I buzz the postman in and he climbs the stairs and delivers unto me a small square parcel. There are no clues on the label or the packaging as to who this might be from, but I slash the tape impatiently with my trusty Stanley knife, and rip off the outer wrapping.
As curiosity courses through me and my inner kitten squeals and hides beneath the sofa, a stylish, little Myla box reveals itself (think Agent Provocateur with added lady).
A slow smile tickles the corners of my mouth as I carefully unwrap the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful ivory satin lingerie bag with a hand-curled loop and button clasp in tangerine silk.
Inside is an exquisite strapless bra with matching lace panties. I don’t think anyone has ever sent me lingerie before. Bought it for me, fastened it on me, peeled it off me, but sent it to me through the post? Never. Not in my entire life. A stiff little card reads:
Enjoy. From New York Boy.
I was right. This is from Rugby Player and it's his much anticipated gift. I shake my head in amazement and grin widely. I am still able to do this as I have not, as yet, succumbed to Botox.
I rattle my proverbial pedestal and CC, precariously balanced at the top, crashes to the kitchen floor. Other wannabee mountaineers ascending the rock face of my affections stop in their tracks, look up, look down and wonder if it’s worth the rest of the climb.
Rugby Player now stands proudly at the top, arms folded triumphantly across his broad and manly chest, one foot planted firmly on a heart-shaped boulder. For the moment - for me - he is The Man.
I text him an effusive thank you and rip my clothes off to try the undies on. Although glamorous in the extreme, the bra is not a great fit, so I go to the Myla website and establish that I can change it. No point in keeping something I can’t wear, is there?
He’s spent £95 on some ecru lace dental floss whose company slogan is 'Accessories for your Sex Life' on the off chance that this may improve his. Unlikely if he’s in New York and I’m in London, but if a plane ticket in the sharp end of a jumbo jet was forthcoming, I could be persuaded.
At lunchtime, I get a text from Tom Cat saying he enjoyed our meeting last night, swiftly following by one from Cute Face getting ever more excited about our date tomorrow. He tells me he’s going for a haircut and I order him not to as I like my toyboys a tad unkempt. He insists he needs the haircut anyway and promises to maintain a degree of scruffiness.
We carry on texting silliness throughout the afternoon which could be why I’m developing RSI in my right thumb. Or it could be arthritis. At my age, anything is possible.
Rugby Player texts me back to say he landed in London early this morning and has six hours to kill until his next flight out again. Now I could have just left this alone, because God knows, I’ve got enough going on plus a stack of work to do, but because it’s Friday and it’s 3.30 p.m., I feel like knocking off early. So I do...
Sunday, 5 October 2008
Saturday, 27 September 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
Flash Gordon sends me a choice of dates when he’s free to see me. None of them suit my diary, and I’m not really sure I want to see him again anyway. He is a nice person and a real little gent, but he doesn’t float my boat which is currently high and dry in the dockyard. I let him down gently telling him an ex has reappeared on the scene.
These bloody exes of yours, he texts back. I can’t even get a drink with you let alone waltz into your life and hog you forever. If you gave me a chance you’d forget all those fairycakes.
I’d forgotten I’d used this excuse before. If you’re going to lie you need a good memory. Or a d.o.b. that doesn’t being 194…
He forges on regardless:
All I want is to cook you a meal, tell you all my crap jokes, scrub your back in the bath and give you a deep tissue massage that will take your breath away.
Now this sounds like a pretty irresistible offer no matter which way you cut it. I mean when was the last time a good-looking 28-year old offered you such a teaser of temptations? I may allow him his way at some point, but for the foreseeable future, I think I can hold out.
At 7.35 I go and meet Tom Cat at the Elgin. Not much to look at but charming, polite and easy company nevertheless. In the present circumstances, this should be sufficient, but my Fit Bloke Alert doesn’t go off, so I know it ain’t going nowhere.
We have a couple of drinks and he removes a stack of papers from his man-bag. It’s the book he’s trying to write which he wants me to look at. Writers don’t really like looking at other people’s work, unless it’s truly appalling.
As Gore Vidal said: Whenever one of my friends succeeds, a little something in me dies.I
scan some of it, and it’s not bad – a tad overwritten, but about love and angst from the male perspective which is interesting. And guess what? Men have feelings too, but frankly, who gives a damn?
I give a critical appraisal of his style, offer a few pointers I learned way back in creative writing class, and hand it back to him. I wish him lots of luck. I know how hard it is trying to write a book. I also know he’ll never finish it.
