Scum And Other Animals

I really don’t want to tell you this story because I’d prefer to keep this blog light and frothy, tell you stories about my warts, Rasta pubes or musings on the benefits of burkhas. Fun and drivel. Sadly, however, sometimes it just can’t be. Those of you who have never had to endure some of the horrors of meeting people via the internet, probably can’t imagine that this stuff happens to ‘normal’ people, probably can’t imagine how you’d react.  

Stella turned up yesterday, hot-cross-bun-less and not wearing make-up. Something was clearly up. She dropped herself onto the conservatory sofa and grunted. Better make a cup of tea, I thought. I tiptoed about the kitchen waiting for her to speak. Nothing. I made the cup of tea and placed it in front of her. Nothing. Eventually, since the softly, softly approach was getting me nowhere, I ventured "What’s up?"

"Men," she said. "Bloody men."

Oh that! Why didn’t you say so in the first place? 

"What about them?"

"You’ll never believe what happened to me yesterday."

I thought "I expect I will". Best just to let her get it out of her system. 

"I mean – what is it about me?" she said. "What the hell am I doing wrong? I’m straight-forward, fun, relatively intelligent, honest, hard-working. I scrub up well, know how to behave in all walks of life. And yet..."

"And yet what?" I said. 

"Last night, I let somebody IM me again," she said. "Actually, I just wanted a chat, and I didn’t want to call you coz you said you were going to have an early night. I was wide awake, I’d been working on the computer and I was feeling sort of lonely."

Ah, I could see where this was going.

She went on. "I’m not saying I was entirely blameless; it does serve me right… a bit. But only because I should have learned my lesson from last time. But, you know, you keep thinking, hoping against hope that people are going to be OK. Oh anyway, the long and the short of it, Bette, is that the guy asked me if I wanted to see him in the pop up, I said no, but he still put his web cam on and there’s he was in front of me - wanking." 

There was a sadness and disappointment about her; probably as a result of that last fiasco with the Market Research Guy. It wasn’t that she was shocked or outraged by what he did. Who cares? People do it. But here was a Stella I hadn’t seen before; her optimism had somehow been raped. 

And I just wanted to smack the douchebag, arsehole, fuckwit. Sorry about the language - I’m feeling extraordinarily angry on her behalf. Because for all that I sometimes portray her as pushy and gobby and out-there in this blog, she’s got a heart of gold, is one of the most considerate people I know, is a super mum whose kids (despite my silly digs at them) are a real credit to her, and has so much life, stamina and adventure in her that any man should think himself bloody grateful to have her. 

"Sod it," she said after a couple of minutes of staring out into my garden. "Where's your Ipod? Stick it on." She scrolled down, picked up my orange highlighter, put it to her lips and began to sing to this. Irrepressible - thank God!  

I can’t say that I would be quite so bothered if this scenario had happened to me, well, not after my recent KUTA and the guy on the mobile. I’m learning too. I think I'm almost at the point of being able to treat it like any another David Attenborough documentary - a brief glimpse at an animal in its own habitat. 

Meanwhile, I do believe I have a rather lovely date coming up shortly; I don't quite know why but I feel really good about it. (Kiss of death?) Also, Stella has recycled one of her ex dates onto the same friend I recycled my ex date on. The system is working well. ;) 

Quel branleur!

You might need some help - click here - voila!

I went on the website and received a message from a guy somewhat younger than me – OK, ten years younger than me. There was the usual rubbish about ‘Age is just a number’ from his side, and the usual response from me. Nevertheless, he was amusing and witty, very nice really, a gentleman, so I accepted his IM when it pinged up in front of me. That went well too -- the sort of conversation you might have with a new colleague. We got beyond the idea of a ‘date’ as such, but he was new to the area and would just like to have the odd coffee, meal, drink with someone who is good fun. (Alright, Stella, stop laughing. I am good fun sometimes.)

I gave him my mobile number so we could arrange this petit rendez-vous. On Saturday I was trotting round Marks and Spencer when I got a text message from him.  A bit of harmless chitchat ensued with a query as to how far I was from the lingerie section… As it happens, I was right slap bang right in the middle of it because I need something to keep the blubber at bay, something – ahem - large. (You've seen the general state of affairs.)  Of course, he was not to know the prevailing abdominal catastrophe, and I wasn’t going to tell him, so I played along with some of the banter. A bit of it. Some. Not a lot. After a few minutes I said I had to go because I was at the checkout, bye.

On Sunday morning, he texted me asking if I’d managed to get my shopping done, if I’d had a pleasant evening etc. I replied politely, normal fashion.

Then he said that since he was all alone, he had to find some way of keeping himself amused for the rest of the day.

Then he said he'd just go ahead solo.

Then he said he had pulled up my photo from the website.

Then he said he had enlarged the photo from the website.

Anyway, why didn’t the nuns warn me? What didn’t Stella warn me? I actually thought he was joking – I really, really did.  What's more I thought the very notion was hilariously absurd, so I quipped back ‘Haha! Very funny. My kids would be so proud – must send a newsletter round the school… ;)’

Then he phoned me, and I answered - don't ask me why. I still have no idea.  

We seemed back to normal. Following from some of the conversation we’d had on the website, he asked what I had planned for the day, whether I was going to be doing any gardening, or whether I was going out with my mates? I said I was going to do some gardening. He reiterated that he still had my picture in front of him, and I laughed and said perhaps my arch nemesis, Sharon Stone (spit!), might be a better option.

He made a weird noise. “Are you OK? I said.

More of the peculiar noise. He sounded as if he was having a heart attack: moaning, groaning, deep breathing.  “Yes, thanks,” he murmured. “I’m having a great time.”

What?

Next!

I mean -- for goodness sake -- on Sunday of all days?! You never know, somebody might have been watching.