Bond Masters

There are people

Who master the bond

They are the Bond Masters

One strong bond

With one person

A bond can be transferred

From one person

To another

A person can steal a bond

Transfer it to themselves.

So that now, they are the bees knees

Demonic bonds are powerful

Incestuous bonds are wicked

Unhealthy soul ties

As strong as titanium

Attachments bring suffering

Seeds are sown

Things are said

You can’t make someone love you

But lust is a pandemic

Bonds can be artificially created

Yet love can’t be forced

Tricks only take you so far

Perhaps as far as the bed

But they never sealed the deal

They never got the bang.

We are all like Frankenstein’s monster

A tinkered soul

A body invaded

A brain washed

But only to a point.

Stockholm Syndrome

But only to a point.

Bond Masters

I wish you all the best

Bond breakers

Are biting back

Through forgiveness.

Library Finale

I think reading books in public has gone out of style. Or else, that is just denial speak for giving up. Today, I made the decision not to visit Blackpool Library again, at least not alone. I thought I could beat the system. I thought I could be alone there and not be bothered in any way. It is no longer a solo project. I can go into the gambling den that is Coral Island and there are no problems there. i think because everyone is busy haemorrhaging money. Coral Island is not interested in the sin of sex, at least not until kicking out time. They’re interested in that other addiction.

If I want to be left alone to read, then Blackpool Library is not the place to go. I don’t want to be unaccompanied or un-escorted there, from now on. Or rather I don’t want to be. I thought I could hack it. Unfortunately not. I may have tried to make a joke of it, earlier on, this year, or rather last year. I did the whole bravado thing, but I know when I’m defeated and there were so many people there last time I was there, too many and none of them were reading books. In fact, over in the cafe, there was some kind of open friendship day with the amazing aroma of well cooked, quality meals and all these friendly faces. But I can’t just walk into a sea of strangers, however much they smile so beautifully and smell of delicious food.

So I went into the quieter section but of course, the quieter section has its own problems. Everyone with social issues goes to the quiet section. My niece, who has always been very wise for her young years, advised about negative experiences regarding people. She said, ‘You’ll never see that person again, so don’t stress about it.’ That was always a comforting thing but recently, I discovered, to my horror, that is not strictly true. The straw that broke the camels back was once again, seeing a  Misery style Annie Wilkes (played by Kathy Bates in the original film, based on the novel by Stephen King).

She had returned. The first time, I saw her, she followed me around and then took photos, when she’d got a good full frontal shot. I think it was her blatant over confidence which disturbed me most, just like Annie Wilkes. She was defiant, confrontational and self important, like she had a right to stand in front of me and take photos without my permission, just like Annie Wilkes. You can get arrested for that in Dubai.

Why couldn’t I just laugh about it, why take it all so seriously? This is a woman with thoughts and feelings and hopes and fears, just like everyone else, but I’m sure Annie Wilkes has thoughts and feelings and fears. It all just felt too much of an invasion of personal space. The fact that she was holding up an envelope and not a camera, means nothing. It was the fact that she felt it was a camera and that’s all that matters. What if she felt it was a knife and came at me with it? An A 4 jiffy envelope might not do that much damage, if she tried to stab me with it, but still, imagine the trauma. It’s the intention behind it, that’s the important thing. If they think it’s a knife, then in their mind they’ve stabbed you with it and are trying to cause serious harm.

But this time, thankfully, I had a witness. ‘Look,’ I said, to my husband, ‘there she is. There’s the woman who’s been taking photo’s/videos of me with an envelope.’ It was a huge relief to be able to prove there was a woman, who, as we spoke, was indeed taking pictures with a big brown envelope and really meant it. When I produced a witness, she ran off. She ran last time, once she’s cottoned on, that I’d cottoned on. One moment there, one moment gone.

My husband had to go off for half an hour and he leaves me here precisely because he thinks it’s a nice safe, quiet place for this hothouse flower to be, but I was grabbing at his shirt sleeve and saying ‘Please, don’t leave me!’

