Virtual Strangers

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  I must make a serious mental note to ask everybody I invite to my birthday party to bring me an MFI voucher (must check if exist!) or Nepalese currency, or high energy biscuits and so on. Do you know what Phil said to me this morning? He said ‘I thought it might be fun to go on one of those Murder Mystery weekends,’ and all I could think was ‘Weekend from hell’. We are so pathologically unsuited! And, nice as he is, he can be such a prat at times, don’t you think? Have we a future, Rose? Seriously?

  Still, on a lighter note, here, as promised, is my latest shag list;

  New at 6: Hugh Chatsworth (who I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word for. He’s the new boy at Willie JJ - Only 19! (Bless) Very short hair. Very long limbs. Bit nervous of me. Nervous of me! Lots of scope for a dom/sub scenario...)

  5: Richard Potter (Who I spotted in town in his hard hat and boots last week. Yum yum. Would have climbed to number four if it hadn’t been for....)

  4: David Harris-Harper (WOW or what?)

  3: Adam Jones (bedside manner on top form, as ever.....)

  2: Your Matt (except beard tendency a worry, I have to say.)

  1: That new IT teacher at your party. Forgot his name/marital status. What is his name/marital status? Must know. Can’t ask Ben for obvious reasons!!!

  Email back soon,

  Miss you.

  Charliexx

  PS Really sorry to dump all my moans on you. Humour me! I promise I will snap out of it soon.

  Saturday lunchtime. A response at last! Though, has to be said, a disappointingly short one. Expect she is bogged down in dibbing or dobbing, or whatever it is that new post-downshifting ruralites do.

  thesimpsons@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Charlie,

  Sorry you’re feeling morose. I expect you failed to establish either status because you had lost the power of decipherable speech before ten.

  Why Adam Jones at number three?

  Rose.

  Teatime. Tried calling Rose for qualification of this worrisome and hitherto unremarked aspect of humiliation status, and possible further detail on the IT guy. New ansafone message (Matt, this time);

  Hi Guys,

  Matt and Rose are just too busy chilling. Hang up if you like or hold tight for the bleep. Leave a message by all means - then call again later. You know what we’re like. Hah!

  Chilling? Hah? A seriously bizarre, yet somehow spookily inevitable development, Matt-wise. Didn’t bother again, as I’m complete crap at talking to ansafones - saying well! there we are than! so! well! anyway! yes! anyway! so! well! ho ho! yes! ooh! listen to me! anyway! etc. etc. ad nauseum, and sounding like an utter dingbat. Plus ansafones are seriously old-hat now anyway. Booted up (getting slick now) and sent an email instead.

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Rose,

  Didn’t think much of your new ansafone message. Have you gone all ironic on me? (Please say yes). Or is ‘chilling’ Kent-speak for watching Neighbours, perhaps? Oh, and has Matt started tilling the courgette bed yet? (only ask as I saw a brilliant and stylish recipe for deep-fried courgette flowers on celebrity Ready Steady Cook yesterday). As for the doc, I dithered about putting David Harris-Harper at number three, actually, as he’s seriously shaggable and has a nose just like Antonio Banderas. (His wife, apparently, is a very good friend of Davina’s, by the way. Hmm.) But I think AJ has the edge, doesn’t he? Even if (or because, perhaps!!) Davina is being such a baggage right now. Have I told you about that? She is permanently irritable about the impending image-enhancement make-over Willie JJ are undergoing as a stand, I presume, against Metro Homes swallowing them up. God, it’s awful. They’ve drafted in this woman (who looks like a cross between Katherine Hepburn and Wilma Flintstone), and who is called Ianthe, of all things, and who will apparently wave her sartorial and space enhancement wand and bring Willie JJ into the twenty first century. I’ve never seen Davina so fired up about fabrics. You know her - half a dozen Austin Reeds and she’s normally sorted, but just lately - well, suffice to say, it’s like working in a Moroccan bazaar. (Not that she’ll have to wear any of it anyway, so she can afford to completely cavalier about styling.)

  Wondered about continuing list-eligibility of Matt (ditto Phil). As no longer available for groping, should I remove? Please advise.

