-Wine, curry & dancing on ice 😉 x-
Ping goes my BBM, I roll my thumb over the message from *Ironsack82* balancing my half-empty red wine glass on the arm of the sofa as I pause from chewing my chicken korma and garlic naan to the sound of Vanessa Felts tangoing like a toddler in a mini dress and ice-skates on the television. How the fuck does this weirdo know me so well?
-As if! I’m more of a champagne and horror film kind of girl actually :P-
I sit back smugly on my well-loved sofa raising my plate to my neck and carry on chewing through my curry; just me and Nigel purring away on the sofa beside me like a really hairy ginger gay best friend.
-Obviously every good horror film must involve the tango at some point. By the way you have sauce on your lip x-
The evasive bastard! Where is he? I glance over at the window covered by my Wilkinson’s special voile curtain that betrays my surprise through it’s shit transparency when challenged by my table lamp. He’s watching me eating! Who does that and why didn’t I remember to buy proper curtains? I pick up my blackberry and my fingers fall angrily across the keys before I dump it back down, pick up my fork and continue to chew staring into the television screen, my eyes furiously in danger of burning a hole straight through it to the wall behind through sheer pissedoffedness.
-Obviously every good stalker is an ugly freak who hides from people because they’re fucking lame-
What is it with men these days? Are they actually men at all or just silly whinging idiots who could be madly in love with me but choose perfect girlfriends instead or hide in bushes and write to me? Well I’ve had enough of it all, Ben and *Ironsack82* can kiss my arse, or not actually because they’re wankers. They don’t deserve my arse, I’m better than that and I’m moving on. I’ll find somebody amazing who is insanely good looking and wants to marry me on the spot and all the time wasters can go and cry themselves to sleep about losing me.
Ping! -Is that what you think?-
-Fuck off, you bore me now- and as I hastily hit send I instantly feel my throat tighten a little. Why should I care about my stalker, I don’t know him, if it even is a him! It could be a fat lesbian rubbing herself in my hedge or some escaped convict for all I know. But they’re out there, for me… and it’s cold and dark outside, and they came to see me. No! That’s still fucking weird. And before I get my garlic naan into my mouth there’s a sudden knock at the door and my heart stops. What. The. Fuck. It’s *Ironsack82* at my door, my stalker, my admirer, my soon to be murderer? Jesus Christ what do I do? Shit. I almost launch Nigel off of the sofa as I chuck my plate onto the coffee table, grab a cushion over my head and ball up beside the lamp like a clumsy grandparent playing hide and seek. My heart is pounding and I’m held frozen in time holding my breath and squeezing my eyes tightly shut. What the hell do I do?
I hear a scattering noise and the tinkle of metal and my breath hitches as I force my eyes tighter shut sending red blobs dancing across the inside of my eyelids like a lava lamp. Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me my mind whirls in time to Vanessa Felts on the television. Footsteps rapidly get louder and quicker and I almost spontaneously combust when suddenly my forehead makes contact with a hard furry lump; Nigel you bastard, hide from the murderer! And he butts his face across mine repeatedly, purring and turning to show me his arsehole as I bat him away with the back of my hand whilst using the other to hold my trusty sofa cushion in place over my head.
It feels like an eternity since I’ve heard anything and eventually I open my eyes to see that I’m still alone and so far unmurdered, well that’s a relief. I finally gather enough courage to reach out a hand and pull my curry plate towards my hiding place because if I’m going to die tonight at the hands of a fat evil lesbian then there’s no way I’m sacrificing my last ever meal, let alone waste a korma!
I wipe the dribble from around my mouth as the light from the lamp above me burns at my eyes. Shit, I must have fell asleep. I awkwardly uncurl myself from my warrior-like ball and satisfyingly bend my neck back relieving the tension in an instant. Fucking *Ironsack82* I can’t believe it!
And with my posture clumsily regained I pick up my curry encrusted plate from the floor, neck back the last mouthful of red wine left in my glass and carry the TV remote to the table. Clattering the crockery into the kitchen sink I stop stock still as I look on in disbelief at the picture frames on the kitchen wall. On closer inspection my thoughts are confirmed, every single piece of glass removed from all seven picture frames. Unholy mother of the anti-Christ! He must have been in here!