D - the man who killed me. (potentially)

The job hunt continues.  I got a very interesting sound response to my

‘AIIIIHHH  AAAM SUPPAAAAAHHHWOMHAAAAN’ ad on a job search site.

A man called me. Let's call him D. Was I interested as working as a housekeeper/ cleaner/ PA/ waitress as a live in position in a glamorous part of London. Was I? I was! I can do all these things! And what’s that? You’re a single man? There are no children? I get to iron shirts? Bring it on!

The conversation got quite involved about living arrangements and the like...

‘If, ah, you know, are you happy to.. keep yourself to yourself if ah... ah ha... um, say if I gave you 20 quid, to go and have dinner, stay out for the evening,  ‘make yourself scarce’ if I had for example...things...ah..... a hot date...’

Ah, yes, gotcha. Yup. You got it. Gimme cash. I’ll keep shtum. ( ****UPDATE**** G has just informed me this hot date may be code for 'when i hire a prostitute'. And, on reflection, I think she may have a point. I've seen a photo of this guy.)

Then the curious.... ‘I’d try to be a gracious host as well as an employer, make sure you had everything you needed, if you were short on money...’

What. Extra to my actual pay? That’s generous... oh... wait... is this a... mistress thing?

And then curiouser....

‘....would you be happy to wear a uniform?..’

Beg pardon.... what was that? If he’s thinking French maid, I’m thinking blackmail. Or colossal hike in my prices.

Apparently he’s just ‘old-fashioned’. (what, cane not cattle prod?)

He likes to keep the boundaries clear with live in staff. ‘Respect’, ‘servitude’, ‘knowing who’s boss’...these are words and phrases that were all used.

But, OK. I can get that. I see his – slightly strange and old fashioned – reasoning.

And then the phone calls start. 3 more that evening with add on information. OK, so this guy is thorough.

And then the texts begin. Here they are. With my wishful replies. Of course, my actual replies were actually rather more ‘respectful’.

22.24 – Thank you for responding so quickly and respectfully. See you next Wednesday, 2pm, prompt. You have an impressively respectful manner and I am sure you will find working for me an interesting challenge.

What is it with the respect? What does this guy want? Me to get down and lick his boots? Because, again, MASSIVE pay rise needed. An interesting challenge, eh? Buddy, I feel you. I’m getting that impression all too soon.(At this point, with only a first name and rough address to go on, I start googling the hell out of him. I have to know who he is.)

22.43 – Could you let me know what size skirt you wear for the purpose of a uniform?

.......say what?!!

23.01 – Don’t worry! No trouble. I am not making any assumptions, but your attitude is so focused and appropriate and your CV is ideal. And my parties are more fun than the one you would be at if you were looking after 8 year olds! A lot of people do not understand the positives of a uniform and I am pleased that you do.

....two things. Parties. More fun? More fun than cake and jelly? Are they special parties? *more internet snooping* aaah, you like cocaine. I see. Right. And will I have a special party uniform? Of shackles, perhaps?

23.05 – Anything you’d like to ask?

....can I please bring mace and a bodyguard to the interview? Right now I’m too dumbfounded for further speech.

23.15 – Excellent. D

Anyone else channelling Monty Burns right now?

00.23 – I think it’s only fair for you to see my CV now: *****website**** Let me know what you think please! D

I think... it’s a little late in the evening. And, ah ha! My snooping was right! You ARE you!

02.14 – also, look on Amazon for my new book ...*******... I think it is important to know I am someone whose status you can respect. And there is a great deal I can teach you in ** field of expertise** which will be useful for anything you eventually do.

.....Teach me how to beg for mercy by the sounds of it. I’m sleeping. Please go away.

08.15 – PHONE RINGS! Oh you are kidding me. Ignore.

09.23 – Good morning Ali. Have you had a chance to look at my website? Thanks, D

Jeeeeesus. What did your last slave die of?

09.51 – She was with me for 5 months. Would you like to talk today?

 tell me, did she magically vanish in the middle of the night? Talk about what? Your plans for my organs? We’ll talk tomorrow.

10.55 – no rush at all. D

You betcha.

Oh god oh god oh god. Help me.

