Wednesday. An eventful day in Toy Town. I text Eurotrash to firm up Thursday and he telephones me to say that although:
‘Ze answer is Yah, it is in fact Ney’ because:
a) he’s zhtill got ze zore zroat, und
b) he’s also got ze zore finger which does not heal.
Eeuwwhh! I’d better steer well clear of him. He sounds like a walking infection.
I’m just about to hang up when he suddenly asks: ‘Zo how ij your zex life?’ like it’s any of his bloody business. I don’t reply but turn the question around and ask him about his.
‘Not much!’ he replies which I find hard to believe.
He apologizes again and says he’d love to see me ‘ven I’m vell again.’
It seems like men are apologizing to me a lot lately. This, of course, could be because they’re always guilty, unexpectedly turning up with ‘I've been fucking' flowers as my girlfriend with the wandering husband likes to call them.
Thursday. Tom Cat telephones. He sounds incredibly posh. He also went to the same school as me, which is pretty random, although we did attend some forty-five years apart! It’s unlikely that we shared any teachers but the school dinners were probably the same. He’s not coming to the gig tonight after all, as he wants to spend time working on a book he’s writing about sex and dating from the male perspective. We may discuss a collaboration and meet up tomorrow, which I now have free due to Eurotrash having syphilis and/or gonorrhaea.
I get a message from a newcomer on toyboywarehouse. He has a very Cute Face:
Hiya pretty lady! he writes. Fancy meeting up for a drink this weekend?
This could not have come at a better time as I’ve just been let down by Blonde Best Friend who I thought I was seeing on Saturday. Cute Face and I text on and off for the rest of the day, which is mildly entertaining but doesn’t mean to say I haven’t had some heart-rending moments vis à vis CC. It just means to say I haven’t mentioned them…
I am fully aware that all this so-called male attention doesn't amount to a hill of beans, and just as I’m about to go out for the evening with some proper people with proper jobs and proper modes of behaviour, Oxbridge phones. His number always comes up on my screen as ‘Unknown’ and my heart trips a beat as I think it might be CC. I forgot I was meant to be hoping he wouldn’t call.
When I hear the strange voice, I imagine for a moment it is him, but the voice gives its name and the name is wrong as is the accent. I can hardly remember who Oxbridge is in my life. Have we met? No we haven't and I don’t want to make small-talk with him any more. Maybe I should stop giving my phone number to strangers but then again, life would not be as rich as it is now!
I go to the gig at the Hope & Anchor in Upper Street. There is no talent there to speak of, except the singer, J.B. Newman, who is awesome. I remember with affection the night I met MLP at the Good Ship in Kilburn when we were listening to the same music as JB is playing tonight.
During the evening I exchange another few texts with Cute Face. He obviously fancies himself as a bit of a comedian because when I tell him I’m at the gig, he comments:
You’re really quite trendy for somehow who grew up in Victorian times, aren’t you?
I am affronted at his effrontery but rise to the challenge by telling him my horse-drawn carriage will arrive soon to take me home as it's past my bedtime and I need my Horlicks. He better not say anything ageist to my face though. That would be dangerous…
He then sends me a text obviously meant for someone else which reads:
No mate, she doesn’t seem nuts. Looks well pretty actually. I’ll just see how it goes I guess.
It’s funny that his mate thought I might be nuts…
I'm fairly convinced of it.