This is a library. I shouldn’t be saying things like that in a library. That sad truth was, I was scared of this woman. I theorised that she was mentally ill and not some undercover journalist, as I’d first fantasied. And that made me feel guilty but no less afraid, as there seemed to be a certain maliciousness in her actions, like Annie Wilkes. So I now had guilt, as well as fear, to add to my arsenal of negative emotions. I wasn’t relieved that she may have mental health issues, obviously, but I was relieved that she wasn’t a conspiracy person. Yet, things were coming to a head, because I was thinking of the infestation of P.U.A’s and all the intoxicated, middle aged divorced men and disenfranchised people, all of us, hovering like lost souls, among the books, but not really reading them. One thing I did do here though, as well as hovering like a lost soul, is read books, but no-one else seems to think that’s what this library is for.

Ninety percent of the visitors here are in the multi media section, on the internet, right next to the cafe. No-one’s interested in books, really, not the smell of them, not the look of them, or the touch of them. Am I the only one that has this fetish? For years, men have read newspapers in libraries. I remember them, hidden behind their gently rustling ‘Daily Mirrors’ in my youth. So, I understand, that’s a thing, I get that, that’s a library staple, but why isn’t anyone here reading the books?

And then it hit me, not only is everyone on the internet and not only is no-one reading the books, I’m the only woman in the reading sections, apart from Ms Envelope Camera. It’s always all men. Middle aged men reading newspapers, not books. P.U.A‘s pretending to read, not reading. No women, at all, unless they are there for social purposes, in social groups, or in the cafe, making friends and eating wonderful food, or taking pictures of people with envelopes.

Oh, why do I want people to read books so much. Why?

I love the uniqueness of this library but not the unpredictability. Perhaps I should welcome that in this mundane, greyed out world, but I don’t like surprises and I had a bit of a panic attack last time. So instead of sitting quietly and reading, which I didn’t feel able to do, I went to Coral Island and gambled.

But the gambling den was a breath of fresh air, especially when you’re just on the Two Penny Falls. A lot of fun to be had and you do win stuff. I wasn’t down by more than seven pounds fifty by the end of it all, and with a couple of cheap but nifty plastic key-rings to show for it.

No one will bother you at Coral island and you’ll be able to spend as much money as you don’t have there. It’s so noisy and chaotic and Earnest Hemingway is nowhere to be seen and yet…even if you love books, you will feel safe. It’s like a library should be, but without any books. Safety comes in numbers and bright lights, never forget that.


Who’s Afraid Of Naomi Wolf?

I have a strange and rather emotionally tense relationship with Blackpool Central Library.

Before I begin, I need to make a few things clear. It is a wonderful library. It boasts beautiful stained glass windows. It is clean, organised and well run by friendly and efficient staff. There are also many worthwhile and thriving social groups that meet here that are important and richly beneficial to the community, which is typical of British libraries, central and local.

There are also a lot of books.

The vision of libraries for most people is a place where the quiet and shy will be in their element. It is a place where there is peace and quiet, for the studious and those hungry for knowledge and those in love with books. It is also a place, this place in particular, where young men will continually attempt to pick up women and where middle aged men frequently go to peruse a newspaper and socialise with others of like mindedness and similar circumstance.

I have taken my natural paranoia into consideration, and weighing up all the facts carefully and doing controlled experiments to prove it, no, not really, but I’ve been there enough times to weigh up the social ambience. I’ve done enough social experiments of my own now and the pick up thing was not a one off, as I thought, hoped, imagined. I only know because I returned and the same kind of things happened. Lone young men will begin by hovering and pretending to pick a book. They will go away for a few seconds then return, and hover round again, and again. This will happen several times until it becomes unbearable. At first, it was a novelty. It was quite exciting, at first, as a mature married women, to be given that attention, but it has become an irritation. If I’d have wanted to flirt, or I was sociable, or the Mae West type, or I wanted to commit adultery, or I wanted to cop off, I’d have gone to a nightclub. Look, I came here to read all right? It just shows you how naive I am. It is interesting though, I mean it’s an interesting place and I do love conspiracies.

They will be wearing sports wear or be the complete opposite, really scruffy and badly dressed or completely uniquely dressed, kind of like Mystery. They will make the mistake of pretending to pick a book from the girl-y self help section or the cooking section and then when you don’t look up or act like you’re alive or take your nose out the book, they will rattle the metal bookshelves, so they nearly come down on you. I’ve tried ignoring it but the steel bookshelves vibrating noisily by my ear got too much.

