So now I’m sitting at the computers in my local library on a Saturday afternoon here in Bangor. But if you’re wondering why I’m wearing a raincoat and glasses, it’s a bit of long story. Let’s just say that I needed to make contact with you but I had to wear a disguise if I wanted to get here unmolested.
I guess I had an inkling that it was going to be a funny day when I had to sneak out of the house. It makes me feel even more like Michael Caine in one of those Harry Palmer films. I believe we’re now meant to have some innocuous exchange where I ask: ‘When do Bulgarian hamsters eat cheese?’ To which you must respond with: ‘I don’t know but have a ham sandwich instead.’
Since you're probably wondering, I’ve still not found my laptop's power supply , though Gabby now swears that she hasn’t hid it. That means I’ve left it somewhere and I go cold at that possibility.
You see, last night, instead of staying in, I went to my local coffee shop where I spent an hour writing this week’s assignment for my English course. Mrs. Rust has asked us to write about some skill we lack. I’d contemplated writing a piece about Ray ‘Truncheon’ Peter’s reverse thong heel flip, which has always been something of a mystery to me, but in the end I wrote something much more thoughtful. I intended to post it here before I hand it in, but since it’s on the laptop, I’ll need to find juice before I can upload it and you can give me my marks.
And that brings me back to the power supply. At the moment, it's all of my worries. I think I might have left it at the coffee shop. The same coffee shop where, last night, I had a rather odd experience.
The trouble began when somebody recognized me.
I was happily typing away when I was approached by a young woman with stunning black hair. She was the type of young willowy beauty heavily into the Gothic and bearing more than a passing resemblance to Amy Winehouse. Her eye liner as thick as her lips which were like two ripe purple slugs, though I confess that this probably doesn’t do her any justice. She would undoubtedly appeal to the undead. I just felt not a little afraid.
‘Aren’t you Chip Dale?’ she asked.
I said I was and she clapped her hands together like some well-trained sea lion. I felt an urge to throw her some fish. Dead, of course.
‘I thought you were,’ she said. ‘I saw you in the paper and I’ve been reading you blog. I think you’re wonderful.’
‘Do you? Oh... well... I’m really delighted,’ I said. I’ve never had a fan who hasn’t seen me naked, so I was taken back by this enthusiastic approach. Somebody who likes me for more than my thong. It’s a rare thing.
‘I know this will make you laugh,’ she carried on, ‘but I was just amazed by how much you resemble Lembit Opik.’
I should have known there was a catch. ‘Did you,’ I said, rather naively. I still didn’t expect the catch to be as big as the one that was about to come.
‘Oh, I did,’ replied the girl. ‘When the judge told me that I couldn’t follow him around any more, I didn’t know what to do. Until I saw you. You were the answer to my prayers.’
It was one of those sentences that I could spend an hour examining and still find more things about it which disturb me. I finally settled on just one.
‘The judge?’ I repeated.
She barked a loud abrasive laugh and pulled up a chair before sitting herself down beside me and casually grabbing my leg.
‘What you writing?’ she asked, squeezing my knee.
‘Work,’ I whispered, my voice achieving what my body couldn't: disappearing in a flash. ‘You were telling me about the judge.’
Again with the laugh. Her hand moved north.
‘Oh, that was a while ago,’ she said. ‘I’ve not breached that restraining once. I mean, how good am I?’ She smiled at me again and took the opportunity of brushing a few invisible crumbs from my shirt to handle my nipples. ‘You’re cute,’ she added and rolled up a sleeve to reveal a tattoo of the honourable MP for Montgomeryshire riding what looked like a large snake.
‘Am I?’ I asked as I tried to decipher the tattoo.
‘Nearly as cute as Lembit but you’ve got prospects.’
‘Have I?’
‘You have,’ she said
‘Such as?’ I know I shouldn't have encouraged her.
She giggled. ‘The prospect that you’re going to take off your clothes for me.’
I gave a slight scream and snapped shut the lid of my laptop.
‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I’ve got pancakes in the oven.’
‘Oh, don’t leave,’ cried my fan. ‘I won’t let you go until you tell me when I can come and see you perform.’
I pulled my leg from her grip and ran from the shop.
The last thing I heard was her sweet voice above the sound of the coffee grinders.
‘I’ll be saving all my five pound notes for you. I want to slip them down your thong!’
Which is why I’m in disguise and why I think I’ll have to go and find a shop to sell me a new power supply. I’ve suddenly gone right off coffee and girls who look like Amy Winehouse.
Life continues to throw me curve balls. I wouldn’t mind but I’ve never been much of a fan of baseball or its metaphors.