We go for a Thai meal and a little vodka-fuelled chemistry sparks between us. He pays me loads of compliments but that’s just sycophancy and when he asks if there’s somewhere we can ‘go for coffee’ when we finish eating he adds:
‘You live near here, don’t you?’ with a most unsubtly raised eyebrow.
I definitely do not want to invite him home. I tell him there’s a café round the corner that serves good coffee, but I don’t want one, and he rescinds his request graciously.
As we leave the restaurant, he offers me his cashmere sweater because it’s chilly outside, and as we walk to my car he slips his arm through mine like an old pal. He’s rather sweet and chivalrous but…no bells. Not even a distant chimelet.
We peck a kiss goodbye; I get into my car and he walks off towards the station. One more Hallo…one more Goodbye. I'm tired and am really looking forward to getting into bed. Alone.
Friday. I trust you noticed I hardly mentioned CC at all yesterday and my philosophy of hoping he doesn’t call me so I can get over him quicker seems to be working. That and the Bach Flower Remedy that my daughter, Lily, prepared for me. She gave me a consultation last week while I was on a real CC low, and I found myself talking to her like she was a shrink or something.
She has a calm and caring way of discovering what ails you and I told her all sorts of personal stuff that maybe I shouldn’t have, what with her being ‘our kid’ ‘n all... When I'd explained the situation and my mixed-up feelings, she went off to prepare a potion. She added wild hawthorn for anxiety, walnut for melancholy, marjoram root for self-determination and arsenic in case none of the above worked. I’ve taken eight drops so far and I feel better already.
Around noon, I’m sitting at my desk tapping away and the postman rings. Twice.
I'm not expecting anything and then I remember...Rugby Player told me to look out for a parcel...
These bloody exes of yours, he texts back. I can’t even get a drink with you let alone waltz into your life and hog you forever. If you gave me a chance you’d forget all those fairycakes.
I’d forgotten I’d used this excuse before. If you’re going to lie you need a good memory. Or a d.o.b. that doesn’t being 194…
He forges on regardless:
All I want is to cook you a meal, tell you all my crap jokes, scrub your back in the bath and give you a deep tissue massage that will take your breath away.
Now this sounds like a pretty irresistible offer no matter which way you cut it. I mean when was the last time a good-looking 28-year old offered you such a teaser of temptations? I may allow him his way at some point, but for the foreseeable future, I think I can hold out.
At 7.35 I go and meet Tom Cat at the Elgin. Not much to look at but charming, polite and easy company nevertheless. In the present circumstances, this should be sufficient, but my Fit Bloke Alert doesn’t go off, so I know it ain’t going nowhere.
We have a couple of drinks and he removes a stack of papers from his man-bag. It’s the book he’s trying to write which he wants me to look at. Writers don’t really like looking at other people’s work, unless it’s truly appalling.
As Gore Vidal said: Whenever one of my friends succeeds, a little something in me dies.I
scan some of it, and it’s not bad – a tad overwritten, but about love and angst from the male perspective which is interesting. And guess what? Men have feelings too, but frankly, who gives a damn?
I give a critical appraisal of his style, offer a few pointers I learned way back in creative writing class, and hand it back to him. I wish him lots of luck. I know how hard it is trying to write a book. I also know he’ll never finish it.
We go for a Thai meal and a little vodka-fuelled chemistry sparks between us. He pays me loads of compliments but that’s just sycophancy and when he asks if there’s somewhere we can ‘go for coffee’ when we finish eating he adds:
‘You live near here, don’t you?’ with a most unsubtly raised eyebrow.
I definitely do not want to invite him home. I tell him there’s a café round the corner that serves good coffee, but I don’t want one, and he rescinds his request graciously.
As we leave the restaurant, he offers me his cashmere sweater because it’s chilly outside, and as we walk to my car he slips his arm through mine like an old pal. He’s rather sweet and chivalrous but…no bells. Not even a distant chimelet.
We peck a kiss goodbye; I get into my car and he walks off towards the station. One more Hallo…one more Goodbye. I'm tired and am really looking forward to getting into bed. Alone.
Friday. I trust you noticed I hardly mentioned CC at all yesterday and my philosophy of hoping he doesn’t call me so I can get over him quicker seems to be working. That and the Bach Flower Remedy that my daughter, Lily, prepared for me. She gave me a consultation last week while I was on a real CC low, and I found myself talking to her like she was a shrink or something.
