What did you just say?!?!

Sheesh. Three posts in 7 days. Clearly exams bring out the writer in me. Enjoy! xx

My friend was having a fight with her now ex man friend (no, not a Rottweiler). She had outlined a rather complex argument and the guy’s only response was ‘Touche’. She sent me that text message and I burst out laughing. She was seething down the phone and I could feel her anger, though I’m a few thousand miles away. I don’t know what he expected would happen, but ‘touche’ was not a good way to get laid. It did make me think of a few of the worst statements I’ve heard over my relatively short life, so I thought I’d share...please feel free to add your own in your comments!

Every guy has at some point been asked, ‘do I look fat in this?’ Everyone knows it’s a devilish question to ask. Even when girls ask it, we know it’ll do no good. What we really meant to say was, ‘I really like this dress, please say you like it too’, but it came out wrong. You don’t need experience to learn that the automatic answer is ‘no’ with no hesitation, no addendums to the opinion, no comparisons (DSTV advert with chopsticks and pasta). At least I thought you didn’t. In my second year of uni, I shared a floor with one couple that I was quite good friends with. One night I had a pan being thrown against the kitchen door, and fearing for my life, I grabbed my favourite handbag, a pair of shoes and my phone, and then peered into the kitchen. All I heard was ‘f***ing think she looks better than me in it huh?’, and saw the boy walk out, shaking his head in desperation. Three days later, I asked what happened. Apparently the girl had asked him if he liked a dress she’d bought, and his reply was that her friend probably looked better than her in it.

Married people that are intent on cheating often come out with classic lines. I went on a date with a guy who was married, but thought he could hide it (not sure how, given he got my digits from my cousin, but whatever). He was running late and said he’d be about 40 min to the rendez-vous. When he got there I was a little curious as to where ‘home’ was; few places in Nairobi are 40 minutes away on a lazy Sunday afternoon with no traffic. His reply was ‘We live in Nini’. I naturally asked who ‘we’ was, at which point he skilfully pulled out a wedding ring and put it on, hoping I wouldn’t notice. ‘Oh did I forget to mention I was married?’ Did I forget to mention?! As in?! Just wear the damn ring and throw down vibes. If I swing like that then problem solved. If not, on to the next one...

In fact, anyone caught cheating is usually in a lot of trouble. Such moments often bring out the incredible lying abilities of the human race, and catching them in the act apparently makes for good entertainment. I did meet one guy who was completely unfazed. He was accosted by his two ‘supposed’ girlfriends in the parking lot of a club, and asked who his REAL girlfriend was. He looked at them both as if weighing up his options, and came out with ‘be easy’, and walked off. While I was particularly impressed with his ability to remain calm under pressure, I wanted to point out that people have died for less.

Women quite often go through craziness when we are falling for a man. Blame the oestrogen, oxytocin, whatever. It takes a lot of effort to rein in the madness, effort that is usually enhanced by previous experience of what ‘crazy’ does to a budding relationship. I have been a victim of this, though I was only 16. I have seen people afflicted with it in more recent times though. My brother had been dating this girl for a few months when one day she told him that their wedding should really be in summer so she can wear a sleeveless dress. He ran. In fact, he fled. He fled like he’d just killed a man. *Mama, I just killed a man...put a gun against his head...* She is now referred to as ‘that crazy mama...’ in conversation. Women, keep your hormones in check. Please.

A guy’s possibly least favourite thing to hear with a lady friend he’s just getting to know and like is ‘when I used to be a man...’ Eh. No. Just No. I don’t know if I would react as badly to ‘when I used to be a woman...’ Food for thought. Everyone says telling a guy ‘you’re like my brother’ is bad but I feel that any determined man should take this as incentive to stop acting brother-like, and start acting lover-like. If a guy is likely to take a wife (i.e. straight) however, admitting you used to be a man will significantly impair his capacity to perform. It’s like telling a girl that ‘you’re sister was much better than you’ when you’re both horizontally inclined (at least it used to- girls these days seem to be a lot more tolerant).

I was once told that ‘you’re so amazing that I should set you up with one of my friends’. The full weight of this statement dawned on me 2 months’ later, and I’ve been angry about it for the last 5 years! There’s something to be said for clichés, you know, the ‘it’s me, not you’ lines. They allow room for restoration of one’s self-confidence and shifting of blame, key ingredients when trying to move on from being dumped. When someone tells you that he’ll pimp you out however, it’s a straight-up insult; it’s ‘I think you’re easy and desperate’, all in one. Of course, this line was delivered with a smile and a glass of honeyed Brandy, but my friends will attest to the magnitude of scar this sugar-coated dart left (I can still bitch about it before the proverbial dropped hat reaches the ground). 