  More importantly, is IT guy really single/thirty seven/not a wuss (as Ben tells me). Go on, torture me. I can take it!

  And exactly how ratted was I? Don’t spare me. I need to know.

  Charliexx

  In an attempt to dispel any lingering local rumours about Charlie Simpson, Soak Star, I do not, as previously planned, take Ben and Dad to the pub for tea, but instead, stay in and allow latter to cook pork chops - I even consume a small quantity of his home made Cheeky Chilli Chutney. I do note, however, that chutney is probably more detrimental to my gut lining than ten years hard wine-abuse could possibly be on my liver. Take a large jug of water to the study and log on.

  thesimpsons@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Charlie,

  Of course Matt should be dumped! He is probably on a new shag-list as I write. Move Adam Jones up to second position.

  Rose.

  PS You know exactly how ratted you were. And you must go to the Stablefords’ party. If you shut yourself away you will become depressed and introspective. If you go late you won’t have to eat anything.

  PPS Just found out. Head of IT is gay.

  Rats.

  But I must accept the dreary reality that almost everybody within my preferred age, appearance, normality parameters is either already married/co-habiting/coming to terms with the emotional trauma of a messy divorce/ starring as comedy strand in a docusoap about singles’ clubs/cruise ships or wildlife sanctuary rangers and are therefore best avoided etc. Or, indeed, gay.

  Plus I’m already going out with Phil, of course. Hmmm.

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Rose,

  I’m very disappointed about the IT guy. But philosophical. Or should that be Phil-osophical? Have decided I must accept my disappointment as an indication of the fact that I shouldn’t really be going out with Phil any more. Must make a decision and very soon. Certainly before any more brochures about heritage/activity/theme breaks land on the mat. (Am expecting SAGA one any time now).

  And where is your latest shag list? Any worthy candidates in Canterbury yet? Have been considering cabinet re-shuffle since sad news about IT guy, and have decided must move scrumptious Harris-Harper into equal first position with delicious Doctor AJ. Have to report that Kim Harris-Harper turns out not to have been as friendly a person as I originally thought. Saw her in the bank last week and she remarked a) that she didn’t recognise me without the red flush, chortle, chortle and b) that she would just love to be able to let her hair down like I did, but regrettably, as she was a professional woman, she always had to be nice to people in the morning. Yes, really. Like I just say ‘Wanna house, do you? Well tough! Fuck off!’ Seems she is going to be right up there with Davina in the baggage department. Speaking of which, I have to report a distressing development at work. Walked into the staff room yesterday and came upon Hugh Chatsworth (no. 6, remember?) in the middle of changing his shirt. (He has perspiration difficulties, apparently). And guess what? He has nipple rings! Yes, ring-s. Times two. Which he holds in place under his shirt with two Mr Men plasters. (So as not to alarm elderly householders, presumably. Or would it be to do with electrical activity?). Anyway, so he’s gay as well. Though of course he could just be one of those fetishist guys who go to clubs where they put each other on leads and wear spikes round their necks etc. But, well, yuk.

  Charliexx

  PS Have to accept Stableford’s party invitation now anyway as Ben is suffering (sic) a major hormone eruption, and has confessed to a friendship (sic) with Francesca Stableford of a type which obviously does not include the swapping of Nintendo games or going into town and playing on the escalators/telephoning people called Smellie and saying poo. And does incl
ude a fair amount of being holed up in his room, and sitting in bed looking shifty. A Development, eh? In fact, the development. And I’m so touched that he felt able to share all this with me (rather than looking furtive and saying ‘yeah, whatever’ etc.) that I can hardly bring myself to change his sheets - because then he’ll realise I might have seen something he’d find it excruciatingly embarrassing to have to think about the fact of me seeing and so on, that I want to spare him the discomfort. Perhaps I’ll just leave a clean sheet folded on the end of the bed from now on. Ha! You have all this to come!

  PPS Talking of perspiration, I heard on the radio today that most roll-on antiperspirants leave a white residue that shows up under ultra-violet light and can be the cause of much embarrassment to young girls out clubbing. For some reason, I found that immensely funny. What a sad, strange little woman I am.

