Saturday, 10 July 2010

Sleeping with the Gruffalo

I have been thinking a lot about Rochester and about his out-of-the-blue suggestion of an impromptu night together. I go into Rochester-induced trances. My class of pea-brained nit-wits frequently catch me staring vacantly out of the window, gazing silently at the pewter-grey North Sea horizon. This village-idiot stare is a common occurrence in my class, it is true. But, typically it is the children who adopt such gormless expressions, usually during numeracy. My distraction doesn't appear to concern the kids. They assume that I too am still trying to understand the enigma that is 2p + 2p=4p.

'What will happen, if you come over?' I'd asked the flaky fanny rat.

'I don't think we'd get much sleep.' Was his infuriatingly nonchalant and self-assured reply.

Of course, sleep with Rochester was never an option. Not for me anyway. Sleeping with Rochester was indeed like sleeping with the Gruffalo. He snored so loudly he displaced several slates from my roof. He snored so loudly I feared I would have to post a warning sign on my front door proclaiming 'do not feed the animals.' Rochester, of course, was proud of his snoring. He viewed it as a sign of his unbridled masculinity. He saw himself as some kind of stone-age chieftain protector.

'Aye, well petal. We weren't attacked by bears or wolves in the night, were we? Be grateful.'

The more I think about the whole thing, the more I think I made the right decision. I have not heard from the rogue since that night. I think this would have been the inevitable outcome, even if I had seen him. The only difference being, undoubtedly, having slept with him, I would now be feeling very pissed-off, hurt and confused. I can't just sleep with someone and have it mean nothing. I have 1950s morals. They match my Cath Kidston shabby-chic decor, but they are probably more of a hinderance than a help when it comes to matters of the heart.

I had another email from Cash and Carry again today. It was funny and erudite. Such a shame I Googled him and discovered he had lied about his age and had signed-up for a teenage Russian bride via a dodgy website. I've also had a few lovely emails from a local architect. Intelligent, witty, kind. . . but utterly Lib Dem. I could almost smell the Guardian newsprint on him. He didn't look like he could knock the skin off a soya-milk rice pudding. Sigh.

Now, to change the subject completely, I am still coming to terms with the fact that Gazza turned up at Rothbury last night, to 'support' crazed,misogynist psycho Raoul Moat. Gazza was bearing take-out chicken, apparently. Maybe it was some kind of networking buffet for wife-beaters. Was OJ Simpson was bringing the onion rings? Was Sean Connery was bringing the coleslaw? What a fuckwit Gazza is. I imagine if you are a paranoid and terrified fugitive staring down the barrels of a dozen sniper rifles then the very last thing to soothe your troubled soul would be the sight of drunken, blockhead Gazza staggering through the undergrowth with a bucket of KFC. It's a shame Moat didn't take a pot-shot at him.

No comments:

Post a Comment