Cheats, Cheatees and Cheaticians.

The last two aren’t real people, however hard I try to make them so. But they are necessary for any discussion (or musing) on infidelity. The cheat is self-explanatory. The Cheatee is the person that is done wrong by the Cheat. The cheatician is the technician that permits an act of cheating to occur (i.e. the third, often wanted and unwanted, party in a relationship), and in personal experience, the most important one...

I was once one of those ‘black or white’ people (not literally speaking, of course). I was in a committed relationship or I wasn’t. I was going to fail my exams or I wasn’t. I was going to be in trouble, or I wasn’t. Things were simple. Then, cheating was wrong. That was it. That was the end all be all. Somehow along the way, things changed. They morphed into shades of grey, and I started to see rainbows as spectra, rather than a collection of 7 distinct colours. I still told myself that I was either in a relationship or I wasn’t. Truth be told, in as much as I hadn’t yet cheated on anyone, I wasn’t acting committed. That previously clear line was now blurred and squiggly. My exams got harder, a pass wasn’t 98%, it was 0.1% above the pass mark. I started weaselling my way in and out of trouble with people that mattered, another line whose existence depended on the weather. I was no longer affronted when my friends rehashed stories of their partners’ infidelity. I was clear in my head: if you took him/her back it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. You might be condoning their behaviour, even sanctioning it, but I didn’t feel it was inherently wrong. My teenage idealism was gone.

Then I got a boyfriend; a summer bunny, but a boyfriend nonetheless. He was lovely. He did all those things that make you and your friends collectively swoon. Things were going swimmingly, until he invited me for a barbeque (nyama choma, a Kenyan staple). I had been out with a few friends, and I thought his friends could use some positive female energy, so I carried them along. We got there, and alas! His baby’s mummy was there, sat between him and his best friend. *Enter B, stage right, looking confused, trying to exit, stage left*

We were introduced, hands were shaken, hugs exchanged. All that jazz. Then I spotted the hand holding (hers), the attention to ordering of food (hers) and the ignoring of jokes (mine) by said boy. I gasped. Loudly. One friend turned and looked me. Her brain had reached the same conclusion. I was the cheatician. I think. I didn’t know. Oddly enough, I was more embarrassed than hurt. It took me a few days to accept that we had both been wrong, and that ‘he’s attempt at openness’ didn’t make it right. He had been good to me (a bit too good, in hindsight) so it was a rather difficult conclusion to arrive at, and I know many of my friends have similarly struggled.

So when did I blur the lines between right and wrong?! When I stopped going to church regularly? When I decided to be more tolerant of opposing views? When I started hanging out with the ‘liberal’ ones? When I realised I am my parents’ child, not my parents?! Is that HOW it happened? I don’t know. All I know is that I had no clear lines. I have since regained a few of them, but they are few. I am not an excessively moral person (no high horses/grounds etc), but being the cheatician did convince me that infidelity is pants/rubbish/wrong- whatever you want to call it. If all cheaticians realised this, maybe cheats would have no one to play with, cheatees would be spared unnecessary hurt and the world would go back to distinct colours. An exercise in naivety perhaps, but I honestly don’t know what else will restore fidelity to our relationships. Maybe what we need is a little idealism and less of the indifference. 

After all, ‘Nothing is so fatal to religion (or life or love) as indifference, which is, at least, half infidelity (Edmund Burke)’.

Ps...mid week post is to say merci to the new followers! Comment...share...insult (but not excessively so :-D)

Faithless.

I think my parents may have given up hope of me ever settling down and bringing home an actual ‘boyfriend’. Many things point to this fact: my mother went from incessantly questioning me about dates, to then asking me what I thought of lesbians (she really thought she was being subtle here), to silence. She NEVER talks to me about my relationships, or lack thereof. I think perhaps she’s decided that it might be better if I don’t have a boyfriend. I can’t surprise her with a child. I think their disappointment stems from the fact that they fell in love with a boy that I was only ‘in like’ with. We shall call him K, for...just for K.