She has a calm and caring way of discovering what ails you and I told her all sorts of personal stuff that maybe I shouldn’t have, what with her being ‘our kid’ ‘n all... When I'd explained the situation and my mixed-up feelings, she went off to prepare a potion. She added wild hawthorn for anxiety, walnut for melancholy, marjoram root for self-determination and arsenic in case none of the above worked. I’ve taken eight drops so far and I feel better already.
Around noon, I’m sitting at my desk tapping away and the postman rings. Twice.
I'm not expecting anything and then I remember...Rugby Player told me to look out for a parcel...
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
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.
‘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.
Monday, 8 September 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
Monday. I decide to adopt a new philosophy. If CC doesn’t call today, I shall be relieved. I shall pray it’s not him every time the phone rings, and be thankful when it isn’t. I shall start from this moment to get over this man ‘cos if I see him again, and I like him again, and then he doesn’t phone me again, I’ll have to travel this rotten road one more time and frankly, I don’t fancy the journey.
So now I’m glaring at my mobile phone muttering: "Don’t you dare ring, you bastard, stay well away from me, take your monkey business elsewhere…"
Meanwhile, like an army to the rescue, a whole tangle of toyboys get in touch, one after the blessed other.
I’ve got Flash Gordon asking if I want to have a drink after work on Friday.
I’ve got Rough Stuff on his daily mission to seduce, asking if I’m free at all this week.
I’ve got a blast from the past in the form of the Arrogant Rugby Player temporarily back from New York claiming to be two stone lighter, and advising me to look out for the postman. (Remember that little something he threatened to send me? Well I don’t know if you received it, but I certainly didn’t…)
He bangs on about how much I excite him and asks if I am 'someone who likes to be spoilt in lifestyle terms and indulged sexually.' What is it with these guys? Are they all on drugs or something? His PR campaign sounds like an advert for a Country House Hotel Sex Spa and I tuck the idea behind my ear for later as a possible future business venture.
I ignore him however. I’ve heard it all before, mate. Either shit or get off the pot.
My non-reply eggs him on and just as I'm starting to think he's a right jerkoff, he suddenly suggests taking me to dinner at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon, which turns him into a right jerkoff with taste.
Joel Robuchon is a squillion-star French chef with a new London restaurant I’ve been dying to go to, so I rescind my ignoration and we make an arrangement for three weeks hence which I expect him to either cancel or forget.
I get another message from a newcomer we'll call TomCat, who looks rather tasty and is something in the City. He steams right in asking when we can meet, so I make a tentative date for a drink tomorrow night in Islington, as my friend’s son is gigging again, and I have a latent desire to recreate the night MLP and I first met.
Tomorrow I’ll text Eurotrash to see if he wants to come over and play, so as far as the rest of this week is concerned, CC can go and fuck himself.
So now I’m glaring at my mobile phone muttering: "Don’t you dare ring, you bastard, stay well away from me, take your monkey business elsewhere…"
Meanwhile, like an army to the rescue, a whole tangle of toyboys get in touch, one after the blessed other.
I’ve got Flash Gordon asking if I want to have a drink after work on Friday.
I’ve got Rough Stuff on his daily mission to seduce, asking if I’m free at all this week.
I’ve got a blast from the past in the form of the Arrogant Rugby Player temporarily back from New York claiming to be two stone lighter, and advising me to look out for the postman. (Remember that little something he threatened to send me? Well I don’t know if you received it, but I certainly didn’t…)
He bangs on about how much I excite him and asks if I am 'someone who likes to be spoilt in lifestyle terms and indulged sexually.' What is it with these guys? Are they all on drugs or something? His PR campaign sounds like an advert for a Country House Hotel Sex Spa and I tuck the idea behind my ear for later as a possible future business venture.
I ignore him however. I’ve heard it all before, mate. Either shit or get off the pot.
My non-reply eggs him on and just as I'm starting to think he's a right jerkoff, he suddenly suggests taking me to dinner at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon, which turns him into a right jerkoff with taste.
Joel Robuchon is a squillion-star French chef with a new London restaurant I’ve been dying to go to, so I rescind my ignoration and we make an arrangement for three weeks hence which I expect him to either cancel or forget.
I get another message from a newcomer we'll call TomCat, who looks rather tasty and is something in the City. He steams right in asking when we can meet, so I make a tentative date for a drink tomorrow night in Islington, as my friend’s son is gigging again, and I have a latent desire to recreate the night MLP and I first met.
Tomorrow I’ll text Eurotrash to see if he wants to come over and play, so as far as the rest of this week is concerned, CC can go and fuck himself.
