020908 Where's Me Lucky Charms?

Where?: Caffe Nero, London Bridge,
When?: a few days later…………


Caffe Nero is cool. Men are not cool. Free paper is good. Heartache is bad. Postmen can be nice. Train journeys can be slow. Writing soothes my soul. Cruising is good for you. I pretend coffee is good for me. Marks and Spencers is dull but necessary. Like raincoats. Patience is a virtue. Waiting drives me mad. Love is pain.

OH SHIT AM I A LITTLE BIT LONELY?! Who do you speak to when you’re low? Who in the world wants to know? Some people speak to me, though they are aware sympathy only comes with good reason and I don’t suffer fools, and if it’s empathy we’re talking about then we’re both fucked.

Do I write to my ‘higher self’? I like to write to an imagined audience, to keep a bit objective and hard. Being soft and emotional is okay if there’s someone to lean on, but I am a self-lubricating three-in-one.

And now everything’s gone wrong. Work is tormenting, I’ve run out of baccy, the wrong men are perving me up, I got dumped and a woman near to the end put all her trust in me for a painful hour on the telephone. I don’t do bad days, I do natural serotonin-filled wonderment. Maybe I need a shit, (as my old boss was asked to tell me if I threw a tantrum). PMT is certainly an agenda item.

I felt okay when I texted him last night (knowing there would be no response). I promised myself I’d call him. Then I texted him. Cop out. Indeed. Cold comfort for change.

Contented with a non-response I rested easy last night, waking up to a stormy day. Summer is over.

But then today I got a ‘just come out of a relationship, we can be friends’ thing. I call a shag a shag. Why did he enjoy me so much if he wasn’t prepared for a 30-something backlash? In anger and acidic stomach I deleted it straight out , then wished I’d read it twice.

My response was slightly bitter but witty. I knew if a bought 24 condoms the ship would not come in! then I reversed my mobil-for-one and asked him for a drink. Who do I turn to? Make use of men you’ve slept with. I have near to no straight male friends, using the excuse that sex gets in the way. Well, I might let it. He’s somewhere poncing about on an ad shoot so no go there, but a tidy enough chapter. I did mention to him that relationships end in death, and sex is better than friends. If I hadn’t scared him yet, hopefully I have now. We’ll see.

So I’m off to M and S for some predictable burrowing through heartless garments and so on. But there’s wine in the basement. And at least there’s no rat in my kitchen. But what am I gonna do?!