K was my second boyfriend, and first vaguely serious one. I let him hold my hand. I was 13 and he was 16.5 going on 30. He was very mature, very serious about life, and apparently, about me. K always called, came to see me, and sent me sweet texts in the middle of the day. He would even listen to me bitch about what which friend in school had done, and then he’d give me a lecture on friendships and tell me I was being a petulant child (even though, to be honest, I was allowed that. I was 13!). K was seriously smooth; he would always appear with 2 bunches of roses, one for my mother and one for yours truly. My dad loved him so much that I would knock on his door at 1 am, asking him to drop K home, and he would literally bound out of bed and run to the car. They would talk ‘about life’ as we snaked down dark roads, and on the way back, my father would extol the virtues of K’s family, his upbringing, and how proud he was I could see his goodness. He was also quite good looking, all that ‘tall, dark and handsome’ jazz. And a brother knew how to rock white shoes.

But, of course, there was a problem and at 13, it was a BIG problem. I had told ALL my friends at school about him. He was the older boyfriend, the one with all the moves, the one from whom I would learn things that I would later share with the girls. Or so, I thought. He was really nice, and I did actually like him for that reason, not just because he helped me make friends (so we are all clear). But, K would NOT touch anything other than my palms or back and then, only when he hugged me. He never tried to kiss me. I tried everything my little brain could conjure up in way of manipulation. We played truth or dare, just the two of us. He always picked truth, and gave me dares that included wholesome things like drinking tea with 3 spoonfuls of salt in it. I would try and get him to say bye to me in the kitchen so that I could jump him, but alas, he liked to hug goodbye at the front door, and I don’t do PDA. I held his hand, he held mine, and with the other animated his stories. Eventually, I realised my lot in life. I had picked the asexual man, and that was that. By the time I got to 13.5, he was falling in love, and though I was seriously in like, I was breaking up (I couldn’t kiss and tell, so...). We maintained the status quo and our prolonged Saturday afternoon dates, so as far as he was concerned we weren’t really broken up, and I was off elsewhere, trying to get kissed. It worked for us both.

Fast forward many moons later, and he was off to university. He told me how he’d never get with a ‘white girl’ (this isn’t a racist post, but he likes his Kenyan women), so my naive self was comforted by that. I thought he’d always wait. Then in my second year of uni, the bubble burst. I had been out dancing, got home at 3 am and fell asleep. I was jolted from my reverie by a text at 5 am. It was K. We talked, or he did, I don’t remember what I said. I did wake up to a text saying ‘I am so glad we worked it out and we are back together’. I panicked. I run to one of my male friends and threw my phone at him. He read all the texts and then nodded in confirmation. Yes, I had agreed to be his girlfriend after calling him out on being asexual even. Oh dear. I needed to split up with him - AGAIN. After 4 hours. I had good reason though: we hadn’t seen each other in 4 years, and I had changed considerably, possibly into someone he would no longer like. I proposed a ‘getting to know each other’ phase. K agreed. I felt awful, but I knew the alternative was untenable. Then, he stopped talking to me (story of my life). So I succumbed and opened up a Facebook account to stalk him. He did not accept my friend request for 3 months, and only after his mother asked him how I was doing in an attempt to play therapist. When he did, I tumbled off my high horse and fell face-first into the biggest pile of manure. Proverbially, of course.  He was holding the waist of a Kenyan girl in his profile picture, and all over his wall were people congratulating him on finally getting together with her. Many little bits of me died inside. So I emailed him. You know, just to check if I still had it. I didn’t. I have text him once a year, usually on his birthday, for the last few years. I occasionally get a thank you, sent through his mum or brother. A ‘thank you, but no, I am still done with you’. I blame Facebook, and being a teenager.

In hindsight, after my many failed attempts at relationships, I realise K was a good man. He was just out of my 13 year old league. I try not to dwell on it (yeah right), because even though Karma is a bitch, surely the universe has had its revenge?! My parents don’t understand this though, and sometimes I see the worry in their eyes, accusingly saying that ‘he was the only good one that would actually like you’. Cheers Pop and Mum, I love all this faith you have in me. NOT.

Devils Inc.or Lucifer (2)

This post is a little late as diary clashes meant Lucifer only ended up coming to visit later, but for the sake of continuity, I’ll ignore the little hiatus...

