Are the Lambs Still Screaming Clarice?
March 21, 2011
I think my friend is dating a serial killer. In fact I’m certain of it. Millicent is a very attractive woman: early 40’s, good job, great sense of humour, and newly single…a veritable catch for any man. I’m not trying to convince anyone here, although I do have a listing on EBay if you’re interested; I’m looking for triple figures but I suspect if you shell out for a bag of chips and café latte she’ll be yours.
I digress.
Millicent was recently most surprised when her water softener man, hereafter known as Mr Salty, asked her out to dinner. Should I go? She asked, what do you think? There was no real physical attraction she admitted but, not yet being in possession of all the facts, I suggested she went for it. What was there to lose? Throw caution to the wind and go to dinner with Mr Salty I urged. So she did.
Our conversation after this point was confined to texting and the odd email. Both parties reside in a very small village; the kind that has 3 houses, 10 pubs and a very shallow gene pool. My understanding at this stage was that he was a gentleman farmer with his own teeth and huge tracts of land and I figured that alone was at least worth a quick fumble in the back of her Porsche.
Yet still she seemed ambivalent about the whole thing. I knew they were planning to go out again and in my last email I asked if Mr Salty was still in picture to which the reply was basically: he’s hard work and got to go.
This morning we had breakfast and I learned the full story. First I learned of the dull day out in the country followed by a disastrous dinner date. I was not worried. My last date fancied Katie Price and thought that Victor Hugo was ‘that bloke that bought the razor company’. These evenings of despair and boredom are par for the course in the wide ocean of dating.
But then I established a few key points regarding Mr Salty and the alarm bells starting ringing.
1. He still lives with his parents. Father seems pleasant, mother is a curtain twitcher.
2. Lives on farm in remote rural area…with cows. And probably sheep.
3. Wears Christmas jumpers his mother clearly bought him…in March.
Clearly Mater and Pater had sent their son (who has never married and, I strongly believe, never touched a real woman. Or a live one at any rate) out into the world to find a good breeding filly and stud her. I suspect they were starting to get concerned about the noises coming from the cowshed in the wee hours.
Now if this isn’t enough to get you thinking about the likes of Ed Kemper or Ed Gein, I would offer up two further pieces of evidence for your consideration:
A text message after Shrove Tuesday:
Hi.
It’s me.
How were your pancakes?
My pancakes were nice.
I like fava beans.
And a nice Chianti.
And voice message received just the other day:
Hi.
It’s Mr Salty.
You’ve been away for the weekend.
I’ve been away for the weekend too.
First it puts the lotion on its skin.
Or else it gets the hose again.
This is clearly a man who has been abducting newspaper delivery boys for years and stashing the bodies under the farmhouse porch. Any day now father will run off with the local barmaid and mother will become a mummified husk sat in a rocking chair in the attic, whilst Mr Salty turns his dates into lamp shades and waistcoats with breasts.
What is a girl to do? Spurn him and you run the risk of neighbourhood pets mysteriously vanishing and of being woken at four a.m. by the sound of screaming lambs. Continue with the charade of sexless, joyless, conversationless dating and you put yourself in danger of being turned into his next set of leather antimacassars and bone cruet set.
This is why I stay single people.
Dear Diary, today I had an egg for my breakfast…
July 1, 2008
I was born in 1972 on the anniversary of the Titanic hitting that iceberg and the Donner Party departing on their (unintentional) gastronomic adventure. An auspicious date you must agree.
I was raised on a diet of old radio comedies and tinned mince with carrot, which probably explains an awful lot that my therapist couldn’t.
I live in Swindon and have no intention of moving anywhere else. And when I say in my bio that where I live is usually on fire, I mean that I live next to a play area where the equipment goes up in flames every four weeks. I’m also a stone’s throw from a subway that is a favourite dumping ground for burning Domino’s pizza mopeds. And then there was the chap a couple of streets over who blew up his flat whilst cooking garlic bread. Or it may have been heroin. Garlic bread is probably a little too exotic for where I live.
But what, I hear you sigh, is the purpose of this blog? Well I simply wanted to put my mark on the internet. Much like a wild animal marking its territory, I am urinating over cyberspace in the hope that some random tom might pick up my scent and join me in some caterwauling.
Actually I’m just trying to get into the habit of writing on a regular basis about things that might actually interest people. Either that or I’m just being another self-indulgent vapid blog whore.
Probably the latter.
Anyway here you will find writings on such topics as black cat sightings, the time I was probably abducted by aliens, German housekeepers, celebrity cat crushes and pubic hair.
All you really need to know is that I am currently single. I am not Bridget Jones, nor do I aspire to be. I am very, very fond of the male form in all its glory and I drive far too fast, as the points on my licence will attest.
And also James May owes me a fiver.
