After enduring a couple of days punctuated by Placebo’s Pure Morning going round and around in my head (A friend in need’s a friend indeed… A friend with weed is better… A friend with breasts and all the rest… A FRIEND WHO’S DRESSED IN PLEATHER), I gave in to peer pressure/blatant bullying/sheer intrigue/the boredom of a burgeoning hangover and decided the time had come to message Pleatherman with one of Amy’s suggested conversational starters.
I opened the Match app, found his profile, clicked on the wee envelope icon…
WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?!
I MESSAGED HIM LAST NIGHT…
The Tory Teacher of date #1 would have uttered a polite ‘oh sugar’ at this point. He said ‘oh sugar’ when he was told the roast beef had run out, he said it again – a little more forcefully – when the waitress announced there was a delay on food (in retrospect, he was clearly enjoying my company just as much as I was his), and once more when he dropped his napkin. I didn’t find his restraint remotely attractive.
I was certainly not saying ‘oh sugar’ on realising I had sent a drunken one-word text to Pleatherman at ten to midnight the previous evening…
It was succinct, it was direct, it was straight to the point. I’ll give myself that. There was no point pretending that the friend who insisted on that second bottle of Sauvignon was also guilty of commandeering my phone and sending it on my behalf. ‘Pint?’ is exactly the sort of text I tend to send when under the influence of several alcoholic beverages.
CRAPPETY CRAPPETY CRAP.
Okay okay, don’t panic, I told myself. He hasn’t read it. He’s probably never on here. Caring for one’s special pleather suit must be pretty time consuming (not to mention the hours involved actually getting in and out of the thing); it probably doesn’t leave him with a lot of spare seconds to check his messages. It’ll all be fine; by the time he reads it I’ll have forgotten all about him. And I didn’t even put any kisses or mention the baby oil v’s lube debate (for shining the pleather; get your mind out of the gutter). And I didn’t enquire as to whether he lives with his mother and if she took the resplendent-in-shiny-pleather photo for him… Or if, in actual fact, Mum’s been dead for a while now, but he hasn’t reported it to the relevant authorities… Or whether she’s dead and he hasn’t reported it, but he does take the time to go in and tenderly brush her hair each morning. Or any of the other hot topics we’ve been collectively wondering about.
IT’S ALL GOING TO BE OKAY.
Then, a couple of hours later (at around about the time my Hangover Proper was kicking in), this happens:
You know that split second when something really, really bad happens, like you accidentally send an incriminating text to the wrong person, or Cc the wrong colleague in on an email, or think you’ve sent a message to the wrong group chat, or the door slams shut behind you and you realise you’re not in the en suite but are, in fact, locked out in the corridor wearing a pair of flesh coloured knickers AND NOTHING ELSE (whole other story), and you get that sense of time standing still accompanied by a shot of adrenaline that makes you feel instantly shaky and sick? That is how I felt at this moment in time.
HE’S READ THE BLOG.
HE’S REVERSE-PICTURE-SEARCHED ME AND KNOWS WHO I AM.
HE’S GOING TO TRACK ME DOWN AND STRANGLE ME WITH A LEATHER WHIP OR HIS LEATHER-GLOVE-CLAD HANDS OR SUCHLIKE .
“I can think of worse ways to go” said Amy (most unhelpfully, I thought).
The girls encouraged me to read it and I wondered if perhaps I’ve read too many low-brow thrillers in my time… So I took a deep breath, thought about the blog, and clicked…
No thanks. Good luck
The sheer cheek of him.
Good luck? GOOD LUCK?!
At least I drunkenly punctuated my one-word sentence. This shiny wee shite didn’t even feel I was deserving of a full stop.
How very dare he turn me down!
And then I started to feel a teeny tiny bit relieved… I’d tried to contact him (let’s not dwell on the fact that I don’t really remember doing so…) so nobody can accuse me of failing to embrace the spirit of the blog, but I wasn’t going to have to dig out those dusty stilettos after all! And if he’d any desire to strangle me, he would have probably agreed to that pint…
Onwards and upwards…