The plan was discussed, he said he’d get a hotel close by, and I nervously waited for his arrival. #4 on the other hand was hustling my arse (not literally, unfortunately), so I was feeling like a P.I.M.P, juggling texts between two seemingly pursuing gentlemen. I went to the gym 3 times that week. A girl doesn't want to be looking loose, in the bodily sense. In the carnal sense, that was an entirely different matter; one that I hadn't quite sorted out yet. I felt that I would be enlightened as to whether or not we would engage in any extra-curricular activities once he arrived. Thursday night he rang.

Luc: Babe

Me: Heeey... (I need to stop it with this high pitched voice any time an XY calls me).

Luc: We still on for tomorrow?

Me: Yeah. You want to come?

Luc: You still want me to come?

And so forth with the sexual innuendo. Eventually we worked out a plan of action. Luc arrived two hours’ late (which reminded me of some of the reasons we couldn’t date- he was a little inconsiderate), but with wine and take-away. I was dressed to go out for dinner, but he wanted to spend time ‘talking and bonding’. His words, not mine. I changed out of my ‘come hither heels’, took off my coat and sat on my bed in a revealing ensemble. Alarm bells were going off in my head, but I wasn’t sure why.

Luc: So you’re day was ok?

Me: Yeah. You?

Then my phone rang. As fate would have it, my phone was in his lap (I am technologically handicapped, and Lucifer likes to make sure I am living in the 21^st century, so he was updating my phone). It was a very tipsy #4 calling. Lucifer decided to perform his second (the first was how he got my phone) good deed of the day, so he picked up. #4 began to tell Lucifer about un-Christian thoughts he had towards me. Confessions to the devil! Fancy that! My hands remained paralysed at my side until I heard ‘Babe. Say something’. I jumped across my little bedroom and grabbed my phone.

Me: Hey...

#4: You’re ignoring me?

Me: No, I couldn’t hear you properly.

#4: NKT. (I swear, he actually clicked at me then hung up).

I started laughing but stopped abruptly when 3 seconds later, Lucifer got up and started packing.

Me: What now?

Lucifer: That was him? You love him. You didn’t tell me...

Me: I will ignore that. What’s wrong? What are you doing?

Lucifer: I love you.

I realised very quickly that this wasn’t our standard good bye ‘love you’ line. This felt like an ‘I am in love with you’. Demons. Arise. Report to your master for duty. Lucifer was bringing out the artillery of feelings.

Me: This is new.

Lucifer: That’s the best you can manage? ‘This is new?’ F**k this.

The bells in my mind were now in chorus, singing ‘I got 99 problems....’ I was quickly learning how NOT to handle a man being emotional. Lucifer walked out of my room and slammed the door. My housemate opened her door to check what was happening. After all, there was a strange man in the house and she could hear angry noises. I followed him down the stairs, with her in tow.

Me: Wait, let’s talk. Are you seriously angry at me? We were joking about this last week. Now?

Lucifer: You took me for granted. You used me. You’re... (I was doubting the XY at this point. You used me. What now?!)

He stopped talking and walked to his car. He got in it and slammed the door so hard, I heard it across the street. He sped off, leaving me standing at the front door in a scandalous dress with my entire house behind me, asking for an explanation. I stood there, part smiling, part feeling cheated. You see what Lucifer had done was dangle the forbidden fruit, whose sweetness I have personally experienced, and then he decided to take it away. Now I fully understand the meaning of ‘cocktease’, except in this case it was the other thing. My night had gone from hero to zero in the matter of minutes. I tried calling #4 -straight to voicemail. I would have to handle his Clickness (clickness...highness) later. I called Lucifer.

‘Dude, come back. You’re being a little dramatic.’

‘Leave me alone.’ See, making my point for me.

So I did. I called the girls and we went dancing. Lucifer has still refused to speak to me. He tells me this though, so I feel like it’s ok because actions speak louder than words. He may have had a point. I may have been using him as an ego boost, but let’s be honest, his intentions were far more dishonourable, using me to relieve a dry spell. Also, that was a complete misread of our contract. Why was he catching feelings (i.e. getting emotional over a purely physical relationship)?! I thought only girls did that. At least I have made money off my friends who bet that I would chicken out. This week: debt collection. Diamonds preferred.

Monday's mantra: friends with benefits don’t work. Make sure it’s an enemy. And...I'm a truly rubbish PIMP. *sad eyes*.

