Tales of Stupidity: WOMEN

I’ve a collection of special stories – Tales of Stupidity. All the stuff that my civilian friends do under the impression that they improve or create a relationship. I’ve done some idiotic things too, but unfortunately not too many as my work soon provided me with enough experience to avoid silly mistakes. Some of these stories are sad, like a married woman getting pregnant after a one night stand with a sportsperson she had been a big fan of. He took off the condom without telling her. And some stories are silly. So I thought I’d share some of them just for the fun of it. I’ll also tell you about stupid things men do, but ladies first.

I have this friend (let’s call her Friend) who has recently started dating online. She’s a lovely woman in her late thirties, with a mature mind and a responsible attitude. She is happily divorced and works for a major bank (so no bimbo). She registered with a paid dating site: she reasoned that men who pay for membership will be serious in their intentions. So she came across a male member there (let’s call him X) whom she liked, and it appeared to be mutual. Besides, he worked in the bank across the road, so after a few e-mails and a couple of phone conversations they finally met for a dinner. This is what she tells me:

Friend: He picked me up after work and took me to a little restaurant nearby. We spent 3 hours there, just talking! Why do they say online dating doesn’t work? I had so much fun!

Jewel: (yawning) Aha.

Friend: He’s never been married, but he had 2 relationships, both lasted about 10 years; now that he’s 40, he’s ready to find someone to spend the rest of his life with. I told him I was planning to move outside London because it’s better for children to grow up and he thinks it’s a great idea! He even suggested XYZ area because he already has some family living there! [15 minute long monologue about all the ideas and values that X seems to share with her.]

Jewel nods (off) silently.

Friend: So we shared the dessert and he asked if we could go to mine! Can you imagine!

Jewel: (putting the book away) I know! The cheek!

Friend: But you know I couldn’t take him to mine (luckily for her, she really couldn’t that week) and we couldn’t go to his because I wasn’t really ready to meet his parents yet, besides it was too late in the day for it.

Jewel: He told you he lived with his parents???

Friend: Yes, and because there was nowhere to go, we had sex in his car.

Jewel silently picks up her mandible from her lap – the unlikely bodypart meeting facilitated by the word “car”.

Friend: And it’s been 2 days now and he still hasn’t called!

Jewel: Well, if I were him, I wouldn’t call you either.

Friend: Why do you say this? (pause) You think I acted like a prostitute?

Edinburgh escortsShe could have used so many other words. But she chose “prostitute”. And I haven’t met a single prostitute who’d have sex with a man in a car for a promise to bring up children together in XYZ area. So I reassured her that at this rate she will never come even close to a prostitute, and pointed out that a 40-year-old banker who still lives with his parents is either not worth meeting, or is lying to conceal a wife and kids in XYZ area.

For me the real issue here is neither the parents nor the lie. I’ve had sex with 50-year-olds who spend all their holidays at their parents’, and I’ve had (bags of) sex with married men. They showed more respect for me, a prostitute, than X ever had for Friend. None of them even dreamt of suggesting their car. If they couldn’t invite me to theirs, they either rented a hotel room, or paid me to do so. And it’s not even the car sex. I won’t be seen dead having sex in a car, but it doesn’t mean I judge others for doing it. I don’t care where you do it and with whom, as long as you enjoy it, use a condom and make sure your morning-after expectations match the occasion.

To be fair, he e-mailed her eventually to say “sorry, but I’m sure you noticed there was no spark”.

New Year resolution

First of all, there are new clients introduced here and here. And I’ll start straight away with the conversation I had with one of them, as it made a lasting impression. We were discussing Prince’s needs and I tried to explain that while I’m good at some things, I’m definitely not perfect at everything that he may fancy, so

As I tried to explain last night, my forte is in building a relationship with clients, not in steamy sex where even neighbours have a cigarette. If you are looking for kinky sex, I’m not the best option for you: I am not kinky by nature, and I tend to be turned on by a client’s personality (where it’s present) rather than by sex itself, but I am good at teaching people things and providing feedback.

I expected anything but this in response:

The neighbour would have a subtle, knowing smile and a Gauloise!

Edinburgh escortsPrince has the talent of giving most vivid imagery in simple words. Now and again I can see Jean Marais in his hotel room in the Negresco, lighting up and shaking his head slightly to the sounds coming from behind a wall.

