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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I did promise to share the second story of where and when I was propositioned for the second time on my own street. I was walking to meet He Who Only… on Sunday night, who had returned triumphantly from the cricket match he’d been playing. Yes, that’s right, I’ve got a Flintoff all of my own at home (and don’t worry, I’m more appalled than you at my ability to name check English cricket players). I was in a particularly good mood, because I’d been shopping earlier in the day and bought more books than I possibly needed – on my new book shelves now sit seven books that I have yet to read, and I think that may well be a personal best. I had spent the evening dancing about the place listening to The Killers – can I recommend once again Track Seven on the album as being possibly one of the best songs in the world, purely on the basis of the “uh oh”s that come in between every line of the chorus.

I had even decided to break out the go-go boots, such was my joy with the world, and was cruising down the street with ne’er a care in the world, grinning at the cars with their smashed windows and stolen radios, positively beaming at the gatherings of old men in musty clothes who sit on the low walls outside their houses scowling and drinking beer from cans.

A young man of indeterminable age, but very short in stature and equally high in confidence, enquired as to my name. I smiled at him, as if I didn’t hear anything but the wishing of a good night, and he carried on asking me questions. He asked if I had a boyfriend. I think I may have nodded and speeded up slightly. He yelled something about my ass as I carried on walking down the road. I decided to take this as a compliment.

I probably should stop smiling so much walking around London. It seems to upset the locals.

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