260//: 100-07-500-44.3/300

To all the new followers, welcome, glad that someone is enjoying my musings. Unfortunately this appears to be guest post/ serious post week. Normal order of business will resume next week, I am collecting useful research material. Moving on....I know people often say this when talking about something difficult, but this really is my friend’s story. She allowed me to share it on my blog (see post-script), but I will write it in first person because that’s easier to understand!

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I checked my bank balance. £260 down. Ouch. That was a lot of money for a student. Oh well, it was for a good cause. I walked back to my room, booted up my computer, transferred some money from my savings’ account into my current account, donned comfy shoes, and walked to ‘Sweaty Betty’. I was getting me some new gym clothes for my new gym. Shopping done, Starbucks coffee and lemon muffin bought, I got back to my room, got changed, and walked down the road. I tapped my back pocket. ‘Phew’. My little black book was present.

‘Hi, I’m here for my induction’.

‘Oh hey, we’ve been expecting you. I understand you want an exercise plan? You look pretty fit, so I guess you’re an athlete or training for a marathon?’ £260 on gym membership for 6 months.

‘Ah yeah, you know, keeping the weight down and all’. Lame joke. Suspicious side-eye.

After a quick tour of the gym, I pulled out my water bottle, filled it with water, and got onto the treadmill. Start. Gentle pace. Daft punk blaring through my head phones. Around the world. Moloko. Time is now. Darude. Sandstorm. Ouch. My ankle hurts.

‘Wimp. You’re ankle’s just getting used to it. You took two weeks off for the last sprain. 3 weeks this time + physio...you’re ok. Keep going.’ I felt my left leg go numb. ‘See, can’t feel it any more. Focus.’

Madonna. Ray of light. There’s the tunnel. There’s the light. Think what you want the light to mean. I felt my left hand move. Quick glance down. Speed up, incline up. Power it up. Come on now.

My iPod detected the increase in my pace. I loved my new Apple plug in for my shoes. Timbaland. The way you are. Keep going. Quick arithmetic tells me that on a bike, this would be 70 RPM. You’re in easy territory now. You’re usually at 90 RPM. Minutes ticked by. Seconds. I looked down. 89. Twinge from my left foot. Music slowed down. John Legend. When it’s cold outside. What a voice. I want to be his ordinary person. 100 minutes. Stop. Hold on to the bars. Inversion posture, quick...downward dog. See, it’s all in the mind. You’re not tired. You won’t pass out. Distance covered: 7 miles. Calories burnt: 500. Well, that’s because the machine thinks I weigh 55 kilos. I walked to the scales. 44 kilos. 44.3 kilos. Crap. 300 grams.

I gulped my water, pulled out my cold coffee and muffin from my bag, and sat, wolfing it down. You eat too much crap. I know. Stop. I will. I binned half the muffin and left. I got back to my room and pulled out my black book. 100-07-500-44.3/300. Buy a new book. Footsteps. I shoved my black book into my bedside drawer. Knock. ‘Hun, are you coming to hall for dinner?’ ‘I just ate, hectic session at the gym. Sorry. Tomorrow, I promise!’ I looked down at my little pot belly, ignoring the lie I’d just told my friends. You’re fat, I told myself.

*Teeet Teeeet Teeeet Teeet Teeeeeet* Crap. 6 am. I threw on a t-shirt, shorts, a hoodie, and grabbed my iPod. I grabbed a spoonful of sugar as I headed out for an early morning road run, where no one would distract me (read: see me). 7.15 am: Distance covered: 4 miles. Scale: 44.2 kilos. I scribbled furiously in my black book: 60-04-650-44.2/200. I swallowed another spoonful of sugar, had a shower and carefully measured out 50 grams of cereal drenched in skimmed milk. Two spoonfuls. Lectures.

1700: gym time.  Come on. Aim today is 100-08-750-44/300. Then we can buy a new book. Blue, this time....