Anyway, by that time, I’d already devised a cunning plan. I had premeditated. If I started to feel uncomfortable in the event of abnormal hovering, I decided  I would get up and move around. They can’t get you while you’re transient. And that’s the word that kept going through my head ‘transient’. Keep yourself moving, it really puts people on the back foot when you keep moving. Anyway, I suddenly stood up very suddenly and walked away. I completely threw him.  A triumph! I went down the aisle and several bookshelves later, I find myself in the ‘SEX’ section (there is none really, but it sounds good, I think, well it is kind of like a sex section. I will tell you more later)

I pick up a book, any book, and start to read. As I read, I stand with my legs apart. Girls, if you ever feel intimidated or afraid, or harassed or upset, or vulnerable, stand with your legs apart. It gives you instant grounding and it says, ‘I’m standing with my legs apart, okay? Wanna make something of it?’

The man who had been hovering was totally thrown, as I said, and it was wonderful, very liberating. I had devised a plan and it had worked. He followed me down to where I was, and I have done the puffed up cat thing many a time in the past, walking home from a nightclub, in my youth, at 3. a.m. It also helps to have your house keys in your hand, with the biggest, sharpest key, held point down, between forefinger and index finger. Instant opportunity to gouge out the eyes, or crotch, or the nearest softest flesh of any imagined or possible attacker. Just remember the puffed up cat, if you find yourself walking home late, although I hope you don’t, as there’s no substitute for a taxi and a plan. When there are no taxis and no plan and no money and it’s late and you are alone, (God Forbid, but yeah, it happens, it happened to me plenty of times) just think, puffed up cat and keep the sharp point of your front door key between your index and forefinger. Oh, I forgot, you have mace and mobile phones as well, these days, don’t you?

Anyway, I discover that the book I am reading, with legs apart, puffed up cat stance, is the one and only, ‘Vagina‘ by Naomi Wolf. So, there I am, reading a book called Vagina, in puffed up cat stance, when he comes down to look for me. Perfect.

There is really  nothing more that acts like a natural shield than puffed up cat and Naomi Wolf’s ‘Vagina’. One, on its own, may have been inadequate, but the two together…invincible. There was something about reading a book called ‘Vagina’ that created a wall. I felt suddenly protected. Secure. Safe.

He goes away, the young stranger. The magic of the Vagina and puffed up cat, a volatile combination has magicked him away. He has gone. Or so I think, more on that later.

I start to read, in acting mode, but then I actually begin to read. Oh, this is good, I think, really good, suddenly I’m not acting any more. I could never get a book like this out, I think…I could never look the librarian in the face when I handed it over, but wait a minute, that’s in the old days. Nowadays, we have machines, the equivalent of the brown paper wrapping for the soft porn mag of the rain-coated old man.

Hey, wait a minute. I’m not a rain-coated old man and vagina is not a dirty word. So WTF?

So, I’m thinking, this would be a no go normally, I would never get this book out. I would have to process my ‘Vagina’ book through a middle aged lady librarian (I know, stereotyping, but it’s true) And she would be thinking, ‘Oh, you just got a book out called ‘Vagina’  Well really! What kind of a woman are you?’ or ‘Ooh, fancy!’ while looking you up and down, but thanks to the non judgemental machines that allow you to scan your books, non humanly,  a few hours later, I’m at home reading it. I laugh, I cry. I learn. Ahem.  This is a good book. Recommended reading for EVERY woman…and every man.

Thank you Blackpool Library for being so…weird…scrap that…unique. Well, here’s the thing, when my husband met up with me in the library, I discovered said P.U.A hovering around another woman a bit later on. He was just up to his old tricks again, I guess.

But Naomi Wolf…now I was herded towards her, inadvertently…I was chased towards her Vagina, and it worked. It was a silver lining….every cloud has one.

Blackpool Library…we may still have one more chapter.






P.U.A versus Cougar. Blackpool Library. Part 1

How sexy is that?
How sexy is that?

Okay, I’m in the library, like I tend to be on a Wednesday afternoon. Feel defensive today but put it down to my natural paranoia. Men are a bit predatory in libraries, or maybe it’s just the library I’m in. It’s a sweeping statement and I’m very good at those. I’ve had a few little experiences, but nothing concrete, no proof, up until today.

I just think the library is a hotbed of lonely, single males.

‘Apparently Blackpool has the greatest proportion of single male homeless divorcees in its population than any other town or city in Britain. When you’ve lost your wife, lost your job, and lost your house, there’s always Blackpool,’

Jamie Ashmore

Excerpt from ‘Crap Towns Returns‘ Edited by Sam Jordison and Dan Kieran. A truly wondrous little hard-backed gem, with very sharply written, witty and hilarious reviews of British towns.