This New Year I spent with a client. I don’t think the neighbours were inclined to smoke: they must have been exhausted. So I’ll concentrate on other things. We were in the city centre for the fireworks over the castle. There was quite a crowd. At midnight, when the fireworks started, a small group of German tourists in front of us cheered loudly, interhugged and interkissed, and then moved further to congratulate everyone around. We happened to be the closest to them. They took turns to shake my client’s hand and then everyone wanted to kiss me on the cheek while screaming “Happy New Year!”

I felt like these strangers were invading my personal space. I gave a polite smile, I stretched my hand as far out as possible to shake theirs, and all this time I secretly hated myself. These people wanted to share their joy with me and to wish me happiness, and I, in a sudden fit of britishness, couldn’t even thank them properly for it. A few years ago I had been this person to wish a happy year to every stranger. This is how it should be! What’s happened to me?

Meanwhile, the fireworks were over and reminded me that everything comes to an end one day. It made me see that I’m going through the best time of my life so far. Sooner or later things will change and my life will become different. I always knew I’d been lucky to get into this job, but as years go I feel more and more appreciative. I get to make the world better. How many people can say the same about their jobs? Fair enough, I will never save the rain forests, and poverty will still be around once I retire, but I change the world one person at a time. I change some clients’ moods and other clients’ lives. I am constantly touched by how grateful and trusting my clients are. They let me into their open arms and their lives and allow me to add their personal experiences to my “pool of male consciousness”. Whatever happens later, this knowledge is always with me and I can go on helping people even when I can’t sell sex anymore. And all because my clients let me, a stranger, come close. So the new year resolution is to drop this British nonsense and hug strangers whenever appropriate.

Drawbacks of education

Let’s start with this mail I received.

—– Original Message —–

Sent: 12/24/13 12:16 PM

Subject: Jewel

Jewel,

You are lovely and smart women.  Just from your web page I can see you are more then just lovely women.  Your web sites shows you have a education to go with that hot body.   Wish I know you when I had my visit with a women who does your job.  I bet it would have been much better with you then with her.

name

Sent from Some Mail Agent

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Sent: ‎Thursday‎, ‎December‎ ‎26‎, ‎2013 ‎11‎:‎11‎ ‎AM

Subject: Re: Jewel

Name,

Thank you for your mail, it’s kind of you to write to tell me you were attracted by my website.

If you don’t mind, I was hoping to explain that previous poor experience of commercial sex isn’t a fault of the woman you’d chosen. After all, it was YOU who chose her. Education isn’t in our job description: you employ us to have sex with you, not to teach your kids. If your chosen lady had sex with you – she did her job. If you were not happy with it – it’s your fault.  It was up to you to do a proper search, to compare different websites, to get in touch with a few shortlisted women and see which one of them met all your needs. And it was up to you to be clear about what you want. If a client doesn’t tell me what he is looking for, I can’t guess it – I’m not a mind reader. It’s only if you take time to think about your ideal date and then tell me the details that I can either create this ideal date for you or tell you that I can’t help you. If I don’t know what you want, worse still, if you yourself don’t know what you want – it’s only through good luck that our date can be satisfactory to both parties.

So with the experience you now have, next time you’ll do better.

Yours,

Jewel

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—– Original Message —–

Sent: 12/27/13 09:29 AM

Subject: Re: Jewel

thank you for answering by email.  It got me thinking about the experience.   When I had it, I was young and sure what I wanted.  I think I just wanted sex, not a lasting memory.   Now that I older I do know what I would like.   An experience that when I am  90 years old it still brings back a Great memory.   I did not tell the women what I want so yes it was my fault not hers.   I am sure if I was to meet and have a experience it would much better than my first.

Your website is not write by a sex worker but some one with a great education.  Your blog is written very well and your points in the blog are very good.

name

Sent from Some Mail Agent

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It’s a no win situation. If you’re illiterate, you’re either a victim of economic coercion (i.e. 99% of Earth population) or too stupid to make the right (i.e. approved by society) choice. If you appear to be educated, you’re a fake (most probably a pimp posing as a hooker to promote sex workers’ rights for the opportunity to pimp them some more). Fair enough, this isn’t what the author of the mail meant, he was simply trying to pay me a compliment by denigrating my job and my colleagues. I can’t really blame him for this attitude, the society is to blame. If a greengrocer or a cab driver blogged about their jobs and their clients in a way that people found interesting, how many would say “nah, too well-written for a cabbie/ banana seller”? Few. Because the society doesn’t know about these people, what lead them to their job choices and what they did before. How many studies show the level of education of people in these 2 professions? Similarly, few people know about prostitution, but suddenly everyone knows what sort of person can become a prostitute.

