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I like your crust

  Sun 30th June 2013

First of all, welcome along to the person who found this blog at 2.55am this morning by googling for "sex in a shed knickers on." I hope you found what you were after.

One of the pleasures of living in a wind- and rain-swept coastal area of northwest England is the immovable optimism with which people arrange social activities outside, unaffected by any amount of rained-off fêtes, barbeques and other social occasions.

The girls and I went to a slightly stodgy garden party hosted by their best friend's parents, both lecturers at large northern universities. The attractive, almost beautiful, hostess was wearing a necklace in which the stones were threaded onto something that looked very much like a bra strap. A determined ten minutes outside, as plastic cups tumbled across the table, ended as the rain emptied onto Lancaster.

Inside, we recommenced in the dull, default mode of an uninebriated party, segregated by sex, with the men talking about house prices and driving routes to the Dordogne while the women did their voluntary or obligatory--I can never decide which--cooing over babies. I have not the slightest interest in other people's babies or children--I often struggled to feign interest in my own--but I have at least had three children, whereas I have never driven anywhere, least of all to southwest France.

However, I attempt to include one of the older boys in conversation. "Your mother tells me you're starting at the Grammar School next year." " I'm in my second year at Uni."

Things improved greatly once, tired of our restraint, we set about the yards of wine and beer, the jugs of Pimm's, and the array of superb food she'd made. The centrepiece was a quiche the size of a card table. Whilst she was becoming more and more attractive by the glass, I'm sure our hostess felt safe: it's impossible not to sound gay when asking a woman how she manages to get her quiche crust so evenly brown. It was slightly the type of party where you talk about pastry.

It is a lovely midsummer night; even gone midnight, the sky isn't completely black. Ahead, a woman is standing, looking puzzled, over the grille in the pavement at the back of the Town Hall. "Are you OK?" I ask. "Mmmm. Dropped my cigarette." I fish the cigarette out: it had only fallen as far as the wire mesh below the grille. Immediately, she drops it again. "Where are you going?" she asks, and links her arm into mine. "Up here," I say, and wonder whether we are going to bed. She starts talking in that scattered way that is impossible to follow.

At the corner, her phone rings ceaselessly. She kneels down and empties everything out of her bag onto the pavement. It's not there. I can hear it in her coat pocket and fetch the phone out for her. She looks at the screen. "Oh fuck," she says. "Can you shut the fuck up," she says, not unkindly, putting her finger to her lips. She answers the phone. "Where am I?" she says. She silently repeats the question to me. "Outside the White C---s." "What?" "The White C---s."

She tries, unsuccessfully, to read her watch. "What time is it?" she asks, both of me and the phone. "One o'clock," I say quietly, holding up one finger. We repeat this action a couple of times. She sighs and plants herself on the pavement. I can't leave her. "Where are you going?" I say again. She says the name of a suburb about half an hour's walk away.

A taxi draws up. The driver looks at her with an expression that shows he's seen it all before. He goes to help her stand up and she falls into the car. "Do you know where she's going?" "She's going to mine. I'm her husband." She got in the car and I felt a slight disappointment.

Outside my front window, two young Muslim men are standing smoking. I greet them with the dipthong and glottal stop that counts for hello in north Lancashire. "Y'right?" They look shy or afraid, mumble something, and almost run into their respective houses.

I recently put an advert on our local freecycle group:

80GB Hitachi Travelstar HTS 541080 SATA hard drive. It's five years old but in perfect working order. It's got Mepis 8.0 (Linux) on it at the moment, plus an empty partition, but I'll wipe all that if you'd prefer so that you can use it for storage or a different OS.

Despite the wording of this advert I must say that I am actually quite socially well-adjusted and when you come round to collect it I will not invite you in for a seven hour game of World of Warcraft while we sit in black T-shirts eating ordered-in pizza.

I received a reply:

Sorry - I don't want this at all but I had a chuckle at the advert. I am a World of Warcraft player but am that weird breed that also likes to go out and have fun in the real world and I look damn cute in a black t-shirt :P

Hope you have a a good weekend away from the take-away pizza.

Is that just a little bit flirty?


Comment from: isabelle [Visitor]

I’m laughing…. I do like your northern vignettes, and yes, I’d say that was definitely a little bit flirty !

Sun 30th June 2013 @ 12:42
Comment from: [Member]

Thanks! And glad I’m not over-reading “Laura’s” remark.

Sun 30th June 2013 @ 13:51
Comment from: David Oliver [Visitor]

Totally flirty and she sounds like fun but a photo is required.