Okay, so I’m in the library. My husband has just kissed me goodbye and he is off to a meeting for three hours. Me, like the sad and lonely woman/puppy/knob that  I am, decide to wait in the library, do some much needed reading, without having to get a book out, which I would have to read within three weeks, thereby putting pressure on me, to ‘force read’ the book within a certain time…I’ve forgotten the point, by now.

So, due to forces beyond my control, I end up in the library every Wednesday afternoon between 1.30p.m and 4.30p.m

Inevitably, I will position myself in a place, in a chair, where no-one else can position themselves, in a chair, to observe me. I do this very deliberately. Call me a party pooper but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to be left alone, to read, in a library.

As much as I want to, I’m not going to be left alone, to read, in the library. I have a sticker on my forehead which says, ‘ Come get me. Fair Game.’ while keeping my eyes and nose firmly in a book. I don’t look into people’s faces. I can’t start random conversations with strangers. I need to be introduced. Sometimes, if you want to be left alone, the opposite happens.

So I’ve positioned myself in such a way that no-one can ‘view’ me.  In an alcove seat between two shelves of books and a long row opposite. They either stand with their back to me to peruse shelves  opposite, or stand adjacent, directly to the right or the left to view said shelves. At this point, there were no other positions available. it wasn’t ideal, but there was absolutely no way that anyone could sit and look at me.

Okay, I’ll get this out of the way first. I’m really quite shy. I think this stems from being the centre of attention as a baby, simply because  no-one had anything else to say to each other in those awkward family get-together’s and so the emphasis was put on me. I don’t know whether this made me shy or I was shy anyway. Whatever, it made me very self conscious and socially awkward. It’s all right being on stage, being looked at by a hundred strangers, (Hundreds? I should be so lucky) but…when one is on stage, one is performing a part, a role, not themselves, somebody else,a fictional character, so all toxic shame is lost, or should be.

So, there I am, minding my own business, when I notice that a chair had been moved from an area further down the library and moved to a strategic point.

(Actual real time transcript from my time in the library. I take out a pen and notebook and start to write)

I notice that a man in his mid to late twenties is sitting there and I feel his eyes on me. I idly wonder if I can take a photo of this guy and put it on my blog. I want to share, because it will bring people into the equation and make it safer, for me. Oh, if only I had the balls but I won’t. I won’t do it. I can’t even look at him, ‘cos, he’ll  think I fancy him. Either a) my vivid imagination or b) my gut instinct tells me he’s a P.U.A on day game. He has a pony tail for God’s Sake and he’s reading a newspaper, with one foot crossed over the other in the figure 4 style, you know, the high power pose. Bordering on the arrogant but perfectly acceptable American body language among males. But not in Britain, buddy. You call it confident, we call it posturing. So, okay. I’ll just ignore him, right? Easier said than done.

Reading can be very private. Very. So someone watching me do it, is like watching me on the toilet, or naked. You never know, maybe that’s the idea. That vulnerability.

I should just lighten up. I’m touching my neck, through self consciousness. Who likes to be ogled when they’re reading ? No-one. It’s like being woken up when you’re sleeping.

I just took a sneak look at said guy and he is about five six, of slight build, my type, like a little china doll, the type that fits nicely into my rucksack. (My husband is five foot eight, a virtual giant. He just barely made it according to my height restrictions. He was almost too tall) Anyway, this china doll, he’s wearing a khaki t shirt, has quite beautiful toned and tanned arms which are covered with tattoos, looks like he’s just come off a building site and is absolutely filthy.

Oh, these infernal temptations…

Oh please go. Go and leave me in peace. Oh, and he’s getting up and he’s going. His coat goes on, his satchel, (he has a satchel)? okay, let’s call it a man bag, (definitely p.u.a, with the man bag) and a cap/hat, which he dons. He’s off then. Oh joy. He!s just gone. It’s like a big weight lifted off me. He didn’t like me writing this down. Maybe he knew I was writing about him. Maybe he puts that chair there every day and reads the paper. It could just be part of his ritual.

Yes, I am, just a little disappointed, but mostly relieved. I don’t know what it is about men and libraries. Do men like to read more than woman? Are all the women on a Wednesday afternoon simply working?  I get the impression the men are there to a) connect with other men, (‘cos I’ve seen the sad bast…nice silver foxes conversing with other men. I pass them by, in the early afternoon and get caught up in the miasma of alcohol fumes, which nearly knock me off my feet.) b) get warm and c) educate/entertain themselves with books.