In other news, there are more well-written blogs out of timeline here and here. The first one is the graphic entry I promised a while ago. In Walter’s words,

On a scale of one to deeply shocked, I’m still firmly at one!

So ok, it wasn’t deeply shocking. It wasn’t meant to be. It just deals with the topic I usually avoid here – sex. I have to admit, writing about sex in a non-sexy way wasn’t hard, the hard part was to decide to write about it in the first place:  no-one likes clichés and what’s more cliché than a hooker producing wanking material? Next thing I know, I’ll be blamed for faking it. However, if you think there’s an entry on this blog that has more sex in it than this one – surprise me and send me the link.

As for the second new entry, it’s full of photos. Enjoy. On second thoughts – don’t. It most certainly wasn’t designed to be that entry with even more sex in it.

Heavy petting in Glasgow

On the morning of my birthday I wake up in Glasgow. Not the place where I would usually want to spend such a day, but this time it’s worth it. I don’t remember the morning. Most probably it passed by in the shadow of the great expectations I had for the evening.

I meet Walter at 5pm in Buchanan Street, outside House of Fraser. We are going shopping! At least he thinks we are.

Shopping was his idea. The e-mail detailing the Master Plan for the day mentioned shoes, handbags, shoes, clothes, shoes, jewellery, shoes, books, shoes, and oh, did he forget shoes? And while he was being very generous, it can be difficult for a man to guess a woman’s needs, so I had to hint that a pair of shoes would be really nice.

This isn’t the first time I go shopping with Walter. We also went shopping for lingerie once, but this doesn’t count because it was a new experience for both of us. Shoe shopping, on the other hand, is quite ordinary. I don’t know how he usually does it, here’s how I do it. I need a pair of winter boots. I go online. Find the website of the shop I have in mind. Look at all the boots they have. Do they have something in black, with a round toe, 3 inch heel, leather, below ankle and with a concealed zip? No? Next website then! So when we meet and walk into a shop, all I need is to find the shoes I chose the night before and try them on. Walter, do you like them? Great, we’re done then! Now let’s go do something fun! If it’s not clear, shopping is an action, not a pastime. I think Walter was disappointed.

We have a drink at the bar of my hotel. I puzzle the bartender with my request for a non-alcoholic cocktail (come on, I’m allowed to let my hair down on my birthday! It can’t be sparkling water every day of the year)  – they don’t have these on the menu.

‘Would you like Safe Sex on the Beach?’

‘Oh yes, I’m all for safe sex!’

Walter chuckles quietly.

And then, with pleasantries out of the way, it’s time to do what we’ve been looking forward to for a while. Walter pays quickly, we make for the lifts, I pinch his bum impatiently as we wait, doors open, we rush in, kiss passionately until the doors open again and we are in the swimming pool. It’s an ordinary hotel swimming pool: small, simple, mostly empty. When I come out of the change room, Walter is already there. The first thing he says is that my swim suit is classy. Not the sort of word you usually apply to a swim suit, and not the sort of word I’ve heard from Walter before, so I take it as a compliment. He gives my swimming attire another good look and points at the sign with the pool rules:

No running

No diving

No pushing

No screaming

No smoking

No heavy petting

Walter is a very law abiding citizen. During our multiple adventures I couldn’t make him climb a fence with me, and he wouldn’t stay in an empty ladies bathroom to wait for me. So I’m glad I made him break at least this one rule. Oh alright, so he didn’t need to be forced into it, but he still wouldn’t have engaged in this prohibited activity without me: heavy petting on your own is called something else. I am also glad I got to see him swim. It was almost as good as watching him drive. Most people do different things in the same manner. Walter has a separate personality for a lot of activities. Driving Walter (especially in his road-rage mode) never fails to amuse me, same as disgusted Walter; swimming Walter is a joy to watch, loving Walter is a pleasure to do, and filming Walter is someone I haven’t figured out yet. And now you probably wonder which one of us in on medication.

