pretty that she would always be chased after by other men. She is a primary school teacher, which indicates an admirable fondness of children, as well as unlimited access to paper supplies. And yet, despite the prospect of numerous grandchildren and an inexhaustible supply of staplers, I can’t help but worry that her evident emotionalvolatility would not equip her well for, say, a Christmas lunch with Ivan the Terrible and Mother. I decided that diplomacy was the only option. I also decided that now was not the moment to ask my fellow flower arrangers for help with the wording of Rupert’s Internet dating profile. Instead, I told Pru that Rupert was the shy sort whose silence indicated that he was overwhelmed by emotion; and when she asked for his address to pass on to Ruth, I could hardly refuse.
I may leave Kindred Spirits alone, just for a few days.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22
3 A.M.
I have woken from a fearful dream. Ruth had chained herself to the railings of Rupert’s flat in Milton Keynes and set herself on fire in the manner of a protesting Cambodian monk. Suddenly, the scene switched to a wedding, Rupert was quenching the flames with vintage champagne, and instead of a wedding dress, Ruth was swathed in white bandages. Poppy was eating the wedding cake and Ivan the Terrible swung from a chandelier by his toenails. I elbowed Jeffrey awake and told him all about it, but when I asked him what it meant he said, “Too much Roquefort,” which I felt lacked either psychological depth or sensitivity of feeling.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24
Perhaps I am psychic after all. Perhaps, despite my misgivings about the sort of people who wear tie-dyed clothing and smell of sandalwood, there is indeed something to the realm of the supernatural. My dream was almost a premonition. Do not be alarmed: there have been no acts of self-immolation on the steps of Conifer Court, the block of smart new flats whereRupert lives. There has, however, been a disturbing visitation. Rupert called today, and I could tell by the way he called me “Mother” rather than “Mum” that something was up. He de-manded to know how “she” had found out where he lived. I am ashamed to say I feigned ignorance, suggesting that if he meant Ruth, then she must have tracked him down on MyFace or one of those other Internet youth clubs I keep reading about in the newspaper.
Rupert was silent for a few moments, and then said in a softer, frightened-sounding voice: “Do you know what she did, Mum? When I got back from Sainsbury’s yesterday there were Post-it notes, maybe a hundred of them, stuck on my front door in the shape of a heart. In the middle was a Polaroid picture of her with her phone number written on it in black felt-tip pen. She was wearing an angel outfit. It’s creepy. What do you think I should do?”
My first thought was to shop at Waitrose rather than Sainsbury’s, but I bit my tongue. Then I realized that this was, if anything, an opportunity, and asked him if he had any girlfriends that she might happen to see him hand in hand with. At that point he went quiet, and then muttered something about having to rush off to water the cactus. He must be covering up for his shyness. I am more convinced than ever that Internet dating is the only way ahead.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25
Dear readers, I have had a nasty shock. I feel like the very computer I’m typing on is contaminated. My fingers are sweating. The Internet is truly a wilderness, filled with strange creatures, littered with booby traps. All I wanted to do was visit the
Daily Telegraph’
s dating section on Rupert’s behalf, and I ended up stumbling upon a horrible secret.
Jeffrey had left the computer on overnight, which is not like him. He often sits in his study late at night with a glass of scotch, studying the value of his investment portfolio, coming to bed with a twinkle in his eye. But I digress.
This morning, I noticed that he had left the computer on standby
I may leave Kindred Spirits alone, just for a few days.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22
3 A.M.
I have woken from a fearful dream. Ruth had chained herself to the railings of Rupert’s flat in Milton Keynes and set herself on fire in the manner of a protesting Cambodian monk. Suddenly, the scene switched to a wedding, Rupert was quenching the flames with vintage champagne, and instead of a wedding dress, Ruth was swathed in white bandages. Poppy was eating the wedding cake and Ivan the Terrible swung from a chandelier by his toenails. I elbowed Jeffrey awake and told him all about it, but when I asked him what it meant he said, “Too much Roquefort,” which I felt lacked either psychological depth or sensitivity of feeling.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24
Perhaps I am psychic after all. Perhaps, despite my misgivings about the sort of people who wear tie-dyed clothing and smell of sandalwood, there is indeed something to the realm of the supernatural. My dream was almost a premonition. Do not be alarmed: there have been no acts of self-immolation on the steps of Conifer Court, the block of smart new flats whereRupert lives. There has, however, been a disturbing visitation. Rupert called today, and I could tell by the way he called me “Mother” rather than “Mum” that something was up. He de-manded to know how “she” had found out where he lived. I am ashamed to say I feigned ignorance, suggesting that if he meant Ruth, then she must have tracked him down on MyFace or one of those other Internet youth clubs I keep reading about in the newspaper.
Rupert was silent for a few moments, and then said in a softer, frightened-sounding voice: “Do you know what she did, Mum? When I got back from Sainsbury’s yesterday there were Post-it notes, maybe a hundred of them, stuck on my front door in the shape of a heart. In the middle was a Polaroid picture of her with her phone number written on it in black felt-tip pen. She was wearing an angel outfit. It’s creepy. What do you think I should do?”
My first thought was to shop at Waitrose rather than Sainsbury’s, but I bit my tongue. Then I realized that this was, if anything, an opportunity, and asked him if he had any girlfriends that she might happen to see him hand in hand with. At that point he went quiet, and then muttered something about having to rush off to water the cactus. He must be covering up for his shyness. I am more convinced than ever that Internet dating is the only way ahead.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25
Dear readers, I have had a nasty shock. I feel like the very computer I’m typing on is contaminated. My fingers are sweating. The Internet is truly a wilderness, filled with strange creatures, littered with booby traps. All I wanted to do was visit the
Daily Telegraph’
s dating section on Rupert’s behalf, and I ended up stumbling upon a horrible secret.
Jeffrey had left the computer on overnight, which is not like him. He often sits in his study late at night with a glass of scotch, studying the value of his investment portfolio, coming to bed with a twinkle in his eye. But I digress.
This morning, I noticed that he had left the computer on standby
Similar Books