6 months later, I was on my last legs. My muscles hurt. My joints hurt. My stomach hurt if I ate more than an apple. I had constant headaches, and my gums bled every morning. I could only drink 500ml of water at a time. That, and two spoons of sugar. I dragged myself onto my scales one morning, too tired to go for my usual run. 38 kilos for a 5’4” girl was dangerous. Dangerously underweight. Anorexic. My BMI was 16.6. At that my moment, before the panic at missing my run could set in, my door opened. My friend looked at me. She was partly incredulous that I was in my room at 7am and not out running, and that I couldn’t hear my blaring alarm clock. Then her eyes adjusted and she focused on me. She hadn’t seen me in a bikini/underwear in over a year. She shook her head, tried to speak and then started crying. ‘Please...don’t tell...’ She took out her phone and called the third musketeer, who arrived within minutes. They stood at my door...staring at me. Then they walked into my room and locked me in. It was an out of body experience. Here I was, at my intervention, but all I could think about was my sugar and the missing numbers: 90-06-800-38/100. We cried and talked for 5 hours. At midday we emerged, with two emails sent: one to my college tutor to explain what had been going on, the second to a counsellor to book a time slot for therapy sessions. I walked to the back gate of my dorm building, to find my parents waiting anxiously. My mother hugged me for about 10 minutes. My dad grabbed my little suitcase, nodded a silent thank you to my friends, and then we drove home for the weekend.

It’s been two years since I flirted with anorexia. I haven’t joined a gym, I don’t exercise on my own, and I eat at least one of 3 meals with someone: my boyfriend, housemate or best friends. If not, I call my mum and eat with her on the other end of the phone. I wake up each morning and pull out a little pink book from my bedside drawer. I write down something encouraging to myself. No numbers allowed. I still own my running shoes, but as part of my exercise sound track, I listen to classical music or jazz. It’s hard to power up to David Benoit. I remember to thank God for allowing me to sleep through my alarm that morning. If not, I would have gone to bed 3 months later, and never woken up. I still obsess, but now I clean and bake cupcakes. I live in a pretty spotless house as you can imagine.

Ps. only 5 people outside of my immediate family know that I suffer from anorexia: my tutor, my counsellor, BWTB, who found me and who wrote this piece, the third musketeer, and my boyfriend. There are people with far worse disease than I do, but I personally can’t reach them. If you’re a friend to someone and you’re worried, think, act, talk, do something. Remember, boys suffer too. Every day I feel like I have cheated death. I was lucky I hadn’t completely lost my head yet, so my friends could still get through to me, but another few weeks, and who knows. I don’t know if I’ll ever be cured. I don’t expect to be though, that way I can’t be disappointed. Every day, it’s my pink book and I.

*BWTB says thank you for allowing me to share this.*

Arse-grabbing. And what to do about it.

This is going to be a brief one. How to deal with the arse-grab. Or not, depending on the kind of person you are.

I was at work today, doing my usual thing, which was standing in the corner making sure people find the things they need, so that we can move to a different corner sharp-ish. I had completely zoned out of the moment, partly because I had woken up late and between shower, deo and mascara, coffee did not happen. The only way to explain how serious this can be, is the fact that the last time I left the house without coffee and a stranger in the office brought me a mug, I proposed to him (he gratefully declined). This excuse will become pertinent shortly...

I was with varying levels of bosses, and the Biggest Gun was there too, so everybody (but me) was on their A game. I had started seeing muffins descending from the heavens dressed as angels saying in a Marie-Antoinette-esque voice, ‘Let them eat cake’ ‘Qu’ils mangent de la brioche’... ‘un cafe, s’il te plait’ when a bit of commotion signalled it was time to move on. I reached forward to grab the papers I had rested in front of me, and felt my hand grab something rather soft and doughy. Because I was sleepy, and had been thinking about brioche and perhaps, chapati with jam, I carried on with my inquisitive micro-massage for another millisecond or two before the thing quickly disappeared from my hand. I was jolted back to reality by a rather awkward ‘uuuurgh’...and immediately said ‘Oh sorry’ without total clarity on what had transpired. Shapes began to materialise in front of me and only then did I realise that it was Big Gun standing in front of me, and given he was just a little under 6 feet tall and bending forward to write on the table in front of me, it could only have been his rather firm derriere I had been inspecting with my finger tips. (*He does have a seriously nice bottom though*)

My immediate reaction was to laugh, but rather inconveniently, tears welled up in my eyes so I dared not make a sound. I had just groped my boss. As in, I properly copped a feel. Thank goodness he wasn’t facing me, because...

He looked at me, I looked at my feet, and the three other witnesses to my incident of possible harassment looked in various compass directions. Was there any way to redeem this, I wondered to myself. I looked up slowly and said ‘Coffee, didn’t realise you had moved. Must be sleepy...’, gathered my papers and walked away. I didn’t dare wash my hands in full view because that would imply too many things wrong, so I snuck off to the bathroom, silently screamed and jumped around about, cried for 20 seconds, washed and disinfected my hands and then disappeared off and bought myself the biggest piece of chocolate fudge cake my little hands could carry.

