Rochester promised to call me last night. Yet again he failed to keep his word. He'd, unexpectedly, replied to a text I'd sent the other night. I'd asked him what was on his mind. His response?
'Mortality and UPVC'
I was not sure how best to respond to that. In moments of emotional or social reticence I often try to imagine what Dorothy Parker would say. Although she has plenty to say on the subject of mortality, she has never addressed it in a double glazing context. I was slightly out of my depth.
It looks, certainly, as if things are over between us. I don't think I have actually processed that yet. Anyway. I have decided this blog will be a record of my texts to the rogue over the previous 6 weeks. Basically, the time from when we saw each other last, until last night. A few useful pointers.
Am watching Poirot. If you were an Agatha Christie villain you'd be a 'tache twirling, dissolute bounder.
- Rochester is a double glazing salesman. He kept this a secret for a while. He is now 'out and proud', but has invented an alter-ego called 'Don' (the salesman). This may be confusing. It is clarified here.
- Rochester also is a writer of very depressing poetry. So, he is 50% Cannon and Ball, 50% Ted Hughes. I could post a link to his own blog, but I shan't. Don't want to go boosting the oaf's traffic, now do I?
Here we go, the texts, in chronological order.
Poirot is making me long for a trip on the Orient Express, a fox fur stole and a champagne cocktail. Maybe I'll put on my M&S scarf and sashay on to the Tyne and Wear Metro with an Irn Bru instead.
You have inspired me out of my writer's block. Didn't want to leave you last night, especially as the taxi driver was rampant Geordie lezza who DEMANDED I sit up front with her. Loved how luxuriatingly warm and tactile you were. Sad to leave you.
You don't have to say anything, just wanted you to know. I always feel strangely content and at ease with you. It's a good thing. Blog progressing nicely, although with your nits & UPVC and my IBS it is becoming rather Frank Spencer. Thankfully, when I got home I didn't find the cat had done a whoopsie on the carpet.
I have published. It's called 'Of Lice and Men'. He he. Check it out Rochester. xxx
Christ. Of course I haven't I wouldn't dream of such a thing. (That was a response to him spazzing out that I'd published the name of his double glazing firm).
. . . I did put your full name, mobile number, email address, date of birth and photo of your cock though. OK?
Madam Noir has just had a lezza date in GAP. Nowt like unfolding a few hooded tops to get you in the mood. Phoar!
Two working titles for next blog: 'If you lay down with dogs, you're going to get fleas' or 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime'. It was lovely seeing you. Bit sad you're back in Bristol now. Whatever happens just be straight with me, lets always be honest and open with each other. xxx
You have infected me with your plague. Feel like death. Just spent 2 hours in bath as couldn't muster energy to get out. Am also covered in strange bruises. You are a very bad man.
Oh dear. Just had disapproving message from friend who read Of Lice and Men blog. Wait till he reads about our canine threesome Rochester! Going back to bed. xxx
Trying to wrap an EBAY parcel, which is just exhausting me. Check out the blog, the next installment of your visit petal. Let me know what you think of your CDs. xxx (In a fit of girly, teenage gushyness I had made Rochester a 'mix tape').
SUBURBAN! You're calling me SUBURBAN! Oh the irony, MR Windows and Doors. You do growl though. I like it.
So ill now can barely stand up. You likening yourself to Don Draper again? Christ. You're more Reggie Perrin. Two whole days in bed Rochester. What ails me? I forgot to mention your own OCD trait in the blog mind, your compulsive need to be on the left side of the bed. Oh that bed in your hotel room was divine, wasn't it?
I think this is adulterous-swine flu. God has smote us. You should not be working, visiting unsuspecting UPVC-less householders. In the words of Britney, 'Don't you know that you're toxic?'
Nurofen Express Liquid capsules - very helpful. I wish I had someone here to stoke my hair and make me cups of tea. Listened to the 'mix tape' Rochester?
Watching Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Raleigh is a swarthy rogue. He is trying to seduce her with tobacco, potatoes and jokes about catholics. If he can conjure up some gin and curry sauce I think he may be in there.
Make me a cup of tea Rochester. Ah. You can't. Your'e 300 miles away (sob).
Day 3 - still not vertical.
Dear God, the emotional devastation at realising I am out of clean cups. I hope you appreciate the Nick Cave track I chose for you, 'Easy Money', in honour of Don's rampant capitalism. I've heard Everest Windows are better mind. Don't sulk. Just saying.
Christ. You're quiet. Was it my line about Everest? (Rochester responds by loyally defending the quality of his own UPVC products).
OK, OK. Stop trying to sell me windows. It's not fair to take advantage of a woman on her death bed. Although, it wouldn't be the first time, would it? Don's sales patter is disappointingly cliched.
About to release the hounds in the park for the first time in 5 days. Heaven help all those out for a gentle Sunday afternoon stroll. Then I must cook a proper meal. Been living off Stilton and Thornton's toffee for days.
Oh God. You are an insensitive, boorish oaf (that means you too Don). That mix tape was touchingly poignant and tender. What have you been thinking about 'us' since your visit Rochester?
Sigh. Is there anything more fortuitous than Sam Shepherd on tv when you're feeling ill. I do like his chiseled jaw and tortured cowboy poetry. Interesting that he maintains a manly, brooding and arthouse persona, despite making some truly atrocious 'made for tv' shite.
