text, not a bunch of flowers, not a proposal. Rejected again.
I hear my mobile ringing. I try to extricate it from my bag while still airing my armpits. ‘Please, please, please be Paul,’ I whisper at it. It isn’t Paul. It’s my agent.
‘Hello, lovely agent. Has Kiefer Sutherland asked me to play his sex slave in the next season of 24 ?’
‘Not today, Sarah, but you do have a casting tomorrow for Casualty .’
‘Oh my God! I LOVE Casualty ! What’s the part? Please say it’s a midwife, please,’ I plead, crossing my fingers.
‘No, you’re a woman whose son is ill. It’s only three lines. I’ll email all the details.’
‘Great! I’m actually just about to watch the football,’ I say, feeling like one of the boys.
‘I didn’t know you were a football fan. Who’s playing?’ I can’t believe I omitted to find out that information. I decide against saying, ‘Fuck knows! I’m only going there to pull.’ Instead I say what I often say when someone asks me an uncomfortable question on the mobile phone: ‘Oh, I’m losing you, Geoff. Geoff! Geoff ?’ and hang up.
I enter the bar. It is an ocean of men and lager. I feel my knees start to shake.
‘I have one anonymous blog reader whom I inspire, I must do it for her,’ I tell myself.
‘Excuse me, sorry,’ I repeatedly say as I try to negotiate my way to the bar. Men part and smile at me; they say, ‘Sorry, love’ and ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ I suddenly feel like a lady.
I buy a classy Hoegaarden. It proves not to be the best choice as I had some of Simon’s healthy mackerel pasta for dinner and the gas has made me belchy. I sip it and try to stifle my burps.
I start my ascent to Booby Heaven. It is a dicey pilgrimage as I am trying not to spill my beer or bang my handbag into anyone else’s beer while also scanning the room. I am hoping I’ll see Paul amidst the faces and he can tell me that he was mugged on the way home from speed dating and lost my number. Suddenly I feel something cold and wet and abundant spill on to my fuck-me shoes. I look down and there are my beautiful suede shoes covered in white foam.
‘Oh wank!’ I groan. I look up to locate the face of the demonic man who has ruined my shoes. But instead I find myself gazing into the blue eyes of a cherub. The man before me has blond hair framing his face. He is slightly chubby and looks very concerned for my shoes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, giving me a sheepish, lopsided smile. ‘They’re really nice shoes as well.’
‘Oh, not to worry. They’re really old!’ I lie. ‘Sorry you lost most of your pint. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m looking for my friend.’
I take the executive decision to stay near Cherub Man. I am standing about a foot from him, pretending to be engrossed in the big screen and also looking slightly timid and concerned for my friend’s whereabouts when I feel sweaty, hairy, naked skin press against my own bare arm. The naked skin belongs to the arm of a big fat bloke in an England vest. He has one tooth at the front where most people have two. I think he says, ‘You’re too pretty to be on your own.’ They’re my bloody tactics! I smile because the convent taught me to be nice to everyone. Then I think he says something about Wayne Rooney.
‘I’ve got legs like Wayne Rooney,’ I say. I’m not really sure why. It was just the first thing that came into my head. It’s also sadly true. A little bit of his spit lands on me as he laughs.
‘So has my ex-wife,’ he says.
Bollocks, I think.
The match starts. It’s quite good. How can they run so much? It dawns on me that one day in heaven the angels were playing in God’s garage, where He had been working on his Perfect Man creation. The naughty angels dropped the Perfect Man creation and down he fell to Earth, where he became known as Freddie Ljungberg. In my mind we are childhood sweethearts, parted at the moment so I can concentrate on my acting, waitressing and
I hear my mobile ringing. I try to extricate it from my bag while still airing my armpits. ‘Please, please, please be Paul,’ I whisper at it. It isn’t Paul. It’s my agent.
‘Hello, lovely agent. Has Kiefer Sutherland asked me to play his sex slave in the next season of 24 ?’
‘Not today, Sarah, but you do have a casting tomorrow for Casualty .’
‘Oh my God! I LOVE Casualty ! What’s the part? Please say it’s a midwife, please,’ I plead, crossing my fingers.
‘No, you’re a woman whose son is ill. It’s only three lines. I’ll email all the details.’
‘Great! I’m actually just about to watch the football,’ I say, feeling like one of the boys.
‘I didn’t know you were a football fan. Who’s playing?’ I can’t believe I omitted to find out that information. I decide against saying, ‘Fuck knows! I’m only going there to pull.’ Instead I say what I often say when someone asks me an uncomfortable question on the mobile phone: ‘Oh, I’m losing you, Geoff. Geoff! Geoff ?’ and hang up.
I enter the bar. It is an ocean of men and lager. I feel my knees start to shake.
‘I have one anonymous blog reader whom I inspire, I must do it for her,’ I tell myself.
‘Excuse me, sorry,’ I repeatedly say as I try to negotiate my way to the bar. Men part and smile at me; they say, ‘Sorry, love’ and ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ I suddenly feel like a lady.
I buy a classy Hoegaarden. It proves not to be the best choice as I had some of Simon’s healthy mackerel pasta for dinner and the gas has made me belchy. I sip it and try to stifle my burps.
I start my ascent to Booby Heaven. It is a dicey pilgrimage as I am trying not to spill my beer or bang my handbag into anyone else’s beer while also scanning the room. I am hoping I’ll see Paul amidst the faces and he can tell me that he was mugged on the way home from speed dating and lost my number. Suddenly I feel something cold and wet and abundant spill on to my fuck-me shoes. I look down and there are my beautiful suede shoes covered in white foam.
‘Oh wank!’ I groan. I look up to locate the face of the demonic man who has ruined my shoes. But instead I find myself gazing into the blue eyes of a cherub. The man before me has blond hair framing his face. He is slightly chubby and looks very concerned for my shoes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, giving me a sheepish, lopsided smile. ‘They’re really nice shoes as well.’
‘Oh, not to worry. They’re really old!’ I lie. ‘Sorry you lost most of your pint. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m looking for my friend.’
I take the executive decision to stay near Cherub Man. I am standing about a foot from him, pretending to be engrossed in the big screen and also looking slightly timid and concerned for my friend’s whereabouts when I feel sweaty, hairy, naked skin press against my own bare arm. The naked skin belongs to the arm of a big fat bloke in an England vest. He has one tooth at the front where most people have two. I think he says, ‘You’re too pretty to be on your own.’ They’re my bloody tactics! I smile because the convent taught me to be nice to everyone. Then I think he says something about Wayne Rooney.
‘I’ve got legs like Wayne Rooney,’ I say. I’m not really sure why. It was just the first thing that came into my head. It’s also sadly true. A little bit of his spit lands on me as he laughs.
‘So has my ex-wife,’ he says.
Bollocks, I think.
The match starts. It’s quite good. How can they run so much? It dawns on me that one day in heaven the angels were playing in God’s garage, where He had been working on his Perfect Man creation. The naughty angels dropped the Perfect Man creation and down he fell to Earth, where he became known as Freddie Ljungberg. In my mind we are childhood sweethearts, parted at the moment so I can concentrate on my acting, waitressing and
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