And that there, is how I dealt with my arse grab. I would however advise that you avoid doing it altogether.

Ps. I do realise sexual harrassment is a serious workplace vice, but as the current perpetrator in this incident, I can offer little advice. Take care of your assets though, and maintain an FFP (five foot perimeter) to avoid all confusion.

Lucifer and I.

Everyone has a Lucifer. You know the one. A boy so freaking dangerous that the thought of him simultaneously excites you and then causes you to run from your own shadow, like the proverbial guilty man running away when no one is chasing him (I’ve just watched True Grit, hence the Biblical references. Such a good film).

My Lucifer got in touch on Friday (the reason he is Lucifer is a whole other MANY blog posts, so we’ll stick to just today). Now don’t get me wrong, Lucifer and I are really good friends, until we are not. Until we begin to behave like rabbits, and until words like ‘I do love you but...’ are bundied about. Of course we’ll have weeks where we talk about life, the weather, work, family and then we’ll go for three months and not speak. But because he is Lucifer, and all he does is lead me into temptation, I don’t mind the silence. In fact, I relish it.

Anyway, he got in touch after our customary 3 month hiatus, and it was a pleasant conversation. The weather in Hellville was a toasty 3 degrees. Quite similar to BWTB land, then. Work was mutually busy, shocking (NOT- that was our standard excuse for my thumb and index finger were too lazy to co-ordinate searching for your name, but not to tweet/blog/other manual tasks). Then Lucifer started with confessions. Confessions are bad. The Devil made confessions that led Eve to eat the apple. My devil was here telling that he’s ‘always been attracted to me’ (read: dry spell and I know there’s someone I have chemistry with). Then Lucifer, who I am now suspicious may be reading my blog, dropped a bomb-shell. This was in the form of ‘Sweetheart, why didn’t you ever tell me that you wanted a relationship? I didn’t realise you felt like you were competing for my attention.’ *Extra sharp, sword-edge, you know, Samurai-performing-Seppuku like sharp, intake of breath here*

(Seppuku: Suicide performed by a captured Samurai. He falls on his sword and disembowels himself. Gross. I know. But honourable. No? Ok, moving on).

I made a mental note to kill my best friend for outing me like that. Luckily her arse was on a different continent, and we were still having our silent fight (see Collinda, earlier post), because if not, *somebody hold my sh*t*.

I beat a hasty retreat. I pulled a Kipchoge (fast Kenyan runner, think Michael Johnson, over many many kilometres). Yeah, I pulled one of those.

‘It was a long time ago, I’m weird like that. It’s in the past, then I didn’t know how to tell you’.

‘That was then...and now?’

What the hell?! How was it that Luc was putting me on the spot like that? Bloody hell, literally. If this was a reflection of what it’s like down there, I definitely don’t want a part of it (not that I had major doubts about not wanting to be in hell, but you catch my drift).

‘Now, well. I’m seeing someone, so I can’t answer that question’

‘You don’t have to answer it sweetheart. Is it serious?’

Oh come on! We’ve never been the deep type. We’ve been the ‘can I kiss you in the back of the car while we wait for you sister to finish a cigarette’ type. This was freaking me out. I called back-up (my friend, cynical, usually beats me out of my foolishness). Back-up had gone to sleep. Oh dear.

‘Yes. Kind of. I want it to be...’

‘OK’.

Did I get off that easily? Yippeee! Oh no, wait...

‘So what are you doing this weekend?’

‘Eh, I don’t know. Nothing. Well, Saturday will be busy but..’

‘See you Friday’

Buggery. Buggery! Buggery! Buggery! I forgot he knew where I lived. Back up was still not answering her phone, so I stupidly said,

‘OK’.

‘Tell your ‘kind of’ person that I’ll be coming to see you. He knows about me, right?’

‘Of course.’ He didn’t know about him, because he didn’t quite exist. Well, if it’s #4 we’re talking about, he doesn’t exist. But at least I have a get-out-of-jail-free card.

‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow’

‘Uuum..’

‘Sleep well. I love you.’

‘Love you too’. Diabolical behaviour. Why did I say that? I guess we’ve always said it, so why change now? Ah, because I am meant to be kind of serious about a guy. Oh dear. Friday was 6 days away. Panic.

