I am being stalked by the word ‘nipple’. Every time I click on my blog I see ‘hard nipples’, ‘nipple sucking’, ‘nipple licking’. But the one that is really carpet-bombing my mind is ‘Nipples like hard rabbit droppings’! Where on earth did that come from?
2)
I feel sullied. I could have just written about kissing and done a dot-dot-dot ending. Then the crime would be a minor shoplifting-penny-sweets offence. But instead I threw myself into an underworld of cocks and clitorises
3)
I can’t talk to anyone about my misery. My mother and father would sue the convent if they found out. Si would persecute me for ever with nipple gags and self-help wisdom. Julia hasn’t yet read the story as her server is down. I am dreading the moment she does and the nailbomb of her wit explodes
4)
My blog readers don’t think I’m wanton and exciting at all. I have had comments from three new readers but they say:
Chris
Your spelling and punctuation are appalling.
To which I responded:
You can shove you’re punctuation up you’re .(§!&..’:{{-=) (that enough punctuation for you?)
Then it got to this:
Anonymous
Who do you think you are, e. e. cummings?
But then this happened:
Rhodri
That was so inarticulate it was like a sex story written by Phil Mitchell from Eastenders.
I got angry. Phil bloody Mitchell!! I responded:
Dear Rhodri
Having recently been concerned by your work output I asked your colleagues whether you were suffering any trauma at home. Imagine my surprise and disgust when I was informed that you had started to surf the world wide web to read about the love lives of strangers online. I have therefore booked you on an intense Internet Addiction Workshop this weekend in Slough. Your boss
So, I’m not focusing on the negative and am trying instead to think of one positive thing that has come out of the experience. It is taking me a while. If I scrape the barrel I could profess that I got a few more hits. I now have eighty-three. However, most of these are me clicking on my own blog so they don’t really count.
As ever, when one aspect of life is careering along a horribly wrong road the rest decides to thumb a lift with it. My bottom has got even bigger. I am currently sitting on a chair in just my pants. When I look down I think, Oh my, how on earth did the biggest choux bun in the world land on my lap? and then I realize that it is my lap. If I raise my eyes the view is no better because I am currently looking at the men available on Love Direct.
‘Your lovely mum’s on the phone,’ shouts Si, banging on my door. I put a towel around me lest the sight of my bottom should put Simon off women for life, and rush to talk to my wonderful mother.
‘Hello, sprinter. How you doing?’ I ask, getting comfortable on the sofa in the living room.
‘Oh, Sarah,’ sighs my mum.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I sigh back at her.
‘Oh, Sarah,’ she sighs again, although this time I detect in her voice a slight giggle being stifled.
‘Oh, Val,’ I giggle back.
‘Oh, Sarah,’ she goes again, but this time she sounds graver.
‘Oh Sarah what?’
‘Oh Sarah, your dad’s ever so disappointed.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’ I ask, intrigued.
‘Well, he bought a computer . . .’ she begins.
‘Oh?’ I say. I suddenly stop breathing. Please, God, say he hasn’t learnt how to use it and read my sex blog. Please.
‘Yes, well, you know what your father’s like – he hasn’t taken it out of the box yet.’
‘Oh ho.’ I chuckle with immense relief.
‘We started a computer course at the Age Concern place. Now before you say anything, it’s a very good course. And very reasonable: £15 for the whole term and there’s only seven of us in the class. We’re the youngest people in it. By quite a bit actually. Irish Patrick is the next youngest and he’s seventy-two. Nice man, does like his whisky though.’
‘This is great, Mum. We’ll be able to email each other soon!’
‘Um, well, I’m not sure we’ll be going back, Sarah. You see, Sarah, at the end of the lesson today your dad asked Ted the instructor if he could type in a website thingie that he thought we might like. And Ted said he would. And we all gathered around Ted’s computer and I wheeled Jean over. Your dad was ever so proud. He said, “This is my daughter’s blog” and we all put our glasses on, except Mavis who had forgotten hers so she leant up close to the screen. Well . . .’ My mum’s voice trails off and all I can hear is my heart.
‘Oh bollocks,’ I mumble.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees my mother slowly.
‘So what happened?’ I ask.
‘Well, I haven’t told you any of this. But Mavis loved it and so did Patrick. Patrick enjoyed it a bit too much, if you ask me. But we only got down to the bit where he said, “Do you” . . .’
‘Stop!!’ I bleat. ‘Mum, please don’t quote it to me.’
‘Yes, well, we didn’t read it all, because your dad asked them to turn it off. But, Sarah, he was very upset to begin with.’
‘Oh no,’ I say in sympathy.
‘You see, he wanted to surprise you and write a comment doobrie whatsit.’
‘Oh, this is terrible.’
‘Hmm. But now he’s very angry.’
‘Oh no,’ I say bleakly.
‘Yes, he’s talking about the money we wasted on your education. A lot. Anyway I’m going to get off the phone now because I can hear him coming down the stairs. He doesn’t want to talk to you. This is a tricky one, Sarah. I’m not sure how you’ll sort it out.’