I’ve always been a single male homeless divorcee inside this woman’s skin. I wouldn’t say it was bursting to get out, but it’s definitely there. Sadly.

In nightclubs, there is competition. In libraries, none and who would think of ‘pick up’ in a library, nobody. Only p.u.a and their day game plan.  Any place is pick up place in their world.

Shit, he’s come back! I kid you not. He’s come back, gone back to sit in the same place. I guess he just went to get another newspaper. I’m not going to look. I’m not. It’s a bit obvious now isn’t it. I’m shaking. I can’t believe he came back. I need to get a life. Oh, I just dropped my men, I mean pen. Oh Good God, get a hold of yourself!

Right, I’m leaving. I’m going. I reckon he went to get some advice from his p.u.a guru/life coach. It’s what they do. My husband isn’t available for another hour and a half . I’m meant to be meeting him here, but I can’t stay here now. If I had a life, I could go somewhere else. You’d think I’d be safe in a library. Of all places. Safe from what? What could happen? Nothing.

An hour and a half…mmm, an hour and a half. I wonder if he’ll follow me if I leave. That’s the kind of thing p.u.a’s do. They follow you like the big creeps they  are, every women is an expert  on  The Creep. Initiation comes early, got one right here, my very own, another one. But at the end of the day, it’s just human nature, I guess. He’s just trying to get laid.

Right now, I feel his heavy stare. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me. I dare not even peek, but there’s a heaviness and it’s becoming unbearable. I’m focusing on the shelf in front of me, just to stay centred. I’m focusing on a book called  ‘Fork To Fork by Monty and Sara Don‘. Actually, this is getting quite exciting. I should just relax and enjoy.

I’ve just focused on ‘Phillipps’s  Field Guide to the Birds of Borneo.’

I expect he thinks I’m one of those married Cougars, just gagging for a bit of spontaneous afternoon fun. When you think about it, it’s quite dangerous that kind of thing. I can feel a strong frisson, just going between us. Oh husband, please come and take me away. I think people just need a warm body to hang around. I am in freeze mode. I can’t move, like a rabbit caught in headlights. This is definitely not natural, for him to come back. I’m no cougar. More like a paranoid panther with some anger issues. I applaud him for his optimism though, or is it blind faith?

I haven’t sneaked a look for at least twenty minutes. Next to me, open for everyone to see is the book I was reading but now I can’t concentrate. It is called ‘Daily Candy. A-Z. An Insider’s Guide To The Sweet Life’ and is really good. It’s like a humorous, quite girly blog but in a book. Oh, I just found out it is like a blog. Emails that New Yorkers send to each other. I prefer my description but, yes, in my aftermath research, I’ve discovered it is actually a huge internet success. Or was. That doesn’t surprise me. It’s all very cute and interesting. So I’m at ‘S’, ‘The Faces Of Sin’ What are the faces of sin? This is one of them. I’m focusing on books like crazy now. I’ve just focused on a book called ‘The Vulcan Story‘ on that same shelf in front and there’s a row of white war planes on the back of the book. At least I think they’re war planes. It’s amazing what you can learn in the library, while avoiding adultery.

I realise I have quite a wonderful, exciting, yet frustrating existence, imagining things that I’m not going to do with total strangers.

(At this point, I stop writing because he’s come over. He’s totally thrown me. I go into rabbit-in-headlights mode again. So, he’s suddenly decided to look at the books to the right of me and to the left of me. I’m sandwiched between two shelves and he’s passing between the two, several times. Many times. I briefly look up and realise how grungy he really is. I can smell it. He has a D-ring hanging from his belt. That’s pretty cool,, nice touch. He seems to be covered in mud and white paint. I don’t look into his face.

My hand is shaking like mad. My face is on fire and  I write this

‘My husband shouldn’t let me loose with a notepad and a blog, because by doing so, he unleashes something crazy in his midst.’