  PPPS Oh, yes! And green! You would not believe the new Willie JJ makeover. We have had a visitation from the aptly named Ianthe (see below) who is clearly Cardiff’s answer to Conran, and whose (obviously covert) brief it has been to makeover Willie JJ, not as a go-ahead service sector business, but in the style, it would appear, of amphibious life (Ianthe was a Greek sea nymph - so it figures.). The uniform is so utterly grotesque I cannot even begin to describe it. I shall have to send you a photo. Suffice to say, it is green (think distemper. Think stagnant pond) and to reflect (I quote) the essence of the main corporate tenets (which are independence, one-to-one service and commitment to the environment, apparently) it incorporates a cut away half oak leaf motif on each lapel which, when the jacket is done up form a sort of oakey montage. And it’s all pulled together by a monster chartreuse and khaki bow. I don’t know how much the whole package cost them but they’ve been had, big time, I can tell you. The woman must be coining it in.

  Charliexx

  Monday. AM.

  A dreadful, dreadful start to the morning, as I had a major panic re. possible untimely menopausal symptoms. Though they were largely allayed by the realisation that a) the colour of my face was a direct result of my proximity to the new Willie JJ attire and b) the thermostat had been interfered with by my father (bringing the whole house to the temperature of a robust Finnish sauna). Was plunged, nevertheless, into a minor depression, as I couldn’t stop thinking that the whole sweaty, unpredictable yukkiness of it all, was, in reality, probably less than a decade away anyway. And I have not achieved one fifth of the plane fare to Nepal, or got so much as an MFI kitchen catalogue yet.

  And it got worse. I took a pair of perfectly respectable fifty-somethings to view ‘Cherry Ditchling’ and was just showing them the refurbished dressing room/en suite combo when the man threw up all over the place; hand stitched Italian silk throw, carpet, chenille bath mat, arrangement of silk gerberas/curly willow etc. - the lot. He had apparently over indulged at a Masonic lodge dinner and became nauseated at the smell of the (excessively oil-refreshed, admittedly) pot-pourri. Hah! He should try living at my house. But I cannot believe some people. Nothing to clear up with, of course, because the Rutlands don’t possess anything useful in the way of serious hardwear. They have it bussed in three times a week by the Little Darlings Home Valet Squeaky Clean Co (or whatever). And all I had to hand was a pack of travel wipes. In the end I telephoned Little Darlings, who agreed to come out and scrub up for me, but only at a price.

  Returned to the office to find a) that said couple had already called to say Cherry Ditchling was an overpriced heap and too close to the motorway anyway, and b) that there is absolutely nothing in the Willie Jones Jackson contract to cover vomit-related soiling accidents to clients’ property whilst viewing.

  Now nursing a headache and dehydration (thus the promise of a further headache later). I have nothing to look forward to for the foreseeable future except dithering over whether to tell Phil I don’t want to see him any more, and, speaking of vomit, waiting for Dan to get in touch and tell me he is still alive/has not succumbed to excesses of student life and is consequently lying face down in a similar pool. With Jack. Who no doubt is a bad influence all round. Oh, plus a no-frills dig for victory style dinner at 18.46. Plus jam.

  18.37. Bright moment in my day! Email from Rose.

  thesimpsons@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Charlie,

  They put masking tape over metals (earrings etc.) when people have operations in case they use diathermy (cauterising etc.). As nipple rings pierce the flesh there is a danger of shorting, so you are on the right lines about the electrical aspect. Though, for day to day purposes, I suspect the plasters serve mainly to reduce chafing.

  Intrigued about the armpit thing. It’s these little windows of absurdity in the day that make life worth living, isn’t it?

  I’m going to have to press you on the Harris-Harper/Jones stalemate. Which one is number one? No ties allowed. For my part, I must say I’m relieved to be able to remove Phil from my list. Nice chap though he is, I was only being polite.

  Rose.

  Stalemate?

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Rose,

  You know perfectly well that there is really no contest. But are you terribly busy? How about hello, how are you, what have you been up to type stuff. Am beginning to think you can’t be bothered any more. In which case, sulking. I expect seriously long email, and soon.

  Charlie.