Friday, 29 August 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
In a weird way I manage to compartmentalize. This interlude with Eurotrash in no way affects my feelings for CC which are in a totally separate box marked PARANOID FIXATION OF 2008.
If CC comes up trumps, all bets are off but I am hedging those bets by keeping the other horses in my stable fed and watered and exercising them around the paddock at regular intervals to ensure their readiness for riding if, as, and when required.
My masculine side endorses this behaviour, while my feminine side weeps and wails and rents its clothing.
Sunday. I have lunch with my family and power walk two miles around Regent’s Park with Calm Best Friend. This solves nothing but makes my calves ache rather pleasingly.
Monday. I finally meet Rough Stuff for dinner. He looks like a cross between Ray Winstone and Alec Baldwin both of whom I fancy, but I don’t fancy him. He’s a working-class geezer who appears to have broken into a Jermyn Street Gentleman’s Outfitters and walked off dressed in the spoils.
He’s hard-nosed and savvy with a film script life story, but the cockney accent really jars with me. Although I’m attentive enough, all I can think about is:
When I wake up in the morning, I’ll be seeing CC ‘tomorrow’.
Unless, of course, he bottles it…
Tuesday. Well whaddya know? I should have gone down to William Hill and bet my flat on it - I could’ve retired on the proceeds.
Didn't I know it? Didn't I FUCKING KNOW IT. I switch my mobile on at 8.47 a.m. and there are two texts. One’s a ‘Good Morning, Princess’ from Rough Stuff, the other is a voicemail alert.
I dial 901 and YUP! it’s CC ‘postponing’ our dinner date.
The fucking, wanking, cunting, shitting, cock sucking bastard has blown me out. To give myself time to absorb this, I go to the fridge and check the sell-by date on the cheese I bought for the infamous fondue. It’s good for another couple of weeks. I may boil his head in it. But not until it’s gone off.
He’s left me a jolly upbeat message, though, considering he’s a manic depressive, bipolar, emotionally-arrested, dysfunctional nutcase. His voice mail is positively bubbly which I find very annoying. How dare he sound normal when he’s calling to cancel me?
What’s happened is, he tells me cheerfully once he’s commented on what a beautiful day it is, (TOSSER!) that he’s got into the office and checked his diary and found that he’s double-booked tomorrow evening. He’s heading up a think tank for his senior management to institute a media-related strategy whereby high-profile hunter gatherers can brainstorm their passive-aggressive admin exec counterparts.
Oh for the love of Christ, get over yourself, you twat.
He does however apologize four times and offers an immediate alternative, suggesting that in order to make it up to me, instead of me cooking, he’ll take me out instead.
Cold Comfort Farm, but at least he didn’t say: ‘…so I’ll see you around’.
Funnily enough, I’m not actually that devastated because I know that once tomorrow has come and gone, I’ll be back to square one again with nothing to look forward to.
I replay the message about eight times but I don’t read anything more onerous into it except that which I presume to be the truth. It’s too convoluted to be otherwise even from a half-baked potato like him. I decide not to reply just yet. A little mind game, methinks.
I compose texts in my head then go to a business meeting which takes up the rest of the morning. At 1.30 p.m. when he’s almost certain to be at lunch, I text to say that I’ve received his message and when shall we re-schedule for?
I purposely ask a question in order to provoke an answer but none is forthcoming.
I wait all day to hear from him until I can stand it no longer, and at 8.45 p.m. I call him back. It goes straight to voicemail.
I say ‘Hi, it’s me. Call when you’re free’ in Voice no. 32 : Bright and Breezy but Three Steps Away from a Shotgun. I get no reply.
Yet again with this man, I'm left feeling sad, let down and disappointed. I’m even starting to piss myself off never mind anyone else, and all this for a person who’s about as much use to me as a glacier mint is to a polar bear.
I beat myself up a little bit more thinking I should have called him back this morning, when the matter was fresh in his mind and his diary on his desk in front of him.
Now I’ve used up my text credit and instead of a mind game, I have to play the much reviled waiting game. I can’t help thinking that he’s obviously ‘not that into me…’
I play around on a dating site and make arrangements to meet a 23-year-old which cheers me up no end.
If CC comes up trumps, all bets are off but I am hedging those bets by keeping the other horses in my stable fed and watered and exercising them around the paddock at regular intervals to ensure their readiness for riding if, as, and when required.
My masculine side endorses this behaviour, while my feminine side weeps and wails and rents its clothing.
Sunday. I have lunch with my family and power walk two miles around Regent’s Park with Calm Best Friend. This solves nothing but makes my calves ache rather pleasingly.