Sun 30th June 2013 @ 15:50
Comment from: [Member]

those sort of parties are the type i try to avoid whenever possible. if it’s a graduation? i will gladly send a card with cash inside rather than give up an afternoon or evening of my time being awkward and uncomfortable.

i’d agree with ‘flirty’…

Sun 30th June 2013 @ 21:10
Comment from: [Member]

I’ve been thinking for hours about how to reply to her. Ideal scenario: we have a bit of virtual flirting which gets very sexual. And David–no, no photo. The imagined girl is almost always better than the actaul one.

Mon 1st July 2013 @ 00:17
Comment from: David Oliver [Visitor]  

Ohhh looby, that road you are going down…one wrong turn and you are on Cyber Sex Drive. I am *nods* NOT speaking from experience.

Mon 1st July 2013 @ 04:53
Comment from: [Member]

I absolutely *love* internet / cyber / text sex. Denise was the mistress de ne plus ultra of it. It was so sexy. Even just seeing her name in my contacts, in the middle of the day, could start me off.

Slightly risky game if you send it to the wrong person (and one tends to do this kind of thing in a combination of low light and inebriation).

Misdirected sex text episode involving Denise.

Mon 1st July 2013 @ 11:06

An awful affair, all the way around. It’s really hard to get Pimm’s out here. A pity. I love the stuff. Is that girly of me? I can’t get falling-down drunk. I pass out stone cold before I get to that stage. No fun.

This from a piece written by Christopher Buckley in yesterday’s New York Times:

I mentioned Christopher Hitchens a moment ago. He and I once had a weekday lunch that began at 1 p.m. and ended at 11:30 p.m. I spent the next three weeks begging to be euthanized; he went home and wrote a dissertation on Orwell. Christopher himself was a muse of booze, though dipsography and fancy cocktails were not his thing. Christopher was a straightforward whiskey and martini man. In his memoir, “Hitch-22,” he made a solid case for liquidity.

“Alcohol makes other people less tedious,” he writes, “and food less bland, and can help provide what the Greeks called entheos, or the slight buzz of inspiration when reading or writing.”

Christ, I love flirty. It’ll never get old.

Mon 1st July 2013 @ 12:16
Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

Yep flirty… in a geeky way ;-)

Oh that scene with the woman, reverse roles, i.e. me staggering about talking shite, unable to locate phone, flies, money etc. and my wife pulling up with “here I go again” by Whitesnake on the CD player - she did that on purpose I’m sure…

Oh to be sober and not have to repeat that on a weekly/daily/hourly basis.

Tue 2nd July 2013 @ 10:46
Comment from: nuttycow [Visitor]  


Did you follow up on it?

Wed 3rd July 2013 @ 09:05
Comment from: [Member]

EoPS: Excellent! I wouldn’t dreams of making even the slightest claim to being in Hitchens’s league in anything that matters, but much of my MA dissertation was written when under the influence, including a section about which my supervisor commented “…And for some reason, it starts to flow a lot better here.”
“Yes, that’s cos I was pissed,” I didn’t say.

F: If you can’t locate your flies, then I think probably it’s a good job you’ve packed the drink in :)

NC: I’ve started and deleted three or four versions of it. I can’t seem quite find that place between flirty back but understated too.

Wed 3rd July 2013 @ 10:37
Comment from: Jonathan [Visitor]

It’s as flirty as all hell Looby and clearly demands or indeed craves a reply, crucially containing a frank and outright invitation to partake in the Lancaster macrame belt equivalent of world of warcraft and bought-in pizza, whatever that is… homemade lasagne and an early Almodovar box set, perhaps? Dress code for this evening of continental bliss: no black tie but black tee shirts compulsory (except for you of course; I would strongly advise you not to wear a black tee shirt in public at any time, day or night).

Fri 5th July 2013 @ 22:54
Comment from: [Member]

Ha ha, well I should have had her round yesterday then because for lunch I made spinach, kohlrabi and raisin rosti. All organic veg too.

But my usual fluent ability to talk to strange women has deserted me on this occasion.

Sun 7th July 2013 @ 13:18
Comment from: Homer [Visitor]

I think that’s for the best. “Laura” sounds about 19, and I can’t see you as a cradle-snatcher.

Mon 8th July 2013 @ 19:38
Comment from: [Member]

And she’s admitted herself she plays WoW, which is a fatal exception.

Mon 8th July 2013 @ 20:23

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