I’ve not been feeling myself lately.
Although in one respect that sentence isn’t quite true as with no girlfriend around I’ve been doing rather a lot of it actually. However, in the other sense, that of mood swings I’m afraid I’m swinging lower than a bulldog’s balls.
I’m feel so bad that I’m even beginning to like Coldplay’s songs for Christ’s sake. Yes, it’s getting that suicidal!
So my concerned friends are rallying around in their own particular rally styles.
My two special Christmas fairies Dolce and Gabbana decided a big hairy alpha male would perk me up (and we’ve all tried that, haven’t we girls?). So they took me to see King Kong.
I don’t know which of us cried more. I started blubbing at the Central Park ice scene and by the time Kong and Naomi were staring into each other’s eyes on top of the Empire State we were all in a right state. In fact, I can't remember whose eye make-up ran more.
Still a touch of dampness around the eyes does wonders for your spirits and I felt much better afterwards in Couch 33. Fuck Coldplay let’s have another cocktail.
My good friend Ms Rude prescribed dampness too - but at the other end of my body.
Her vast experience suggested that what I needed was a good seeing-too so she set up a blind date (and what with my puffy eyes and sallow complexion they’d have to be blind)
“A contented cunt means a contented soul”, she said sagely.
My, what a beautiful thought for the human race. Set it to music, have it crooned by James Blunt and it could be a surprise Christmas No 1. “A con-ten-ted cun-t…” yes I can almost hear his girly voice.
Sadly the evening itself wasn’t a hit. My date turned out to be an avid reader of my blog and my stories so I expect she imagined I come in the pub door on a sled pulled by polar bears wearing a white latex thong, thigh boots and a 12 inch strap-on and then proceed to shag her over the snooker table.
In fact, the only bending that night was of the ear variety. We talked, and talked about love lost and found. And later at Ms Rude’s flat the promised fuckfest became a kiss and a cuddle although remembering that I was 'Sadie Dark' I did slip my hand down her knickers.
Sadly though, whilst my finger was definitely into it, my heart wasn't. We parted soon after promising to ring each other.
(It’s not your fault Darling D – I was absolutely hopeless that night)
All this sorrow has put out the fire in my writing a bit. So when I got snappy with Morgan (my co-writer) over his comments about some of the jokes appearing a bit forced he decided to humour me.
He turned up one beautiful, crisp, blue-skied morning in his Morgan sports car and off we went for a country pub lunch.
Our arrival at the ‘Goatshagger’s Arms’ or whatever it was called, was great. A group of sheepskin coated male and female drinkers drawn outside by the winter sun just gawped.
If we’d turned up stark naked in the Queen’s State Coach we wouldn’t have created more interest. The Morgan, (a 1930’s style racer) is a star - all the men nodded approvingly and moved over to make envious comments.
The women hung back so I decided to show them some more shapely superstructure.
Out I got in my tight black pants, my knee high boots and Morgan’s flying jacket.
I got a flash of the women’s lined faces – each with a disapproving mouth like a cat’s bottom. So I decided to give them a flash.
On the pretext of reaching in for my bag I gave everyone a long and lingering look at my upturned bum.
As I straightened and turned, I noticed the men’s car chatter had briefly stalled, Morgan was smirking at me, and the women…the women. God those boozy bitches hated me.
The meal was brilliant but then it’s amazing what a seasoning of self-confidence can do to bangers and mash.
I felt like my old self (and I like my old self – she’s a spunky minx). I laughed so much with Morgan that there were actually tears in my eyes. At one point I felt like spontaneously breaking out into a rendition of “I’ll Survive”.
But I didn’t. I wonder if the pub realised how lucky they were.
Love & Laughter Sadie