Monday. I finally meet Rough Stuff for dinner. He looks like a cross between Ray Winstone and Alec Baldwin both of whom I fancy, but I don’t fancy him. He’s a working-class geezer who appears to have broken into a Jermyn Street Gentleman’s Outfitters and walked off dressed in the spoils.
He’s hard-nosed and savvy with a film script life story, but the cockney accent really jars with me. Although I’m attentive enough, all I can think about is:
When I wake up in the morning, I’ll be seeing CC ‘tomorrow’.
Unless, of course, he bottles it…
Tuesday. Well whaddya know? I should have gone down to William Hill and bet my flat on it - I could’ve retired on the proceeds.
Didn't I know it? Didn't I FUCKING KNOW IT. I switch my mobile on at 8.47 a.m. and there are two texts. One’s a ‘Good Morning, Princess’ from Rough Stuff, the other is a voicemail alert.
I dial 901 and YUP! it’s CC ‘postponing’ our dinner date.
The fucking, wanking, cunting, shitting, cock sucking bastard has blown me out. To give myself time to absorb this, I go to the fridge and check the sell-by date on the cheese I bought for the infamous fondue. It’s good for another couple of weeks. I may boil his head in it. But not until it’s gone off.
He’s left me a jolly upbeat message, though, considering he’s a manic depressive, bipolar, emotionally-arrested, dysfunctional nutcase. His voice mail is positively bubbly which I find very annoying. How dare he sound normal when he’s calling to cancel me?
What’s happened is, he tells me cheerfully once he’s commented on what a beautiful day it is, (TOSSER!) that he’s got into the office and checked his diary and found that he’s double-booked tomorrow evening. He’s heading up a think tank for his senior management to institute a media-related strategy whereby high-profile hunter gatherers can brainstorm their passive-aggressive admin exec counterparts.
Oh for the love of Christ, get over yourself, you twat.
He does however apologize four times and offers an immediate alternative, suggesting that in order to make it up to me, instead of me cooking, he’ll take me out instead.
Cold Comfort Farm, but at least he didn’t say: ‘…so I’ll see you around’.
Funnily enough, I’m not actually that devastated because I know that once tomorrow has come and gone, I’ll be back to square one again with nothing to look forward to.
I replay the message about eight times but I don’t read anything more onerous into it except that which I presume to be the truth. It’s too convoluted to be otherwise even from a half-baked potato like him. I decide not to reply just yet. A little mind game, methinks.
I compose texts in my head then go to a business meeting which takes up the rest of the morning. At 1.30 p.m. when he’s almost certain to be at lunch, I text to say that I’ve received his message and when shall we re-schedule for?
I purposely ask a question in order to provoke an answer but none is forthcoming.
I wait all day to hear from him until I can stand it no longer, and at 8.45 p.m. I call him back. It goes straight to voicemail.
I say ‘Hi, it’s me. Call when you’re free’ in Voice no. 32 : Bright and Breezy but Three Steps Away from a Shotgun. I get no reply.
Yet again with this man, I'm left feeling sad, let down and disappointed. I’m even starting to piss myself off never mind anyone else, and all this for a person who’s about as much use to me as a glacier mint is to a polar bear.
I beat myself up a little bit more thinking I should have called him back this morning, when the matter was fresh in his mind and his diary on his desk in front of him.
Now I’ve used up my text credit and instead of a mind game, I have to play the much reviled waiting game. I can’t help thinking that he’s obviously ‘not that into me…’
I play around on a dating site and make arrangements to meet a 23-year-old which cheers me up no end.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...17/08/08
We have a slightly stilted conversation about what we’ve both been doing (I’ve been staying home every night pining, obviously!) and he’s been mostly working late. Thrilling.
When the conversation looks like it’s running out of gas, I leap into the driving seat and slam my foot on the accelerator.
‘I’m thinking of making a fondue one night,’ I say, winging it, 'the one we never had on holiday, remember? It would be a shame to go to all that trouble just for one, so how about you come over and share it with me?’
Expecting a hesitation or downright refusal, I am staggered when he answers:
‘I should really take you out.’
My heart bounds like Baryshnikov across the dining-table and lands elegantly atop the sideboard.
‘I’ll do the fondue this time and you can take me out the time after how about next Thursday?’ I end the sentence gasping for breath.
He can’t do Thursday, I can’t do Wednesday so we make an arrangement for twelve days hence.
That’s Twelve Days.
Hence.
‘7.30?’ he asks, as if he actually intends to keep this date.
‘Perfect!’ I reply and hang up.
