I pace around my one-bed studio flat in just my bra and pants and a single strategically placed blue plaster on my cheek eagerly looking for the kettle. How the hell does anybody lose a fucking kettle? Frustratingly my curry flavour pot noodle’s foil is peeled back primed and waiting on the coffee table for the hot water; but for some unknown reason, be it divine intervention or otherwise, I am appliantly-challenged today.
The thought half crosses my mind to just eat the crunchy noodles dry and snort the seasoning through sheer unbinding stubbornness for not wanting to lose face on my gazillion to nil lead so far. But as I perch on the loo I’m suddenly reminded of my near on third-degree hangover burn last week when I accidentally brushed my teeth with the hand basins hot tap instead of cold, and I run my tongue over the tender shiny patch that has since formed on the roof of my mouth. Sod it, hot tap it is, I don’t want to risk breaking a tooth as well or it could seriously dash my chances of seducing my hottie twenty-seven year old toy-boy cheesemonger. Swoon.
Several minutes later after pouring, stirring, and swirling my fork absentmindedly in the tepid noodle water, I glug it back like a fine oyster so as not to crack a tooth and wash it down with some red-lightening stimulation drink, because it’s thirty-five pence cheaper per can than Redbull. Criminal, I know!
And finally I slump back onto my well-loved sofa, rewarded by the rumbling throaty purr of my dear old Nigel who never fails to cheer me up after a hard day. For a three-legged eight-year-old ginger tabby he’s surprisingly still nimble. It’s been almost two years since he was hit by a moped and sacrificed a limb in exchange for his life and I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d have lost him, he’s my world. That bastard Mr Sphin from across the road never looks where he’s going on his hairdryer on wheels, the law should be like the olden days of an eye for an eye, and in this case I should cut of his leg in his sleep and transplant it into his arse. Idiot Ian Sphin, you saggy fat sphincter, if I ever get hold of your leg I shan’t hesitate to revenge my sweet Nigel and post the pictures on Facebook for the entire world to see!
I wipe away the collection of bubbling spittle forming in the corner of his adorable pink lips with my thumb as he closes his eyes emphasising his deep rumble as I knead my fingers rhythmically around the top of his head. That’s right Nigel, let it all go, rumble away your cat stress and fill yourself with warm fuzzy sunshine, your Sandblaster’s home.
My blackberry pings me away from my kneading and I fumble in my bag to retrieve the BBM proudly waiting from *Ironsack82* which sheepishly makes me smile. Although I’ve never met the mysterious *Ironsack82* he knows exactly who I am and the suspense of it all is so thrilling. A few months ago on a night out in Chicago’s the DJ whipped the dance floor into a drunken frenzy and told us all of text our pins to the big screen if we were looking for love. Being the drunken state that I was I squealed to be the first to see mine come up on the screen and may have even pulled my top over my head with enthusiasm although I can’t actually remember it all that clearly. *Ironsack82* was obviously there too somewhere, saw me react to my pin being on the screen and sent me a message and we’ve been in constant contact since then. He finds it entertaining to remain a stranger you see and won’t tell me his real name or what he looks like. All he will confirm is that he’s the same age as me and lives locally. Every now and then I get a BBM at work telling me he likes my hair or to cheer up and smile, and I dart my eyes around trying desperately to discover his identity but he’s always already out of sight before he sends the message. The tantalising bastard. I secretly think he’s a fifty-stone recluse in a wheelchair pretending to be a hunk and a small part of me doesn’t ever want to meet him just in case the cold light of day spoils my illusions and more selfishly I’d miss his banter because we’ve grown so close.
Reading his BBM:
– Sarrn-dra, you dance like a panda! x –
I smile to myself as I type back:
– Whatever psycho 🙂 –
And flick the TV remote onto ITV2 for a catch up on the Jeremy Kyle rejects with Nigel and last nights left-over fruit and nut down the side of the sofa. That’s the shit right there.
