort of fashion.

I'm going to start with a caveat, to be taken non-prescriptively of course. 'Tis but a humble opinion and strictly for the purposes of setting the scene. Afterall, how can you compare without a reference point? Mine is a little town just outside of Toronto in Southern Ontario - a town I should add that fun forgot and Ontario invented to put all its odd socks in - also where I currently live.

Living in a place like this - I've heard it described as a sleeper town, we call it a commuter village in the UK but I prefer sleeper because that's what it makes me want to become every time I look out of my window at it. It's a lot like drinking a tall glass of water; Refreshing at times, wholesome, restorative even, but there is only so much water one can drink before starting to feel a little bit like a fish in a plastic bag and I gotta tell you the funfair left town a long time ago.

So before you even think it, I can honestly say my feelings about this place do not stem from me being a big city girl; I've been to tiny mountain hamlets in the north of Spain that had more 'cojones' - but I dwell on the negative and I'm trying to kick that habit.

New York then was like a little sip of Absinthe for the eternally bored (that would be me). It's like a little shot of adrenalin to flush out arteries in danger of succumbing to a big attack of the dreary. If I sound ungrateful, well shame on me because in fact I ought to be much more thankful but I dare anyone to spend more than a week in this commuter town without wanting to hit the bottle hard or do drugs. - also hard. I remain strong just very very numb at times.

To expand on the earlier post then. Yes, New York had culture and 'scenes' but more than these things - I loved that there was a bar (the burlesque one with the 40 year old exotic dancers) where a guy dressed as Jesus Christ (who opens the show hanging from a crucifix) can address the audience as cheap mothafuckas and get a laugh.

I have neighbours who would call the police at the thought of living next to someone who derives so much fun from so much irreverence.

The parks, the museums and the flea markets are all worthy of a mention not least because we don't have any where I live (none that don't within 5 minutes of arriving fill you with the eye watering dread of tedium and dismay) so yes, these things matter to me.

More than that even was the depth of the remarkable people we were with; Take the war correspondent - international man of mystery who would slip in and out of broody silences that no-one would dare interrupt, walking around as he did with a leg full of shrapnel - also a subject off limits or the rapper with the smiling eyes that glinted at anything dark and mean. Then there was the talented and delightful picture editor full of mother love and my husband, Genghis Khan he may be by day but by night furry and adorable.

Most of all, I think what I love about weekends or places with balls that like to rock out with their BEEP out, is the feeling it gives of being alive. When your life is in danger of becoming homage to mediocrity - stuff like this matters.