There was another reason why I didn’t want to write about this; it wasn’t just about my being a fool. I felt, despite everything, an element of disloyalty. Yes, I know it sounds deranged, but don’t forget my strict French, Catholic, 19th century upbringing – these things are hard to shake off, mes chers!
As it happens, after Stella had a go at me and I began to realise I’d never write another blog if I didn’t get the biker out of the way, I got another email from him. It was about an entirely unrelated matter – he just wanted the phone number of someone I'd mentioned who might be willing to help with one of his charitable projects. He was embarrassed to ask, obviously, but thought I would understand. I did. The Greater Good and all that crap.
But my conscience was pricking at me too. I knew I wanted to write about this fiasco, but – oh, you know - blergh, bloody scruples – I hate them. Remember I told you he was a poet and a writer? We had, in fact, chatted about the possibility of co-writing something; I’ve never done that before and thought it might be fun. Even the porno rewrite might have been amusing!
So I plucked up the chutzpah and I asked him if he’d mind if I wrote this story. And he said, assuming anonymity was assured, not at all.
He… said… Not… At… All.
He said he'd behaved like a prat, and as crazy stories go, it’s a good one.
See - told you he was nice. Deep down.
Oooh, what was that that just floated by?
Somebody ping it for me, for Christ’s sake!