traffic hooting outside but it all seems strangely far away. Has he just said what I think he’s just said? It all feels surreal. Like some weird dream.
‘It’s not you,’ he rushes to comfort me, seeing my look of horror.
How could I have made such a basic error?
Again.
‘You can’t be…’ I make a quick salvage attempt. I’ve come this far, after all. I’m buggered if I’m letting him slip through my fingers.
‘Why not?’
‘You hate ABBA.’
‘Y-yes…’
‘Steps completely passed you by.’
‘I’m Australian.’
‘You don’t even know the actions to “YMCA”.’ I’m sobbing now. ‘I s-s-saw you at the Christmas party. You didn’t have a clue.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You’re a fucking Australian, for fuck’s fucking sake. You’re supposed to be a sexist wanker. A slab of beefcake. A red-blooded fuck monkey. You don’t mind drinking beer out of cans. And you actually like pork scratchings. I don’t believe you. This is just an excuse not to shag me, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you, I wouldn’t shag you anyway. Not if the end of your excuse for a dick was covered in Ben & Jerry’s. You’re bound to be crap. So. So there.’
God. Now I’m making a complete tit of myself. Snot is coming out of my nose and everything and I don’t even care.
Buggery, buggery bollocks.
Why does this sort of thing always, always happen to me?
I leap out of bed, acutely aware that all my bits are on display. My cheeks flame with humiliation. It seems absurd for him to be seeing me naked after what he’s just told me.
‘Look, Katie, come on, don’t be like that,’ he pleads as I pogo ridiculously round the room with one foot through the leg hole of my lurid violet knickers, trying to yank them up for all I’m worth.
‘Look, if I were straight you’d be the first person I wanted to shag. Honestly.’
‘Oh, spare me,’ I beg. ‘Please don’t try to make me feel better. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll leave my job. You’ll never have to see me again.’
‘You don’t have to do that. Come on, let’s have another cup of tea and—’
‘No.’ I pull on my pink shirt, which, after a night on the booze, is all scrunkled up in a teeny ball on the floor, before rushingdown the stairs, out of the front door and into the street before he can utter another word.
I stagger towards the tube station, just managing to hail a taxi and telling the driver to take me to Balham.
Once inside, I stare moodily out of the window.
‘Bastard,’ I hiss.
‘Are you referring to me, miss?’ asks the taxi driver.
‘Oh no, sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve just found out that the bloke I thought I was shagging is gay. I was referring to him. Pretty understandable, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, love,’ the taxi driver says. ‘Nothing short of disgusting, what they get up to. Unnatural, I call it. I mean it’s not what the Good Lord intended, is it, at the end of the day?’
Bile rises in my throat. It’s the vodka, I think, though the awful hiccuppy crying hasn’t helped. I swallow hard. I really don’t want to have to park my lunch in a taxi. There’s no handy receptacle. No bin. No scrumpled up Sainsbury’s bag even. I could always use my jacket pocket, but I think that’s going a bit far, even for me.
Luckily, I manage to hold on to my stomach contents until we finally pull up outside my front door, when the taxi driver looks at me so kindly I think I might be going to burst into tears again. ‘Here you go, luvvie.’ He smiles. ‘You let yourself in and have a nice cuppa tea, eh?’
I wake up next morning feeling almost normal. Absolutely hanging, but not too embarrassed, considering. And then I realise two things.
Firstly, once again I’ve attempted to bag and shag yet another screaming great queen. George will have hysterics when he finds out I’ve made eyes at what he—and only he—would fondly term a ‘cock jockey’.
And secondly,
‘It’s not you,’ he rushes to comfort me, seeing my look of horror.
How could I have made such a basic error?
Again.
‘You can’t be…’ I make a quick salvage attempt. I’ve come this far, after all. I’m buggered if I’m letting him slip through my fingers.
‘Why not?’
‘You hate ABBA.’
‘Y-yes…’
‘Steps completely passed you by.’
‘I’m Australian.’
‘You don’t even know the actions to “YMCA”.’ I’m sobbing now. ‘I s-s-saw you at the Christmas party. You didn’t have a clue.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You’re a fucking Australian, for fuck’s fucking sake. You’re supposed to be a sexist wanker. A slab of beefcake. A red-blooded fuck monkey. You don’t mind drinking beer out of cans. And you actually like pork scratchings. I don’t believe you. This is just an excuse not to shag me, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you, I wouldn’t shag you anyway. Not if the end of your excuse for a dick was covered in Ben & Jerry’s. You’re bound to be crap. So. So there.’
God. Now I’m making a complete tit of myself. Snot is coming out of my nose and everything and I don’t even care.
Buggery, buggery bollocks.
Why does this sort of thing always, always happen to me?
I leap out of bed, acutely aware that all my bits are on display. My cheeks flame with humiliation. It seems absurd for him to be seeing me naked after what he’s just told me.
‘Look, Katie, come on, don’t be like that,’ he pleads as I pogo ridiculously round the room with one foot through the leg hole of my lurid violet knickers, trying to yank them up for all I’m worth.
‘Look, if I were straight you’d be the first person I wanted to shag. Honestly.’
‘Oh, spare me,’ I beg. ‘Please don’t try to make me feel better. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll leave my job. You’ll never have to see me again.’
‘You don’t have to do that. Come on, let’s have another cup of tea and—’
‘No.’ I pull on my pink shirt, which, after a night on the booze, is all scrunkled up in a teeny ball on the floor, before rushingdown the stairs, out of the front door and into the street before he can utter another word.
I stagger towards the tube station, just managing to hail a taxi and telling the driver to take me to Balham.
Once inside, I stare moodily out of the window.
‘Bastard,’ I hiss.
‘Are you referring to me, miss?’ asks the taxi driver.
‘Oh no, sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve just found out that the bloke I thought I was shagging is gay. I was referring to him. Pretty understandable, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, love,’ the taxi driver says. ‘Nothing short of disgusting, what they get up to. Unnatural, I call it. I mean it’s not what the Good Lord intended, is it, at the end of the day?’
Bile rises in my throat. It’s the vodka, I think, though the awful hiccuppy crying hasn’t helped. I swallow hard. I really don’t want to have to park my lunch in a taxi. There’s no handy receptacle. No bin. No scrumpled up Sainsbury’s bag even. I could always use my jacket pocket, but I think that’s going a bit far, even for me.
Luckily, I manage to hold on to my stomach contents until we finally pull up outside my front door, when the taxi driver looks at me so kindly I think I might be going to burst into tears again. ‘Here you go, luvvie.’ He smiles. ‘You let yourself in and have a nice cuppa tea, eh?’
I wake up next morning feeling almost normal. Absolutely hanging, but not too embarrassed, considering. And then I realise two things.
Firstly, once again I’ve attempted to bag and shag yet another screaming great queen. George will have hysterics when he finds out I’ve made eyes at what he—and only he—would fondly term a ‘cock jockey’.
And secondly,
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