And, whilst watching Sam Shepherd I am browsing Rightmove for a country estate. My budget is a modest 10 million.
Darn it. None of these country estates have a maze. What is the world coming to? I give up. Have to stay put in suburbia.
Any thoughts about things Rochester? (He, inexplicably, sends me a blurry photo, it contains a foot and something silver).
Was that picture supposed to communicate the unbearable emotional torment you feel, being 300 miles away from my grace, wit and beauty? Or was it just a picture of your foot? Couldn't tell.
Ah. I see it now! A cufflink. I thought it was a rather gay man-purse. Now I know it is a rather gay cufflink. Oh dear. Remember when you ran workshops for Socialist Worker sellers. Your uniform was simply rumpled cords and a dog-blanket jumper. Don is rather high maintenance isn't he? Is he gay?
Rang in sick. Off work till Monday. Just had to speak to Pompous Pilate whilst naked in bed. The nausea now is unbearable.
I have compromised on maze and found a Jacobean country pile in Yorkshire. It has topiary creatures and a folly. It is 15 miles from the nearest Betty's Tearoom. How long will it take Don to raise 5 million?
Still ill. Brace yourself for a few more days of feverish, nonsensical texting. Just humor me, but, if I start talking about 'moving towards the light' then please call 999. Now off you go and swindle some pensioners.
New blog planned, 'Don of Iniquity' - about your egotistical alter-ego. I am hoping to include the word 'malcontent', because I read it today and remembered how much I love it. Still feverish, craving chips. Really good, thin, golden, crunchy ones.
Don of Iniquity published. Don't let Don read it though. You know how he gets. I wonder what he's like in bed?
Just read my blogs about your visit. You know, for me, there is a lovely, easy, warm and tender fluidity to our time together. Just nice and mellow. Does that sound right for you too? (Please don't respond with more UPVC chat).
Christ. It must be the end of the world: 8000 dead turtle doves in Italy, birds falling from the sky in Sweden and the USA, dead fish is Arkansas, and now Hetty has a tickly cough. Where will it all end?
OK. You're quiet. Say something Rochester?
My afternoon in pictorial form. Now the plague has finally released me from its icy grip I have shitloads of twatting schoolwork to plan.
OK. You've been too quiet and distant Rochester. Like you're totally disinterested since we met and slept together. Getting quite hurt by that, to be honest.
You are OK though, aren't you?
I have 'enjoyed' an aduki bean shepherd's pie from my 1980s veggie cookbook. Not even a whole block of Double Gloucester cheese melted on top could disguise its brown, sludgy worthiness. VILE! I used to make my dad eat that. Christ. The guilt!
The worst part is I have 2 more of the twatting things in the fridge. Security guards at SOHK this week. Parents threatening staff again. How bleak is that?
Think I have poisoned the dogs with aduki bean slurry. They are a couple of farting, groaning beached whales. Has Don done you in? Please don't go quiet on me, fanny rat. Whatever you have to say then just say it. xxx
Better supper tonight. My favourite: macaroni cheese with cut up frankfurters in. Try it. It will change your life.
FOR FUCKS SAKE ROCHESTER! Can't stand this relationship uncertainty. It is so unsettling. What is going on. . . are Katie Price and Alex finished or not?
Have just Googled 'Double-glazing salesman BMW death crash'. Seriously. Worried. Are you OK? Pompous came to my classroom tonight to discuss Hitler's testicles. Had strangest feeling it was some sort of debased seduction technique. What tomorrow night? Pol Pot's cock?
I need you to say something. This is killing me. I don't understand.
Blimey. My blog has had over 1000 hits today (as opposed to the usual 14). Odd to think people are reading about us.
Give me a call. xxx
Just tried to call you but chickened out, like the socially inept, emotionally autistic coward that I am. Plus, only have 33p credit left. I would just like you to let me know, as honestly as you can, what's up. This is torture. I am imagining all manner of horrors (Romanian gypsy kidnap being the latest). Hope you're OK. I can't go on like this.
Never thought ill of you, always believed you to be a good man. Confounded though, as to why I don't even warrant an explanation.
OK. You'll call tomorrow? Speak to you then. xxx
Hmmm. How unexpected. You didn't call.
So, what now? Had a dream about you. Also present were Fuckwit Brother and Pompous Pilate. Do you see which category my psyche is placing you in? Just surprised that Hitler, James Blunt and Nick Clegg weren't also present. Did a SOHK blog yesterday, have you checked it out?
New blog called The Torpor of Doreen Gray.
You there for a chat?
Oh God. OFSTED. Am trying, and failing, to focus on schoolwork. I can't. Would be nice to hear from you. I miss you. I miss Don.
You selling your pegs tonight? Can you leave it to Don and call me? In the words of Crimewatch 'we are waiting for your call.'
Tomorrow then? OK. Don't let me down. Already had my heart broken by one unreliable swarthy rogue tonight (Rufus Sewell. . . don't ask). Oh - check out the blog, I have had some LOVELY comments, I've been so touched. None of them have called it 'petit bourgeoise'!!!
Rochester, I am now just assuming that meeting up at Christmas was simply an easy opportunity to get laid, and everything you said running up to it was part of your 'pitch'. Correct?
Say something. This is agony. I am up and down like a fanny rat's zipper.
Don't understand this nothingness.
(and, last night, after yet another failed-to-materialise phone call)
Christ, you're a shit.