I look around to see if a bunch of red-nosed clowns aren’t pissing themselves laughing behind my back but they’re not. I walk over to the hall mirror and kiss myself full on the mouth, then I turn on my heels and moonwalk backwards down the corridor until I reach my bedroom.
Did you see what I just did there? I ask the curtains. They stare back at me impassively as if to say: 'What?'
For the next twelve days, I spend a lot of time singing If Tomorrow Never Comes. ‘Looking forward to’ is the sweetest foreplay. I contemplate what mood he might prefer to find me in: light and fluffy? Deep and serious? Sexy and seductive? Will he keep the date or suddenly decide he has to go salmon fishing on the banks of the Clyde?
Time drags along like a half-dead donkey and every time the phone rings, I’m convinced it’s him calling to cancel. Notwithstanding this, I carry on planning the menu like I’ve got Gordon, Jamie and Heston coming to dinner.
Wednesday.
I’m in the local wine bar with my laptop when I get an email from Eurotrash. He wants his art book back. I tell him I’ll drop it off when I’m next passing but he suggests picking it up one night after work.
I decide to drop the book back there and then. I go home, tart myself up a bit and drive to the gallery.
Loud music is playing and he's absorbed on the computer so he doesn’t look up as I walk in. I place the book down on his oversized desk and slide it slowly towards him. He jumps when he notices it, clutches his chest, and stares up at me. The blueness of his eyes is astounding. He bounds out of his chair and comes round to hug me so tightly I can hardly breathe.
‘I heffen’t herd vrom you in such a long vile’ he complains.
‘Ditto!’ I answer. ‘And why should you hear from me? You virtually stood me up last time.'
‘I really vasn’t vell,…’ he vhines.
‘Self-inflicted, by all accounts.’ I retort. ‘No sympathy there, I’m afraid.’
‘No, really… I had zuch a zore zroat. I shtill don’t feel right…’
I raise one eyebrow and walk off to look at the new installations. He follows me and grabs my arm.
‘I like the vay you’re so angry’ he breathes, his lips almost touching mine. ‘Like it vas important to you…’
‘I’m not angry’ I snap. ‘I just don’t like being dumped at the last minute, that’s all.’
He shrugs apologetically and carries on stroking my arm.
‘Vy ish it…’ he goes on, ‘…zat I always get so horny venever I see you?’
‘Cos you're a dirty bastard and I'm hot!' I answer and I leave the gallery with an extra swing in my step.
No sooner am I out on the street than he texts me: YOU ARE SO DELICIOUS XXXX
'So come up and eat me sometime' I reply and go home to do the ironing.
When the conversation looks like it’s running out of gas, I leap into the driving seat and slam my foot on the accelerator.
‘I’m thinking of making a fondue one night,’ I say, winging it, 'the one we never had on holiday, remember? It would be a shame to go to all that trouble just for one, so how about you come over and share it with me?’
Expecting a hesitation or downright refusal, I am staggered when he answers:
‘I should really take you out.’
My heart bounds like Baryshnikov across the dining-table and lands elegantly atop the sideboard.
‘I’ll do the fondue this time and you can take me out the time after how about next Thursday?’ I end the sentence gasping for breath.
He can’t do Thursday, I can’t do Wednesday so we make an arrangement for twelve days hence.
That’s Twelve Days.
Hence.
‘7.30?’ he asks, as if he actually intends to keep this date.
‘Perfect!’ I reply and hang up.
I look around to see if a bunch of red-nosed clowns aren’t pissing themselves laughing behind my back but they’re not. I walk over to the hall mirror and kiss myself full on the mouth, then I turn on my heels and moonwalk backwards down the corridor until I reach my bedroom.
Did you see what I just did there? I ask the curtains. They stare back at me impassively as if to say: 'What?'
For the next twelve days, I spend a lot of time singing If Tomorrow Never Comes. ‘Looking forward to’ is the sweetest foreplay. I contemplate what mood he might prefer to find me in: light and fluffy? Deep and serious? Sexy and seductive? Will he keep the date or suddenly decide he has to go salmon fishing on the banks of the Clyde?
Time drags along like a half-dead donkey and every time the phone rings, I’m convinced it’s him calling to cancel. Notwithstanding this, I carry on planning the menu like I’ve got Gordon, Jamie and Heston coming to dinner.
Wednesday.
I’m in the local wine bar with my laptop when I get an email from Eurotrash. He wants his art book back. I tell him I’ll drop it off when I’m next passing but he suggests picking it up one night after work.
I decide to drop the book back there and then. I go home, tart myself up a bit and drive to the gallery.
