The Shameful Admission

I have a Shameful Admission.

I can only make this S.A. because this is the equivalent of my diary and diaries do not judge or ridicule or reply. Plus no one knows who I am and there's probably no one reading this so it's safe.

Last night I texted a boy in response to his ad on a dating-type website.

Oh God it looks even worse written down. The thing is, in this sprawling metropolis I have realised that it's basically impossible to meet any nice/non-axe murdery men who might want to buy me red wine and kiss me next to a waiting taxi then send me naughty texts at bedtime. It's either a constant race-to-shag or something resembling the finals for the Ugly Freak Olympics (I know, I know - shallow bint).

I'm probably going to the wrong places but bars seem to be filled with desperate, drink-sodden piss artists hanging around in packs uttering such alluring chat up lines as 'If you leave now, who will I have sex with?' (this was said to me in Apt Bar in the City last week with no provocation whatsoever - total dive, don't bother). Another sparkling opening gambit recently was 'What's the difference between a bespoke suit and off the peg?' Firstly, what?? Secondly, props for originality but please, please fuck off really quickly. It's hopeless.

My justification for my actions was that I have given my phone number out countless times in bars with varying degrees of success and gone home with a few and any one of them could have been a Dangerous Type couldn't they? So why do we assume people that post on websites for a date are loonies/sad cases? Maybe they've seen the light... OK so I'm trying hard to justify the S.A. but still.
Anyway, we shall call him Ad Man and his post sounded lovely. Normal, down to earth and friendly and he could spell! I know that may not sound like the most important criteria but believe me, it matters. A man could be the sexiest, most well paid cock-model who also does work for charity but if he can't spell, he comes off sounding like a drooling moron. There was no option to reply by email to Ad Man, so I texted him (cue profuse sweating and the panicky flinging of my phone onto my bed as it sent).

This morning I got a text back. Initial high followed by wave of sicky-fear about what I'd entered into but fortunately his text was as normal as his post - even lamenting the number of nutters who had responded, whilst taking care to point out I wasn't one of them. Already I'm at the top of the pack by virtue of not being a nutter! He gave me his email address so I waited a non-desperate looking amount of time (an hour and a half) and emailed him. No response yet but he probably likes his job and is actually working or something.

Unfortunately there is one very good reason why I should not have done this. I should not have even been surfing this sort of website and I definitely should not have fired off a deliberately casual email this morning. It's the reason I'm wondering exactly what I'm hoping for. Hmmmm.

The Rise and Fall of Minty

August.

We have a rat.

Two previous sightings in the kitchen (both by me) have led to poison (rodent pic 'n' mix more like) being put down. In an effort to humanize the creature I name it Minty.

One Saturday morning whilst home visiting the parents I get a text from my housemate K to say that after stumbling home drunk, she'd been woken up at 5am by a 'small thud' only to find Minty the rat (snaggle-toothed denizen of the gutters) on the pillow next to her. Did you know rats can climb brick walls? Neither did we. It had scaled the outside of the house and climbed through her window. K did what any sensible, professional grown up would do. She shrieked, leapt out of bed (still pissed) and spent a good ten minutes crouched, gibbering on a chair outside her room, eventually deciding to wake up A and cower in her room for the remainder of the night. Much later that morning, with the comforting light of day upon them, they ventured back to K's room to verify the presence (or lack thereof) of Minty. As they were shaking out the covers and laughing about the whole thing as only the mildly hysteric can, Minty shot out from the bed where he had evidently spent the night, scaring the bejesus out of A and K and A's stepsister who was visiting for the first time (welcome to London).

Our landlady and the pest people were summoned and Tone The Rat Guy arrived in a van discreetly marked 'Bird Control'. Tone, full sized air rifle casually propped on his hip, asked for a bin bag to clear up the utterly ineffectual old poison we'd had down so K opened the bin bag drawer and guess who was skulking inside? Yep - you have to hand it to Minty, he really has...sorry, had a sense of humour. Well K lost it at this point and spent the rest of the time shaking outside in my landlady's Volvo. Tone couldn't get to Minty because he had taken refuge behind our sink which is apparently where he had been living (shudder). So the only option was to leave the area surrounded with a veritable battalion of traps - electronic, snapper, glue, plus proper, 'can't buy it in the shops' poison which Tone referred to as 'the kill-a-dog stuff' (luckily we don't have a dog).
They shut the kitchen door at 12pm that Saturday and we didn't venture back in until 9 the following morning by which time I had bravely returned home. K, A and the stepsister helpfully stood guard near the front door at the other end of the hallway while I (how did that happen?) gingerly opened the kitchen door. There was Minty. Stuck to a glue trap; alive and very, very angry. It was like watching some sort of ratty epileptic fit as he hurled himself around the kitchen floor in a vain attempt to break free. Tone The Rat Guy was there within half an hour. He unsheathed his massive weapon in our hallway (snigger) and shot the poor blighter twice. We all felt the 'One for luck!' comment, made whilst he reloaded with all the zeal of Dirty Harry about to bust a drugs ring was somewhat unnecessary but then he looked like a man who got his pleasure wherever he could.

So Minty is no more. Our kitchen was bleached beyond the reach of any germ on earth and the holes have since been blocked up. K is twitching constantly, refusing to cook in the kitchen and can't sleep without self-medicating so we're keeping her away from sugar and forks. A found droppings behind a cupboard in her room a couple of nights later. We're keeping our fingers crossed and our mouths shut.

Testing...1,2,3

I have been inspired. I've skulked in the shadows for far too long, it's time to step into the light, raise my virtual face to the virtual sun and pour my Important Thoughts into the virtual universe.

The only slight issue, tiny really, is that I'm not currently having any. Important Thoughts, I mean. It was a different story at 1am as I lay awake listening to Party House having another unfeasibly large gathering on our street, killing time by composing 'hilarious' posts in my head. I awoke convinced I was going to start my own blog and unleash my consciousness into the world, enrapturing thousands with my insightful missives. Even on the tube this morning I remained inspired despite the attempts of the man next to me to asphyxiate the entire carriage with Lynx deodorant. I'm not sure which flavour he'd selected as they largely smell the same to me but I would imagine it's called something like 'Thrust' or 'Stud' or 'Delusional.' I was able to block him out in the nasal sense and chuckle quietly to myself with glee (whilst maintaining the Double Hard Bastard/Don't Fuck With Me stare, natch) at the thought of all the lovely, juicy bits of consciousness that would keep me blogging away for weeks.

Yet here I am. Blog created, stack of work firmly ignored, tea brewed and...nothing. Not a squeak, not a drop, not a sprinkle of inspiration.
Perhaps the key is stealth. If I approach the blog determined to write something I would want to read if I wasn't me and suddenly found me, then the internal pressure will just overwhelm me. Countless failures of the past will loom like sinewy demons into my peripheral vision, taunting me with the laughter of the schoolyard like that time I fell over whilst playing kiss chase and ended up with fish lips for a week when I was seven, and I'll have to have a cup of tea and a bit of a sit down.
On the other hand, if I just keep it open on the desktop, quietly doing whatever open applications quietly do, I can surprise my thought processes into action by just clicking and typing randomly.

Actually there has been quite a lot of action this year - a lot of events that have made me think 'If only I had a blog, this would make a great post.' I may begin all this properly with a retrospective of 2006 because it really has been a doozy (whatever that is). I guess bringing it all up to date would make sense, I'll just have to decide where to start. Minty the Rat, Kidnappings, Break Ups... so much joy to choose from.

I'll have a think.