I’m still going to the interview though. Massive intrigue. Because, if it isn’t a plot for my messy and untimely demise, it sounds like a great job.

Bye-bye, Shopgirl

My about me section may now be slightly misleading. I’m (hopefully) no longer going to be referred to as shopgirl. I sold on my shop’s lease and ran away to join the circus the big-bad South East. Hence my sleeping on my sister’s sofa. I’m now pursuing an exciting career of living in other people’s houses and looking after their children/pets/houseplants/laundry.

Oh yes. Welcome to the new exciting world of....

*fanfare* domestic-help-girl. *disappointingly small confetti burst*

Looking at the potential ways to start this career, a placement as a School matron jumped out at me. 
Oooh, live in, look after hundreds of small children rather than one or two, and wash hundreds of tiny pairs of socks.
 Cute. 
 It was even actually in my old school. Where, yes, I had in fact boarded myself. Briefly. But still, nice building, and I'd have advantage of already knowing every nook and cranny of the place.
 Plus, all I remember of the matron when I was there was a startling amount of tea drinking. Sounded ideal.
But then I had to let the position go before I even got around to returning my application pack. The interview day was on the morning me, G, and her boyfriend had decided to go mushroom hunting. The magic kind. And nothing was going to get in the way of our quest for free, tasty hallucinogens.
I wasn't too sure that 'sorry, can we reschedule the interview, please? I have a prior engagement with drugs' excuse was going to wash with a private school, so, bye bye potential job! Somehow, they might not find drug use a bonus to applying for a job with children.

Kids and class A's don’t mix. Well, could be potentially a fun experiment, but probably not one to introduce at the interview stage.....

Babies and bumps (to the head)

I spent the vast majority of my afternoon trying to shop for a 2 year old girl's birthday present (let's be honest, she's still only interested in the wrapping paper).
I have never gone baby clothes shopping before, and I'm not sure I ever want to again. I have mixed feelings about the whole affair.
On the one hand, I got to spend hours looking at the most adorable stuff in the world - so cute, it made my ovaries do an impatient little dance around my forlorn empty womb. (just you try it, uterus, just you try. Get me knocked up accidentally on purpose just so you can feel useful for once, and I swear, I'll have you whipped out faster than you can say 'oh no! surprise hysterectomy!')
On the other hand, it is bewildering, and confusing, and there is so much of it and it comes in every possible size except from the size you're looking for. Or, even more unfortunately, my size. Because kids clothing is way cooler than adult clothing. I feel a little sorry for my future (way off distant future) children if I have boys, because today I saw a vision of my shopping habits once I'm a mum. And it is RAINBOW coloured.


I then spent 2 1/2 hours sitting in Reading's finest A&E department thanking my lucky stars that at least it wasn't a Saturday night while my sister waited for medical attention.
She got smacked in the head by a rogue shuttlecock at close-quarters on Tuesday, and appeared to be having delayed concussion. (Or, possibly probably a case of severe drama queen-ism. Quite debilitating, that is...) I've been telling her for years that exercise is a dangerous hobby.

While we were there, we overheard many conversations with reception, including my personal favourite from a mum with a toddler in one arm and a carry cot in the other - 'Hi, my baby just fell down a flight of stairs. *notes a couple of shocked faces* FELL. Not pushed. Fell down the stairs.'
Way more disturbing than that was the dinner discussion going on between a family of people who could only possibly be described as fatties. Or porkers. Or lard-arses. Or... well. Many things. All rude and jelly based, but seriously. Had I called them anything within a healthy weight-range, I'd have been prosecuted by trade-descriptions. They were the kind of weight that rocks the ground when they waddle forwards. Like when the glass of water shakes in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is near.
Fattie no.1: 'I was thinking about a chicken sandwich' (ok, fair enough, people have to eat. And hospitals make you wait a really long time. Knock yourself out. Sarnie vending machine right there.)
Fattie no.2: 'Oh well I don't know where McDonalds is from here' (oh. THAT kind of sandwich. The type normally referred to as a burger.)
F1: 'I'm getting hungry though, we're going to have to think about getting something for **the patient** for her dinner too' (she's in a hospital. They tend to feed the inmates. Ok, so granted, hospital food isn't up to much....)
F2: 'Well, I know where KFC is on this road, and Burger King, and there's a Subway just down there, but I don't know where to find a McDonalds' (oh, ye gods. You mean you don't have that on radar?)
..........OK, Fatties... here's a radical idea.... don't try to find a McDonalds. By the looks of you, enough Maccy D's have found you in the past, that you can afford to sit this one out. When you can see your pubes again, past your giant, 17 rolled stomach, then, then, you may consider eating a burger. But only consider it. Eugh. Eventually, they settled on their burger joint of choice (and nearest convenience) and on getting a pizza for the patient. A 12 inch.
'Will that be ok? Shouldn't we get her something for the night?'
'No, she won't be feeling great so I think that she's not going to be too hungry later.'
.......who the hell is feeling hungry after eating a 12inch pizza to themselves at 9pm? Actually. Probably me. But I'm in rightous indignation mode and refuse to admit to that.