At this point, he has positioned himself, at such an angle, that he can actually read what I’m writing. If I was trying to read something somebody has written, I wouldn’t be able to because of my middle aged eyes, which have just started conking out on me. I don’t wear reading glasses, a decision made by vanity. So, anyway, I’ve destroyed the momentum here. Yes, so his very fresh, young, potent eyes will be able to read that bit about ‘imagining things that I’m not going to do with total strangers’. I put my thumb over it like a schoolgirl shielding her exam paper from the naughty cheating boy and suddenly, there he is, close enough to kiss me, I can feel him breathing, leaning, reading. I am close enough to smell him. And I do. Nice move on his part though, in fairness, it has to be said. Praise when praise is due. I pretend not to notice. My face is burning. But no, no. I will just pretend he isn’t there and that this isn’t happening. Denial is not supposed to be a good or healthy thing I know but it’s always been a mighty friend to me. So, I continue writing. My hand is shaking so much now so the next thing I write is my last dying gasp, a chaotic scrawl which says, ‘I am quite afraid now, I’ve got to say.’

I can’t stand it any more. I flip the book shut, head down, stuff it into my bag. And then I pick up the book open at ‘Faces Of Sin’ the words looking impossibly large. Oh yeah, like he hasn’t just read that, and I pretend to read like a big dick head. So false. So badly acted. Serves me right. Writing about this poor innocent man who is only practising his day game in the mirror, that’s his only crime.

He’s still standing there, staring at me but now he’s pulled away from his lean, since the notebook is gone and he is just staring at me, really hard. I’d have to be dead not to look at him, to burst out laughing, smile, whatever. You know, a big sigh as the tension and the ice is broken.

But broken ice can lead to terrible things. I’ve heard. That ice, under no circumstances must be broken. Because once it’s broken, there’s no turning back. I’ve heard. You’re better living on a permanent glacier then falling through a crack in melted ice. Why? Because you end up in freezing cold water. You ever notice how freezing water feels like its burning. Burning. Hell. Need I say more?

I turn the page. And the first thing I read is, ‘Are You Going To Hell?’

Am I in a movie or what? How wonderful is that? I mean how awful, but timed perfectly. God has always had perfect timing.

I’ve got to get out of here.

He walks away, picks a random book from the shelf as he’s walking past, without even looking at it, okay, I get the point, I know what you’re doing, and he returns, figure 4 body language, to his chair, where he resumes his predatory watch.

I don’t get up straight away. Got to be casual about this. You know, nonchalant. He hasn’t just frightened me away, oh no, no. I’m unruffled. After a good long amount of time (ten seconds or so) I pick up the Daily Candy, plus another book that I had with me,  ‘Hollywood Hellraisers’ by Robert Sellers. (One in the series that I haven’t read, about the wildness of Marlon Brando and Warren Beatty, among others, which I wanted to get out but now (barely contained anger) that’s not going to happen now is it?

I stand up, put the books back in a random place, on a random shelf, which I hate doing. I like to adhere to the Dewey Decimal System, as much as any anally retentive library visitor. But this is an emergency. I practically run for the exit and don’t look back. Looking back is foolish. I walk unevenly down the street, turn a corner and dive into the first shop I see, alternatively pretending to browse the clothes rails and then furtively looking out of the window. I dart out of that shop, cross the road and run into another shop. I’m visibly trembling. If he has followed me, I think I lost him. Actually, this is quite exciting. I feel like I’m in an old fashioned spy movie.

The rest of the afternoon passes by in that old fashioned movie style way. It takes this hothouse flower, an hour, to stop shaking inside. In ‘Barnardo’s’, I pick up five 99p items of clothing in a thrifty frenzy, that calms my frazzled nerves. A very kind sales assistant folds and packs them into my back pack, like she’s my mother, and I feel very soothed. Very soothed indeed.  I have entertained myself the whole afternoon just with the slightly pathetic things in my head. No bones broken. No harm done. And a blog post to boot. So, not a bad afternoon after all. Very nice. I go and meet my husband and tell him all about it. He nods sagely. “You see, that’s the problem. Hiding in a place like that just isolates you and attracts…well, like minded people.”

“Are you calling me a creep?”

“No, I’m just saying you’re making it easier for them. You should go to the cafe (in the library) where there are lots of people. There’s safety in numbers.”

I’m unsure. The same thing will happen. The sticker will still appear on my forehead whether there’s one person or a hundred. But it might give me something to write about. So perhaps I should welcome it and then it will go away. Sod’s Law.

Yes, he’s right. I should just go the cafe next week….


I never did get to see his face. I wonder what he looked like?

I blame Oliver Reed. Since Oliver Reed’s Cock went up, things just haven’t been the same.