I hang up slowly. Nope, I can’t think of any positive at all, except that at least no one in the Age Concern computer class suffered a heart attack while reading it.
The Last Blog Entry
This blogging malarkey is having a bad effect on me.
They say that crack is addictive. I wonder whether they’ve tried blogging.
Within four weeks my personal hygiene and the state of my room have plummeted from pretty poor to frankly frightening.
I check my site meter more often than a traffic warden checks windscreens.
I lie on my unmade bed imagining myself winning a Bloggie.
But it is the deterioration of my mind that worries me most. I started doing things that surprised me.
I read other people’s blogs and realized that my life wasn’t as interesting as other people’s lives. I thought that no one would want to read my blog unless it had sex in it but I hadn’t had sex for 351 days and I wouldn’t even use my vibrator because it sounds like a lawnmower. So I foolishly decided to spice it up.
I didn’t have sex with L at all. I didn’t straddle him on his unofficial roof terrace. In fact I didn’t even kiss him and he didn’t have a roof terrace of any description. I went to his filthy flat, drank horrible wine and then I made an excuse like a schoolgirl trying to get out of Games and ran away. Then I came home and I imagined having sex with that lovely man from speed dating who never called me. And I wrote about it.
This would be fine were it not for the convent education, the Catholic guilt and the fact my father isn’t talking to me.
So I would like to say to my eighty-seven readers . . .
I’m a knob.
I lied and I’m sorry.
Thank you for taking the time to read my dross. But I think I should stop the blog now.
fourteen
‘I wouldn’t go into the bathroom for five minutes if I were you,’ shouts Simon, poking his head into my room.
‘Lovely,’ I say, ignoring Bros.
‘It’s not your birthday, is it?’ he asks, walking up to my full-length mirror and squeezing a tiny whitehead on his chest.
‘No, why?’
‘Well your phone keeps ringing. You should change your ringtone, Sare, that one’s killing me.’
‘Why don’t you answer it?’
‘I don’t want to talk to anyone.’
‘Why don’t you turn it off then?’
‘Because it might be my agent.’ I don’t tell him that I would also answer the phone if it was a number that I didn’t recognize – just in case, and on the off-chance that Paul has been in hospital for three weeks and is now out and desperate to ask me to dinner. I have been thinking about Paul a lot recently. At what point do you stop hoping?
‘You not blogging today?’
‘Nope. I’m making a banner for my mum.’
‘Isn’t that my sheet?’
‘Oh fuck, I thought it was mine.’
‘Definitely mine, it’s a double. Don’t worry, I haven’t used it since you put it in a wash with your purple pants.’
‘Sorry, Si.’
‘Well, I’m pleased you’re up and focused, Sare, not lying about in bed blogging. I was getting worried about you.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree sadly. I miss my blog though. I feel as though I’ve lost a friend. Admittedly I did all the talking in the relationship and the friend clearly had a bad effect on me but I miss her all the same. I miss my quests. I miss checking my site meter. I even miss being scolded for my punctuation. But I would say that the fact I lied about having sex and then admitted to lying about having sex means I am not cut out for blogging, or men, or anything really.
My phone rings again. Please be Paul having just been released from hospital. I am ridiculous. Paul has had weeks to call me. He has chosen not to. Deal with it, Sarah. It’s not Paul. It’s Julia. I ignore it.
‘Sare! Who is it?’ howls Si.
‘Julia.’
‘Answer it.’
‘I said I don’t want to talk to anyone.’
‘Fucking hell, I’ll get it then.’ Simon picks up my phone. ‘Ello ello, Jules. Madam is in the middle of making a banner for her mum. Can I by any chance interest you in a BMW?’
Julia screams down the line. Simon’s body jolts at Julia’s megawatt output and he thrusts the phone away from his ear. We can both hear her. She is so over-excited that we can only make out a couple of words.
‘Fucking hell, Jules, you sound like Vanessa Feltz on E,’ shouts Simon at the phone. ‘I didn’t get a word of that. Breathe.’
‘AaahhhhohmyGoooddEveningStandardsexxxxxEveningStandardSarahSarahahhhohmyGodsexblogsexRachelBird.’
‘Blimey! Vanessa’s double-dropped,’ chuckles Si. I laugh. I realize that I haven’t laughed for days.
‘Sarah’s in the Standard!!’ screeches Julia through our laughter.
‘Why?’ shout Simon and I at the phone.
‘I was on the bus . . .’
‘On the bus, eh, Jules. Then I take it Big Daddy is deceased and you might like to test-drive my BMW,’ Simon says.
‘Big Daddy’s not deceased, he’s just resting in a garage for a few days,’ I tell Simon.
‘Let me finish!’ Julia yells. ‘I was on the bus and this woman was reading the Standard in front of me and I could see it was a feature on sex blogs but the bloody woman kept moving around. But when she got off I picked up the paper . . . oh my God. Listen to this: “Female blogger known only as Spinster set herself the task of exploring fifty ways to find a lover. But having read other steamier blogs she decided to lie about her sex life in order to appear more exciting and increase her readership.” There’s this whole article about sexy bloggers. They talk about Rachel Bird’s blog a lot but they mention yours. They’ve included your whole confession quote and given your blog’s address and everything.’