ANYWAY.
2 hours later, my sister finally gets seen by a doctor. Not even a hot doctor to make up for the hours wasted from my life. I do my best to be helpful and fill in any bits my poor concussed sister might leave out.
*doctor examines sister's head*
'you might find some older scars on there. From rocks..'
*doctor looks up* I thought she said it was a badminton accident?'
'Well, yes. This one was.'
'But you were there?'
'Well, no. I don't believe in playing sports. Bad things happen - like Miss.Bumpy-brain here can testify. But I've been there before when she's had head injuries.'
'With rocks?'
'Yes. When rocks hit her head.'
'You mean when she hit her head on a rock?'
'Well, no. The rock hit her.'
'........'
'I threw it. At her head.'
'....er....'
'what?! It was an impressive shot! I was only 8!'

Despite my bragging, they refused to give her a brain scan. Which is a shame. Ah well. Next time... I'll use a brick.

Going Solo

In the vague attempt to get my groove back on in a ‘hey, look at me, I’m young free and single’ way, I went to a Six Nation State gig by myself in London. All I achieved was possibly making the front-man think I fancy him, because I vaguely know him and it’s the second gig of theirs I’ve been to solo.

‘Hey, Gerry!’

‘Hi! How are you? Thanks for coming! *idle chit-chat commences while I try desperately to look popular to a room full of strangers who’re all ignoring me, Look! I know the band* Who’re you here with?’

‘Oh, just me.’

‘.....oh, cool, right. *pause*....... didn’t you come alone last ti...’

‘yes. Yes I did.’

‘er.... right.... *backs away*... enjoy  the gig...’

*shouts after him * ‘There was a friend! There was! She was coming! She’s working late!......... I HAVE FRIENDS!’ *heads swivel*

Strangely enough, the room continued to ignore me after this point...

They played a good set though.

But, yeah. The going solo gigging? Not necessarily the fun I remember it being when I was young(er) free and single.

Seemingly just to re-iterate the point to myself that I’m getting old, and set in my ways, I also went out clubbing in Reading with my sister.

I discovered when you get a little older, and you’ve grown into yourself, awful music you’ve never really liked is harder to block out or pretend you enjoy. Instead, it grates on your very soul, and makes you feel sick to your centre. Which is a pity, because the music blocking used to go hand in hand with the beer goggles. Which means, all going out revealed for me, instead of a world of possibility and a night of potential giggles and groans with some handsome-in-the-moment-stranger, turned into one of those nightmares where the masks fall off and you see everyone is actually a gargoyle, and the club you went into was actually just an optical illusion, and you are in fact trapped in the inner circle of hell. With nothing but gargoyles. With popped collars, gold chains and awful hair. Did I mention the gargoyles?

After disentangling myself from two of them at kicking out time (let us never speak of this again) I found my sister (who is an occasional fuckwit) outside with two brothers, who she seemed to be swooning over, and who, (kindly, in view of there being no taxis) drove us home. Of course nothing in this life is free and they came in with us.

Cue this conversation held on facebook chat at 4.30 in the morning, after my sister had exhausted nearly all topics of conversation and had been reduced to parading a selection of new clothes purchases (including our matching leather jackets, yes, we’re very sad) in front of the brothers grim, and I could no longer bring myself to interact with the room.

