I finish work and head to the library. Oh no, I keep needing to fart, so I have to let it out gently, grab a book quick, and nip round the next aisle before anyone walks into the toxic cloud. Grab and run, grab and run. And my bowels seem to have no end of gas.
I’m really hungry. ‘I want Subway’ a baby voice demands in my head. I get there and have my usual ‘6 inch meatball marinari, everything but the chilli’
“And what sauce would you like?
Here comes my catchphrase “What would you recommend?”
“Err, southwest sauce is what people usually have”
“I’ll have that then” I say, feeling like a frail aristocrat trying to fit in among the hardy hoi polloi.
As I wait, a couple come in. “Foot long tuna sub please” says the man gruffly.
Suddenly my 6 incher is looking rather pathetic. I get that toilet feeling, like when you’re stood at the urinals and either side of you out of the corner of your eye, it looks like elephant trunks are hosing down the walls. ‘Oh God’ I think, trying to stretch my ‘little man’ out further to compete.
I hope it’s all an optical illusion- ‘It’s coz I’m viewing mine from above’ I say to comfort myself.
Am I destined to be belittled my real men and their rough and ready ways? Am I a sickly, malnourished, asexual type who shouldn’t have made it this far if Darwin had had his way?
I take my droopy stump of bread and run to the bus.
Back at Lisa’s, Esther asks me “Did you get my text? It said “Ring me slave”. Well of course you didn’t, you would have rung me if you had”
She often does both her and my side of the conversation for me. That’s love for you.
“You should try being a dominatrix” I say, thinking wishfully.
“Oh no, that’d involve having sex” she scowls.
“Some dominatrixes don’t have sex” I say, my voice trailing off at the end. Why did I even suggest it?
“Yeah but the other person gets off on that” she adds “Yuck!”
“I just want an adult nappy so I can poo and wee myself” she confesses matter-of-factly. “And an endless supply of baby food”
“For sexual reasons?” asks Lisa
“Hmm…I don’t think so” muses Esther. “I just love the idea of shitting myself where I’m sitting. And weeing. And having someone else clean up after me and put on a clean nappy”.
I offer to make a cup of tea to escape. As the kettle boils, I see a packet of Easter Hot Cross Buns from Tesco. This makes me angry.
“I can’t believe that no sooner has Tesco got rid of its Christmas stuff, they replace it with Easter stuff!” I say sternly.
I suddenly feel like an old Sheffielder, saddened by the modern world. “There’s no time to bluddy breathe round ‘ere anymore” I say in character.
“Yeah, capitalism- it’s disgusting” replies Esther. Hypocrite. She’s addicted to Tesco ready meals. For the last 2 months she has refused to cook anything, and only gets us food that “takes less than 10 minutes in the microwave”. No wonder my time in the library was fraught.
We sip our teas in silence. Esther is scouring facebook.
“That’s a nice picture of ___” (name censored for diplomatic reasons) she says through gritted teeth. “Why is everyone getting prettier while I get uglier?” she thinks aloud.
Hmm, don’t get me started on prettiness. Sure it’s ok in an Oreo kind of way- yummy and addictive at first, but sickly half way through the pack. It’s all much of a muchness. My head turns at the sight of a pretty girl almost robotically, like my genes are saying ‘potential mate no. 34778 at 3 o clock”. But prettiness is deeply forgettable. Give me weird and kooky any day.
‘Better freak than geek’? Not necessarily, since freaks often dress like geeks. I was recently asked if I have a type. I’m still not sure.
I guess my type is too cynical and jaded to even notice me. I guess my type is Esther.