Loud music is playing and he's absorbed on the computer so he doesn’t look up as I walk in. I place the book down on his oversized desk and slide it slowly towards him. He jumps when he notices it, clutches his chest, and stares up at me. The blueness of his eyes is astounding. He bounds out of his chair and comes round to hug me so tightly I can hardly breathe.
‘I heffen’t herd vrom you in such a long vile’ he complains.
‘Ditto!’ I answer. ‘And why should you hear from me? You virtually stood me up last time.'
‘I really vasn’t vell,…’ he vhines.
‘Self-inflicted, by all accounts.’ I retort. ‘No sympathy there, I’m afraid.’
‘No, really… I had zuch a zore zroat. I shtill don’t feel right…’
I raise one eyebrow and walk off to look at the new installations. He follows me and grabs my arm.
‘I like the vay you’re so angry’ he breathes, his lips almost touching mine. ‘Like it vas important to you…’
‘I’m not angry’ I snap. ‘I just don’t like being dumped at the last minute, that’s all.’
He shrugs apologetically and carries on stroking my arm.
‘Vy ish it…’ he goes on, ‘…zat I always get so horny venever I see you?’
‘Cos you're a dirty bastard and I'm hot!' I answer and I leave the gallery with an extra swing in my step.
No sooner am I out on the street than he texts me: YOU ARE SO DELICIOUS XXXX
'So come up and eat me sometime' I reply and go home to do the ironing.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
I'M BACK! 08/08/08
Hi readers everywhere!
Thanks for being patient with me while I toiled away on the cliff face of literature (a lovely terrace in Andalusia...) working on my novel Blood on the Sand.
I'll keep you posted as to how that's going but for now on with The Daily Male:
Friday. I set off for a couple of days away with an old friend to his country cottage in Devon. PT and I have known each other for many years. When we first met, he made a bit of a play for me, but I wasn’t attracted to him in that way and he seems to have accepted it. He does still try it on occasionally but I slap him down affectionately and he takes it in good part. I think...
As we are closeted in his car for the long drive West, I tell him all about CC. He listens attentively but doesn’t express much, except to say: ‘He sounds like trouble’.
The weekend is pleasant enough. It’s always good to get out of town as long as you know you’re coming back.
On the Sunday afternoon, I return to London by train as PT is staying on. I’ve got the steak date with Eurotrash to look forward to but as the train is chugging through Berkshire, the trashy bastard texts to tell me he’s ‘not feeling very well’, having had ‘a large one’ the night before.
How fucking dare you! I think to myself. You knew you had to be on top form for Sunday night! I could have stayed on in the country and now I've got nothing to do when I get home. I consider hurling myself into the path of an oncoming express, but Mr. Branson realises this sort of thing might happen (he obviously knows men like Eurotrash personally) so he's sealed up all the windows.
My disgruntledness of the bloody awfulness of Sundays in general, and cancelled dates on Sunday nights in particular, reaches an all time high. I console myself with a cosy, little homily: Life sucks and then you die.
I draft some texts to CC to pass the time on the rest of journey. Writing to him is like talking to him…
My darling, I haven’t slept for nights. (not strictly true). I do not wish to harass you emotionally (strictly true) but is there any way we could stay in touch that you would be comfortable with? I can’t bear the thought of losing you forever… I miss you every day...(totally true).
I save these in my drafts folder.
Wednesday. Unable to keep my counsel any longer, I send CC the favourite from among my drafted texts:
I’ve waited with the noose around my neck for you to kick the chair away. Please either do that or come and lift me down.
After several hours, I receive the much-dreaded reply:
I’m really sorry lovely Wendy but I have read your memoir and I know that this perhaps overly private and sensitive man cannot do this. I wish I could but I can’t. Sorry sorry sorry. Your adventure is bold, courageous and I respect what you are doing xxx
I only wrote The Toyboy Diaries to inspire other women that all things are possible no matter your age. I never expected it to come back and bite me on the bum.
Through a mist of tears, I text back:
Sweetheart, I am devastated... please don't judge me by the contents of a book. I am worth more than that... And I am.
I get no answer.
The massacre of my last vestige of hope leaves me lost without a cause. I feel like a rat swimming against the tide in a maelstrom of muck of my own making. Now what? Now what? I feel like my life has turned sepia. Where did all the colour go?
Another week begins and unable one night when I am home alone, I decide I have to phone him. I psych up myself for at least an hour, composing disjointed sentences the words of which shatter into a crazy alphabet which swims around in my head.
