I’ve been a bit quiet of late. I scarcely know where the time has gone. I have hardly had time to keep tabs on my own blog, let alone anyone else’s.
So, this past week I’ve rescued a man from his own van, endured a confusing few days thinking I was pregnant and bumped into Chocolate man – this time face to face.
Dealing with these in chronological order:
On Wednesday I woke up extremely late and as I rushed out of my flat I heard knocking coming from the back of a white van parked outside.
“Hello? Can you help me please? I’ve locked myself in the back of my van.”
It was barely 8.15. All I could think about was that if I did open this door I could be dragged by the wrist into the back of this white van and mercilessly murdered. Worse still, I thought, I could be taken to an underground bunker and used as a sex slave by someone lacking in social skills and sporting a very bad haircut.
Do I try to open this van door? Is this a genuine cry for help or just a pervert looking for his next victim?
I conversed with the trapped gentleman for a few moments trying to ascertain whether my naive attempt at being a good samaritan would result in me giving birth to his children, in a damp dungeon, years from now. Would I end up being interviewed by Lorraine Kelly once I had been rescued? Would I actually end up being fond of my captor? This was all way too much for 8.15 in the morning. I decided to attempt the rescue, all the time thinking about the things I could use to defend myself, were it necessary. I had quite a bit of agression in me that morning and felt confident that I could probably kick the shit out of anyone if I had to.
The door was not quite shut but not quite open. It was fixed firmly, jammed in an in-between stage.
“It’s new van you see….” , said the man inside.
I tugged and pulled at the handle, twisted the key, pushed the key in, pulled it out a little - was there a knack to this? I tried banging the handle, gently squeezing the handle, brute force, flirtatious coaxing. Nothing seemed to work. He kicked from the inside; I pushed from the outside. I was tiring and on the verge of giving up and calling the fire brigade when finally it popped open. Out stepped a very thin man on the verge of a panic attack, thanking me profusely. I was a little upset that it hadn’t been one of those really arrogant white van men, reduced to tears by the prospect of dying in the back of his own van. This guy was actually quite nice. Needless to say, I haven’t been tied up all week performing sexually depraved acts. Instead I have spent most of this week convinced I was pregnant………
There’s not really a lot to be said about this. I went through the usual to-ing and fro-ing, the am-I-aren’t-I deliberations. Mentally I made space in my life for another human being and listed the things not to throw out. I mean, for god’s sake, I have just started to get my life back; I have just got my figure back; I have no intentions of getting pregnant right now!
Then of course the moment you find out that you aren’t pregnant you are filled with what might have been. Then comes the sadness, the sense of emptiness and then I hate myself. I hate the fact that I can think rationally in my brain and yet there is something else controlling me. It’s not my heart. It’s some kind of fucking biological magnetism. It’s like being part of the sea, drawn by the tide, pulled by the moon. It leaves me feeling like I am not master of my own destiny.
So before this rant gets anymore painfully intense this is a good time to bring up Chocolate Man, who on Friday afternoon around 4.30 is knocking off work and walking straight towards me. I had been on a long walk with Miss Stitchie.
“Keep walking and talking” I say to her, spotting him in the distance. This, of course, does not work because he has those eyes which are constantly roving, scanning the landscape for fresh meat.
I look neither my worst nor my best. We pass a few casual sentences. He seems genuinely pleased to see me and wishes me well with sincerity. He is impressed that I have produced a son and I am impressed that he actually remembers my name. I leave feeling just a little bit fond of him and also feeling that he is actually very short.
There are many things in my life that make me wonder what might have been. He is not one of them. This is probably the very reason why I can afford to feel just that little bit fond of him.