  PS have to cut my own communication short as Ben is having a prophylactic asthma attack; prophylactic in that his grandfather asked him to accompany him after dinner to the village bulb sale, and in a financially-challenged moment he rashly agreed. Now, of course, he has love etc., and has no need of earthly pleasures such as CDs/the price of renting a video and so on.

  18.49. And twenty four bloody seconds.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Dad, I’m coming, okay?’

  ‘Tsh! I don’t know. You young things spend far too much time dashing about like headless chickens. Rush, rush, rush! Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines! And now look. The broccoli’s had two minutes too long. Don’t blame me if it’s gone all flaccid.’

  ‘Look, Dad, it’s no big deal, okay?’

  ‘Not to you, perhaps, but if a job’s worth doing... and where’s that grandson of mine? Skulking? BEN! DINNER! ON THE DOUBLE! QUICK MARCH!’

  I go to bed at half past eight in a foul mood. My life is totally devoid of passion/direction (except I do now have £73.00 in Everest/MFI fund). And I’m unloved by everyone except Dan (reciprocated ten fold but absent), Dad (reciprocated, obviously, but guilt-inducing), Phil (not really reciprocated, and suffocating) and Ben (reciprocated tenfold again, but in any case suspect it is only provisional; dependent upon maternal decision re. newly proposed weekend in London with Dan. But thirteen is very young to be exposed to underground system/real ale/ragga etc.)

  Going to bed at half past eight is definitely not a good move, as I wake up at half past four. And fret almost hysterically about life/love/split ends/the fact that I am so sad that I have only two people to send emails to. Go to work and eat lunch at ten thirty five. Exceedingly long afternoon.

  thesimpsons@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Charlie,

  Bandying words like prophilaxis around now, are we? You must be fed up. Big apologies for previous brevity. We have indeed been very busy. But not so busy that the idea of you mooching around sulking and being obstreperous with your father isn’t good enough reason to say ‘stuff the spring cabbage. I must email Charlie.’

  Trouble is, there’s busy and there’s busy. And so little is happening here that I’m at a loss to know what to put. And just how much am I missing? Sound’s like back there’s where all the action is. And as you are clearly finding cyber-space such a rewarding and therapeutic outlet for your creative/emotional energies, please feel free to bang on at length about anything that takes your fancy (or mine, for that matter. Who’s currently hip?)

  Rose.

  Rose’s response, I note, when I discover this on Tuesday evening, came almost straight after my own was s
ent off. But when I telephone later, the ansafone answers. Matt again, this time, and at odds with the email;

  Out on the tiles, I’m afraid! We’re such slappers! And the babysitter’s french and won’t answer the phone. Leave a message, why don’t you?

  No thanks.

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Rose,

  Action! I wish! And where the hell are you now?

  The only action this week is yet another spate of high drama chez Willie JJ. Have decided that Hugh Chatsworth is not the man I thought he was (apart from possibly not being a man in the heterosexual sense, in any case, but that is neither here nor there.) He is such a low life! Will tell you all about it when I get hold of you - IF!

  Oh, and Ben had a real asthma attack yesterday (the boy who cried inhaler etc. etc.) and as a consequence failed to finish the school cross country heats, which has put him in a seriously bad mood as well. There’s so much sniping going on around here that I feel like I’m occupying a trench at the Somme.

  Charlie.

  PS Scrub that bit about the Somme. That was in very poor taste and not worthy of me. Particularly as it’s Poppy Week soon.

  Speaking of which, pop! An immediate response! Wish I understood better how land lines configured, as I cannot compute how Rose can send me an email while earlier evidence suggests she is out. But she has. If a short one.

  thesimpsons@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Charlie,

  I read in a book this week that the expression ‘over the top’ derives from the First World War. And it was actually used flippantly by civilians during the war, in fact, which must have irritated the soldiers somewhat. Why is Hugh Chatsworth a low life?

  Rose.

  I have decided that Hugh Chatsworth is not merely a low life, but a fat little soil living tick. Had a gratifying end to the morning as I had received an offer from the Pringles (my clients) for 62 Bryn Coch (Hugh’s clients’ house.) As Hugh was on viewings, I then telephoned Hugh’s clients, who were happy to accept the offer my clients had made. Lovely, lovely. Indeed, especially lovely, as I had already sold my client’s house too.