Last night I met with my former boss, Linda, for a chat. We had been planning to go to the cinema after having a drink in the pub, but as I wasn’t feeling so great and we hadn’t seen each other for ages we decided to forego the cine.

We took a table near the window of the pub. The pub was quite busy, with a large screen showing the Chelsea v. Liverpool match, our conversation was occasionally interrupted by boos and shouts at goals and near-misses.

So we had a catchup chat, talking about both work and personal matters. If I am totally honest, I could admit to feeling a twinge of rage when she discussed the happenings at the old workplace. I guess it’s not all out of my system yet. Outwardly I remained jovial while inside I was seething.

Then as I was telling her something she saw someone at the window, who seemed to be asking her for a cigarette. She nodded to him and he sneaked into the pub and crouched down beside our table, a can of beer in his hand. She offered him a cigarette and lit it for him with her lighter. He thanked her and said that she was lovely. We waited for him to leave. He didn’t.

“My name is Robert. I am French,” he slurred. “What is your name?” Linda told him her name.

“You are lovely. I saw you through the window and thought you were lovely. My name is Robert, I am French, from Brittany. What is your name?”

And so it went on. He was trying to hide from the bartender, who had seen him and had turned a blind eye. He eventually grabbed a stool from the bar and rejoined us. He told us that he’d been forced to join the French Foreign Legion when he was caught stealing, and that he’d served in the army for 5 years. Apparently he’d killed loads of people… He had been living on the streets at some point too, but he was now living in Peckham. He uttered several random things, and the only one I can recall now is that he said, “We are not f***ing cats, we only have one life.” When he left us to go to the loo we scarpered. The jolly bartender shouted goodbye to us as we left.

We went to a Wetherspoons down the road and continued our chat, it was rather more civilised in there and I enjoyed a cup of tea as we chatted. Another woman asked Linda for a fag, but thankfully she didn’t hang about afterwards.

Then a middle-aged Irish woman approached and asked for a fag. I groaned in irritation, can no-one in Peckham buy their own fags! Linda kindly gave her one, we waited for her to depart, but she didn’t. She started singing! She sang a medley of old ballads, interspersed with tidbits about how her sister slept with her baby’s father, but she forgave her…Eventually I got fed up and left to go to the loo. When I returned I’d discovered that she’d taken a seat beside Linda and some random dude was in my chair!

As I was aware that my train home would be coming soon I told Linda that I was ready to depart. As we left the pub she said to me, “I think I’m a soft touch.” I said something non-commital in response.

As I waited for my train at Peckham Rye station I looked up at the dark sky and saw the full moon looking back at me. Quelle surprise!

I often said to myself that going to Dirk’s cafe was like walking into an episode of Eastenders, only set in South London. There were the gruff old men with hearts of gold hidden beneath their rough exteriors, a wise old woman who is sharper than she looks, a guy with a limp, a family business and a lecherous married git. I’m not eighteen anymore, so why did I think I was playing the role of Stacey, getting mixed up with a married bloke who had no respect for me other than as a sex object?

I haven’t blogged about this for ages, and my regular readers may have thought that I’d come to my senses and stayed away from Dirk, as I’d intended. If only.

We have shared two more interludes, but we did NOT shag. Of course he wanted to. Part of me wanted to get him out of my system, and the other part of me just enjoyed the attention of an attractive man. There was no chance of us having a relationship, for not only did he have no intention of leaving his wife, but there were no common interests between us except that of the physical. As I said to Veg the other day, this was no meeting of the minds.

And yet, it is over. And I’m glad. My only regret is that I didn’t end it before. My dear reader, you may ask, why should I believe her now, she obviously can’t keep her grubby hands off him? Well, he has succeeding in offending me, which is quite a feat if you know me at all.

Basically I saw him on Friday at lunchtime. He said that he hadn’t been as persistent with me recently as he wanted to “get to know me”. Fair enough I thought, though I hadn’t noticed much change in his predatory behaviour. Then he went on to say that he felt that he didn’t know me so well and claimed to be wondering whether I could have some sort of Sexually Transmitted Disease! Then he said that he thought that I might shag for England in Jamaica, and that he was concerned for me! Such knobbery – if he doesn’t want a STD I’d be happy to cut it off for him!

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I’m glad to say that I have another suitor waiting in the wings. He reads this blog sometimes and it’s early days in our friendship, so I won’t embarrass him, but is a lovely guy who I admire so much. Watch this space!

So I’ve decided to create a bionic woman out of cheap fake leather bags. It’s not such a strange idea, is it? I’ve already got the torso sorted out:

I just need to get the proportions right, then find her a suitable head, neck, and limbs and we’re all set. I’ll plug her into the electrical supply to animate her, then I’ll use her super strength to put an end to world conflict. My bag lady will rule the world…

Writers have to get to get used to rejection, so I’m going to be strong and hold back my tears. Jesus wept and all that.

My dodgy story of my mate showing me his meat and two veg didn’t get chosen for the Shaggy Blog Stories book, but don’t let that stop you from getting one for your reading pleasure. It’s for charity, innit! Go get one people!

Damn, another book to add to my list, will it ever end? I hope not!

Actually I left a lot out of that story… the worst bit of it in fact. Highlight the following sentences if you want to know what happened…but be warned, it is NASTY!

>|Oscar* proceeded to masturbate in front of me. I didn’t know what to do, I wondered if he was making some strange sexual overture towards me, but then he said that he was happy for me to watch, or to touch myself if I wanted. Believe me, I didn’t. When he was ready to cum I asked him if he wanted some tissues, he said not to worry about it. Then he picked up a drinking glass from his desk and spurted his load into it! So you’ll understand why I didn’t accept his offer of a cup of tea before I left! The End.|>

I was invited to that club again, but I decided to stay in and have a rest.

Work was good today, I’ve got loads to do, but I prefer to have some variety in my work.

On Wednesday I bought some clothes from a big store in Oxford St. The next day I glanced at the receipt and realised that the checkout girl had charged me twice for an item – a pair of jeans. I know I should have checked my receipt before I left the shop, but I was in a hurry. The store took my word for it when I returned there this evening and credited me for the money. (Though initially the girl wanted to call security for some reason – dunno why as I wasn’t being rude or anything.)

Oh my, I’m watching CSI right now. Nick Stokes has a dubious moustache… did anyone see him in earlier episodes with a dodgy short cut? Methinks it’s time for a slideshow (the last pic is a cute one).

I like a cute guy who doesn’t mind looking a bit silly for his art.

I think I might have to do a feature on dodgy moustaches in a future post…