Scar: Are you online? Why are you online? There’s a human? Online?

Ali: Apparently so. Why are you online at this time of night/morning?

‘...........’

‘Oh, yeah. You’re Scar. Mystery solved. Hiiiiiii!’

‘why are you up?’

‘I want to be asleep’

‘why aren’t you?’

‘There are men. They’re on my sleepy spot.’

‘?’

‘Men on the sofa. I sleep on that sofa. Blame my sister. She’s brought two brothers home and now they’re drinking tea and it’s fucking late and I’m SLEEPY! I think one of them fancies my sister, wish they’d hurry up and get on with the wooing.’

‘can’t you subtlety tell them it’s time to go? Yawn lots? Get a duvet?’

‘tried that. Crawled behind the sofa and came out wearing pyjamas. They’re still here.’

‘you could say something like "well, this has been great, but whichever one of you wants to shag my sister, please head to the bedroom, and the other one either cuddle me now or get the fuck out".’

‘Baaaaaaahhhhhahahhahahah! *shows message to sister*

Sister: ‘baaaahahhahahahahahhahahahah!’

Ali: well? Can I say it?

Sister: er, no.

At this point, my sister unadvisedly leaves the room, to wee, or re-arrange her bra, or, hopefully, to pacify her flatmate who by this point I can hear prowling about in her bedroom on the other side of the sitting room wall. I see my chance to get some sleep on the lovely red sofa that has actually started whispering my name...

‘So, which one of you two was intending on getting it on with my sister? Because you’ve left it kind of late to make your move, haven’t you? I’d get a wriggle on if I were you. I want to go to sleep.’

They looked very startled. In a sleepy sort of fashion.

But, one was duly led away by my sister (who reappeared in terribly unflattering tiny pjs – note to self, discuss her ‘company’ nightwear choices with her), and I made the ‘mistake’ of telling the remaining 6’4 chunk of brother that my sofa was longer than the one he was on. Which meant I got to go to sleep in manly arms, and I didn’t even have to kiss him. Because I feigned instant sleep.  Ah, modern women. We know what we want and we aren’t afraid to go get it! (*snooze, dribble, snore...*)   Still, manly arms were a nice change from *sigh* aloneness.

Old me, New me, no, wait... back to old me......

So. I lasted until date 3 until I slept with this one.

I should get a shiny medal.

To replace the piece of junk that is my broken moral compass.

Drunk, free, irresponsible me on holiday.

I am on holiday. Oh yes. I ran away from my responsibilities and the big pile of 'shop' in my kitchen (having now vacated my former business premises, 'shop' now resides in about 12,386 boxes of assorted size and weight - note: most of them back breaking - in my house.)
I have run away from second job 'just.... don't rota me on next week... I'll... yeah... let you know if when I'm back...'
I have run away from my mother 'of course I'll help you out in the garden... oh, wait.. my train leaves in.. 2 hours. BYE!'
I have run away from my tax returns (oh, come on, I have 'til January, it'll be fiiiiine...)
I have run away from 'lovely man' who may still think we've got something going on since I let him sleep in my bed again recently and kissed him rather too much... (oops? well... we've all done that, right?)
I have run away from my ex boyfriend who said 2 days ago, if he had his way, we'd be married, and I'd be big fat and swollen with sprog. (Which, if my period doesn't hury up and start I'll start worrying I might be).

I have just... well. Run away.

I might go back. I imagine I'll have to when I realise it's all going tits up and I've run out of clean underwear..
But, for the next 3 weeks, I've let myself off the leash of the whole hard work thing.
So, today, in way of celebration, my sister and I walked 10 miles to a nice pub and back. Which, incidentally also means I've now seen the Vicar of Dibley's front door. It's a very sweet village where they filmed it, which was lovely, but, looking at my slightly battered feet, I do wonder if it could have been as well appreciated from a car.

So now, I'm in my sister's flat, hobbling about, drunk on hideously cheap wine that has given us both massive headaches, and planning tomorrow, which, unfortunately for my furry bits, is also going to be a day of pain.

I'm sorry fluffy parts, but you just aren't becoming on a single modern woman out in the big bad city. You have to go.