Sunday. I’m worried that I might be turning into a shark. The urge to keep moving lest I die is bordering on manic. Not content with having had 'knowledge' of four different men in the past two weeks (perhaps in Essex that’s the national chaverage) I’ve been lured out by a fifth this afternoon who’s contacted me on a dating website.
He’s a character actor, been in The Bill (hasn’t everyone?) and sounds like a bit of a geezer. I’m meeting him in Regent’s Park at 4.30 p.m. for tea. Before that I’m meeting a girlfriend for a walk and after that I’m going to the cinema with a male mate.
Now there’s no problem with this per se, but shouldn’t one be staying home occasionally and sorting out one’s knicker drawer? Or learning how to use the new DVD – G-d forbid one should ever want to be in of an evening watching one?
I think about CC, cast in the role of Hanging Judge, deciding my fate as he reads the fruits of my nefarious labours. He probably hasn’t got beyond the first chapter – or even the back cover. He'd have thrown it straight onto the fire dressed in an exorcist’s robes to expunge the corruption contained therein.
The date with Rough Stuff gets cancelled at the last minute and I am somewhat relieved, though this leaves my brain excess time to bubble away like a witch’s cauldron, to which I keep adding extra frogs, newts, toads and bats.
Tuesday. Something in my genetic make-up, or maybe my upbringing, will not allow me to accept defeat. A long line of oppressed ancestors battled their way out of Russia, Poland and Lithuania and dispersed to the four corners of the globe where they not only survived, but made a go of it. I was conditioned from an early age to strive for success and this ethos has dogged yet encouraged me through all of life’s situations.
Although I walked out of two marriages because there were insurmountable problems, I gave them both my best shot and for this reason, I am still determined to fight for CC.
I cannot understand if someone has a chance for love that they wouldn’t embrace it with open arms? I mean… you’re a long time dead… especially if he genuinely thinks he’s only got a few years left...you’d have thought he’d want to fill those years with all the unbridled joy that’s on offer.
Or maybe he doesn’t see me as ‘unbridled joy’…maybe he just sees me as ‘major aggravation’.
Unfortunately, deep in my soul, I know where he’s coming from. His fear of rejection, fear of getting hurt, fear of my infidelity, fear of having his heart ripped out and thrown to the wolves, are all very valid terrors. And I’m getting far too carried away with this less than ‘magnificent’ obsession.
Maybe I need to take a step back and write myself a reality cheque.
Wednesday. Eurotrash texts me and we make a date for the steak fest for Sunday night. Him being a bit Transylvanian ‘n all, I hope he means steak and not stake.