Monday, 4 February 2008

Post-weekend blues

There’s something about waking up on a Monday morning and realising that you’re going to have to fill in a lot of insurance forms, for one, and come to terms with unexpected and dissipated sexual behaviour, for another, that can just start your week off on a bad foot.

I’ll start with the insurance incident, mainly because it’s a teeny-tiny bit less embarrassing. Baldly put, I came home from the pub at 11.30 on Saturday night, reversed into my driveway, and hit my friend T’s very fancy expensive enormous 4x4. And did I just tap the bumper? Did I hell. I ramped over the driveway lip (that nasty little bit of concrete that separates, god knows why, the driveway from the road) and barrelled into her very fancy enormous expensive car’s back hatch.

Well, for goodness sake! I didn’t remember she’d left her car there! My driveway isn’t illuminated! And who the hell expects a very fancy expensive enormous 4x4 to be there when you… well, when you least expect it?

I lay in bed this morning, thinking about this bureaucratic tragedy (and it is only bureaucratic, because I have usurous insurance, and the least they can do is pay out when I do finally have an accident – the first, may I add, in over 20 years of driving and forking out ever-higher premiums), and then another little memory came creeping in.

A memory of … a man. A memory of … a man, late at night. In my house. On my verandah? Yes, on my verandah. And later…?

Here, I experienced some sort of sudden and definitive brain shut-down. So I got up and went and helped myself to some leftover lasagne from the fridge (when in doubt, eat), and I phoned my friend T. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I said, ‘I hit your car on Saturday night.’

T made a poor job of stifling giggles.

‘And this is funny because…?’ I said.

‘You know what the last thing was you said to me on Saturday night?’ said T. ‘You said, ‘‘I’m going to shag this man tonight, and nothing – I repeat, NOTHING – is going to stop me.’’’

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

Let me just say this for the record: I am SO not a slag. I can barely operate in a social environment; and when I do, I’m hesitant and stupidly blushy, and I sometimes snap at people who are only trying to be friendly. And when men approach me, mainly I regard them as pirates attempting to board one of Her Majesty’s Ships, and I threaten to kill them immediately if they don’t back off and take their Jolly Rogers with them.

(I wear a wedding and engagement ring, although I am neither affianced nor married. I thought I wore them for sentimental reasons until a therapist I once was forced to see – for reasons unconnected to what’s happening here, okay? – told me that I wear them to ward off predatory men. See? I’m an emotional basket case.)

So this morning, from worrying lightly about losing my no-claims bonus, I slid like buttered lead into the bone-deep depression of having had an illicit liaison, ill considered and (to my profound disgrace and chagrin) barely remembered.

And how many millions more times worse did things get when my kids got home from school and wanted to know if the ‘new man’ in my life was ‘just a friend’ – or, said my daughter, looking at me with eyebrows raised to such heights of irony they practically disappeared into her hairline, ‘A friend with added benefits’?

(‘With added benefits?’ Where do they even come up with these things??)

‘Don’t be silly, darlings,’ I said, ‘Mummy’s just having a little bit of fun.’

My daughter looked at her brother and smirked. ‘‘‘Mummy’’,’ she said. ‘‘‘A little bit of fun.’’’ Oh god.

Just when I thought I would have to kill myself from shame and embarrassment, I got a couple of emails from the boys of Boulevard Blues. They enjoyed my post about barmaiding at the party they played at, and they’re going to post it on their own new website. (Good, clean fun! Yes, yes, yes!)

And tonight, when I got an SMS from a number I don’t recognise that said, ‘R u ok?’, I did have a small recall of a man with a lovely mouth and an easy laugh and a gentle manner and great legs that made me feel just a little bit better.

‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘And u?’

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meggie said...

Oh to be young again!

Muriel said...

Love ya Meggie because I'm NOT young! I should be acting my age but apparently just can't. One day...

Juno said...

Oh you are terrible.

hypocslag said...

Not a slag at all, possibly hypocritical, but definitely not slag. So, it's alcohol induced amnesia AND a shower that will cure post-weekend blues. And, entry visas for Brits (shag+slag) will protect the Empire from the colony, how? As one of the best proofreaders and copy editors in the world [says Juno) you're really not to bright, are u, Mur. I say, tally-hoe fuck-buddies (thanks Mur), teach your children well!

Juno said...

And you not to good at spelling,are you, hypocslag?