He got in touch the next day. To tell me how I tempt him. Surely, talk about turning the tables around on a girl. 5 days to D-day. I may start taking bets on whether or not I chicken out. Aaaah, Lucifer son of the morning, why you gotta be so exciting?! Huh?!

To be continued...

#4 called! Woop-deee-doooo!

That’s the end of the excitement. Read on.

My week had been pretty average by all accounts. Nothing interesting had happened. I didn’t even get a chance to spend money in an interesting way, and having coffee with my lovely housemate doesn’t count (he is unlikely to take a wife, and all we did was gossip about the other people we live with). So imagine my utter joy and surprise when #4 rang me on Tuesday. Ha. Told you he would. At least that’s what I thought when I looked at my phone screen. I was just about to go in for a teaching session but I was five minutes early, and I did not want to hurt the man (or Grandpa, as my friends call him on account of his senior-ish age...don’t worry, he is under 40. By a considerable number of years, but a bit too old to be referred to by my standard ‘boy’), so I decided to pick up.

Me: Heeey... (in the sexiest twang I could master while standing in a hospital corridor).

4: Hey (oh man, that Barry White voice that threatens the integrity of my bladder sphincter every time I hear it, and definitely takes out all my knee supports: I sank into a chair pretty quickly lest I collapsed and peed my pants- did not feel like being treated for a seizure today).

Me: Hey (again, I know). How are you? (My voice was now down to a just barely audible whisper).

4: What?

Ok, so maybe my voice really was a whisper. Argh.

Me: How are you?

Heads turned, cheeky grin on my colleagues’ faces. They all knew. I was talking to a boy/man-friend/thing.

4: I’m good. Quick question...

That right there, is the sound of a conversation about to implode. My legs regained their former strength and I stood up. Some shit must be taken while standing to attention. It’s the only way it’ll miss your face.

4: What time is it there?

Huh? What now?

Me: Uuum, it is 4.25pm and 35 seconds (The question caught me off-guard, and as someone with plenty of exam coaching, I answered what was asked, albeit in far too much detail). Why?

Did I hope he’d finally decided to visit me? Unrealistic dreams are made of such.

4: I’m organising a conference call, and wanted to check you guys not affected by daylight savings.

(Which guys?! Whatchoo talking about?! We don’t do conference calls. Ah that’s right. You’re not talking about me.)

Me: No, we’re still three hours behind. I’ve got to go now, talk to you later?

4: Cool.

I don’t know who hung up first, but I know that 2 hours later, I text first. A nice apologetic message for being a little abrupt, and checking if he was free, because I was about to betray my own bad-assness and call him. A curt ‘in the bar now’ put paid to that thought.

I sat in my room a little shell-shocked. Bemused. I don’t know what the correct descriptive term is. But I was it. He really called to ask me the time. Google? No? I guess I missed the news about their little altercation. The 4 and Google Feuds. The Quatre Google Crusades. The Confrontation of Cuatro and Google. I could carry on with this, but it’s just allowing the ‘WTF’ feeling to fester. So I’ve stopped.

What’s his plan? I don’t know, other than not feeling inferior to #3, and replaced by #5, both of which are not inconceivable at this moment in time, I really do not know what he is playing at. My initial reaction was he’s being an idiot, but we all know that’s not true. So, the only alternative is that he is up to no good. There is no way a guy will call a girl on a different continent, at some significant cost to himself, to simply ask what time it is. That’s what girls sometimes do. We ring, with nothing to say, then ask if you know what time our favourite glee-type show is on the box (of course you don’t, but now we’re talking). So I surmised that he wanted to talk. Or break the ice, or something equally banal. But I still can’t work out what’s with the rudeness. I am, wait for it, flummoxed. I really am. Help.

While I try (not very hard, it has to be said, because all I am doing is ranting) to figure out what his game is, I am playing the Warfare of Wills, which I am hell-bent on winning. I am not going to call, text, or e-mail him, or any of his friends. No. He did get under my skin, but in a bad way. In a not-rushing-to-speak-to-you way, and so if he wants to talk, he better man up (you’d think he’d have enough practice at this), and act right. Let’s wait and see, watch as The Chronicles of 4 unfold. He is starting to look like a past tense. *I’m walking away, from the troubles in my life...* (The Troubles of Four, as told by Google.... no? Ok, I’ve really stopped).

Ps. Soon to be taking auditions for possible #5s. All Espanols welcome. And if you resemble Benicio Del Toro (Che), I have a double bed. #Thatisall.