Finally, hardly making any sense, I dial his number. It rings a few times and goes to voice mail.
‘H-hallo?’ I stutter. ‘It’s…er… Wendy?…er…I’m…er… not sure if I’m allowed to do this?…Am I still a…er…friend or an ex-friend…? (nervous laugh) I just wanted to say… I think about you often and I’d really like to know how you are? You see… I…er…I really miss you? …and I care about you?…and er…it would be nice to hear from you?… to know you’re OK…?
I have no idea why I’m talking Australian? but I know I sound vulnerable and insecure, and this is not an act. What I’ve created by making the call is renewed hope…the hope that he will call me back.
Had there been a brick wall within bashing distance, I may just as well have impacted my weary head against it but within a few minutes, my mobile rings and it’s him!
Thanks for being patient with me while I toiled away on the cliff face of literature (a lovely terrace in Andalusia...) working on my novel Blood on the Sand.
I'll keep you posted as to how that's going but for now on with The Daily Male:
Friday. I set off for a couple of days away with an old friend to his country cottage in Devon. PT and I have known each other for many years. When we first met, he made a bit of a play for me, but I wasn’t attracted to him in that way and he seems to have accepted it. He does still try it on occasionally but I slap him down affectionately and he takes it in good part. I think...
As we are closeted in his car for the long drive West, I tell him all about CC. He listens attentively but doesn’t express much, except to say: ‘He sounds like trouble’.
The weekend is pleasant enough. It’s always good to get out of town as long as you know you’re coming back.
On the Sunday afternoon, I return to London by train as PT is staying on. I’ve got the steak date with Eurotrash to look forward to but as the train is chugging through Berkshire, the trashy bastard texts to tell me he’s ‘not feeling very well’, having had ‘a large one’ the night before.
How fucking dare you! I think to myself. You knew you had to be on top form for Sunday night! I could have stayed on in the country and now I've got nothing to do when I get home. I consider hurling myself into the path of an oncoming express, but Mr. Branson realises this sort of thing might happen (he obviously knows men like Eurotrash personally) so he's sealed up all the windows.
My disgruntledness of the bloody awfulness of Sundays in general, and cancelled dates on Sunday nights in particular, reaches an all time high. I console myself with a cosy, little homily: Life sucks and then you die.
I draft some texts to CC to pass the time on the rest of journey. Writing to him is like talking to him…
My darling, I haven’t slept for nights. (not strictly true). I do not wish to harass you emotionally (strictly true) but is there any way we could stay in touch that you would be comfortable with? I can’t bear the thought of losing you forever… I miss you every day...(totally true).
I save these in my drafts folder.
Wednesday. Unable to keep my counsel any longer, I send CC the favourite from among my drafted texts:
I’ve waited with the noose around my neck for you to kick the chair away. Please either do that or come and lift me down.
After several hours, I receive the much-dreaded reply:
I’m really sorry lovely Wendy but I have read your memoir and I know that this perhaps overly private and sensitive man cannot do this. I wish I could but I can’t. Sorry sorry sorry. Your adventure is bold, courageous and I respect what you are doing xxx
I only wrote The Toyboy Diaries to inspire other women that all things are possible no matter your age. I never expected it to come back and bite me on the bum.
Through a mist of tears, I text back:
Sweetheart, I am devastated... please don't judge me by the contents of a book. I am worth more than that... And I am.
I get no answer.
The massacre of my last vestige of hope leaves me lost without a cause. I feel like a rat swimming against the tide in a maelstrom of muck of my own making. Now what? Now what? I feel like my life has turned sepia. Where did all the colour go?
Another week begins and unable one night when I am home alone, I decide I have to phone him. I psych up myself for at least an hour, composing disjointed sentences the words of which shatter into a crazy alphabet which swims around in my head.
Finally, hardly making any sense, I dial his number. It rings a few times and goes to voice mail.
‘H-hallo?’ I stutter. ‘It’s…er… Wendy?…er…I’m…er… not sure if I’m allowed to do this?…Am I still a…er…friend or an ex-friend…? (nervous laugh) I just wanted to say… I think about you often and I’d really like to know how you are? You see… I…er…I really miss you? …and I care about you?…and er…it would be nice to hear from you?… to know you’re OK…?
I have no idea why I’m talking Australian? but I know I sound vulnerable and insecure, and this is not an act. What I’ve created by making the call is renewed hope…the hope that he will call me back.
Had there been a brick wall within bashing distance, I may just as well have impacted my weary head against it but within a few minutes, my mobile rings and it’s him!
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