‘AAAAAAAAAGH. I feel like such a knob!’ I wail. I double up on the floor, winded by my own foolishness. It was one thing to admit to making up a sex story to eighty-seven readers, quite another to have it printed in London’s biggest-selling paper.
‘Sare, it’s amazing! Your blog’s famous!’ screams Julia.
‘Julia, it’s awful!’ I yell back.
‘What did you do?’ asks Simon, trying to keep up.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I sob.
‘Tell me!’ screams Si.
‘She made up a sex story on her blog,’ shouts Julia down the phone.
‘This I have to read,’ chortles Simon, handing me the phone and running to the computer in his room.
‘I’ve got to go and scream now, Jules. Bye.’ I hang up. I make the ‘urgh’ sound as loudly as I can in order to block out the demonic cackling coming from Simon’s room. My phone rings again. I answer it without thinking.
‘Hello,’ I croak. The ‘urgh’ sound has made me a little hoarse.
‘Um, is that Sarah? It’s Paul here.’
‘Oh.’ Oh my God, maybe he was in hospital after all.
‘Um, this is quite embarrassing but I was reading the Evening Standard and there’s this article about blogs in there,’ he says.
‘Oh no!’ I wince, holding the phone to my ear and curling up into a little ball on the floor.
‘And I read this thing about this woman who made up a story about sex and I remembered you using the word “spinster” and I thought it might be you . . . is it you?’
‘Yeeeaas,’ I answer meekly.
‘Well, I read your blog and it says in it that you, um, oh God, how should I put this? Well, really liked me.’
‘This is so embarrassing. I don’t think I’ve ever been this embarrassed, Paul. I’m so sorry.’
‘Well, the thing is I thought we got on really well and when I sent you that letter and invite to dinner I was hoping you’d say yes, but then I didn’t hear anything so I thought at first you might not have got it. I called Royal Mail twice and they said post was getting to you so I assumed you weren’t interested. But then I read your blog and you don’t mention the letter so maybe you really didn’t get it and I was just ringing to check, I suppose. God, this is really embarrassing.’
‘You sent me a letter?’
‘Yeah, the day after we met. I know no one sends letters any more but I thought it was more, um, er’ (small cough) ‘romantic than a text message or a phone call.’
‘Oh. I don’t really open post that often because they’re always bills,’ I say, looking at the huge mountain of post on my floor.
‘Oh well, I sent you a letter, asking you round for Sunday lunch.’
‘When?’
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘But we can do it this Sunday if you’re free and if you fancy it?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Great.’
‘I’ve been reading all the comments on your blog. It’s great, Sarah, you’re like a pioneer for women.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yeah. I am so glad that thing was in the paper, Sarah.’
‘Hmmm, me too.’
I hang up and face my post pile. I rummage through the envelopes until I find a handwritten white envelope. I open it carefully.
Dear Sarah Sargeant (actress extraordinaire)
It has come to my attention that our meeting last night was prematurely curtailed owing to a particularly knobby client of mine entering the establishment we were in. My apologies for this.
I have been racking my brains as to a suitable time and place for us to continue our discourse of inappropriate bollocks.
I was wondering whether you were free
this Sunday about 3ish for some nourishment? It is with great regret that I have to inform you that the local Pizza Hut is fully booked at that hour. However, I was wondering whether you could bear to come to my house, eat my roast lamb with garlic and rosemary, drink some fine wine and regale me with tales of your shoes?
I enclose my telecommunication details and I await your response with anticipation.
Yours
Paul (the bloke who rescued you from the psychotic gnome: unshaven, pink shirt, grotty trainers)
I am just rereading it for the fourth time when Simon explodes into my room. I look up at him.
‘Blimey! Check your big grin! Have you been reading those comments on your blog thing?’
I shake my head and hand him the letter to read. He takes it and studies it carefully, a look of intense concentration on his face.
‘Don’t you think it’s nice?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, it’s really nice, Sare. He sounds very . . .’ he thinks for the right word for a few seconds, ‘you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I gush. ‘Oh my God, Simon, it’s weird that you should say that because he feels uncannily me.’
‘Hmmm.’ He nods seriously. ‘See, I told you you’d meet someone you liked if you looked. I’m popping out, Sare, see you in a bit, and read those comments, they’re really nice.’
I take my laptop from under the bed where it’s been hiding for days. I click on to my blog. I have had over two thousand hits since I last looked and I’ve got ninety-five new comments. I read them slowly. Three people offer me their faces to sit on. Someone from a magazine called Down and Dirty offers me a job. But everyone else sends kind messages. My favourite is the most recent one, from someone who calls themself No. 1 Fan.
Hello Spinster,
You sound really honest and special to me. Keep going with your quest and your blog. It’ll be all right, I promise.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 8