We then have a lovely dinner at a place called Kama Sutra, and spend some time practicing – not at the place. We practice some more in the morning, and then he has to go. Glasgow immediately loses whatever appeal it had the day before. A wonderful birthday nevertheless.

News of the world

Scotland

Edinburgh City Council consultation on sauna licensing is still open. The consultation takes form of a monkey survey so please fill it in when you have 42 seconds to spare. In a nutshell, the Council suggests they stop licensing saunas as public entertainment venues. This way, the saunas will lose the protection of the Council and will be left to Police Scotland to raid and close as they please (and we already know that harassing vulnerable women pleases Police Scotland no end: the removed article told the story of 5 police officers showing up at a sauna to close it down and taking women’s names and addresses until a call from the Council confirmed that the sauna wasn’t supposed to be closed down at all). This will mean the end of Edinburgh saunas and end of safe work spaces for sex workers.

Northern Ireland

The Assembly published the submissions to The Human Trafficking and Exploitation Bill I mentioned earlier. There are only about 130 and some are simply brilliant, but I’d like to link to this one. Even if you’re lord Morrow and believe that prostitution = trafficking = paedophilia =  rape = porn = any-other-unmentionable-evil, you still want to distance yourself from nuts like this. You wonder how he sleeps at night, being a man and all.

And many thanks to all those who responded to this consultation.

In Jewel’s world

New entries very well out of time line here and here. Also, please see my December offers and the details of London visit.

Northern Ireland

Northern IrelandIf you haven’t done so yet, there’s still time. You can still submit evidence to the Northern Ireland Assembly on The Human Trafficking and Exploitation Bill. Clause 6 of this Bill will criminalise purchase of sex in Northern Ireland. Lord Morrow, the author of the Bill, insists that this will stop sex trafficking. Paying for sex with someone who is coerced (trafficked or otherwise) is already illegal in Northern Ireland and it hasn’t stopped sex trafficking. Criminalising all paid-for sex isn’t going to make much difference either, it will only put more women and men in danger. You don’t need to be Irish to write to the Assembly, you don’t need to be a resident, you only need to have some common sense and knowledge of sex work as either buyer or seller. This is more than Lord Morrow has to offer. Stop the criminalisation of sex work in Northern Ireland!

The Human Trafficking and Exploitation Bill

Any organisation or individual with an interest in this Bill is invited to submit evidence to the Committee by e-mail to committee.justice@niassembly.gov.uk

The evidence must be structured to address the specific clauses of the Bill and, if appropriate, should include any amendments you wish to propose to the text.

The closing date for submissions is 5.00 p.m. on Friday 1 Nov 2013.

Bill as PDF.

Trying to prove that criminalisation of purchase of sex reduces trafficking: Garbage In, Garbage Out by L.M. Augustin.

Not Hamish

I’ve already mentioned HB to you – here – but he deserves a proper introduction.

A good way to describe HB is to compare him to Prince. The two men have a lot in common, but their approach to things is very different. In the regal paradigm of naming, HB’s title would be “King”. Where Prince glides through life with ease, grace and an air of insouciance, everything about HB is heavy, hard, solid, dead serious and set in stone. He even looks this way. The kingly image on the right is HB to a T – less high heels, stockings and raven locks, obviously. If he were to take on responsibility for an empire, every last stray dog in the realm could depend on him, but the place wouldn’t be fun. Edinburgh escorts' clientsFor the first half a year I was absolutely sure he has no sense of humour. The first time I saw him laugh was in February, during our Cornwall holiday. We were up early in the morning to be on time for Eden Project. I was still fumbling in my clothes, half asleep and grumpy, when he walked into the bedroom, all dressed, bright and breezy, with a smile on his face. ‘Oh stop smiling, it’s inappropriate before 10 am!’ I grumped*. And yes, he laughed – inappropriately, as you understand.

Our first date was quite late in the evening with no chance of a dinner out, so we’d agreed that we’d cook something. There was a small kitchen in his temporary Edinburgh home, I brought some vegetables, we made a salad and sat down to eat. All the while he was acting like this is completely normal. I’m not saying it’s not normal: people making a meal and eating together is one of the first things that made us different from animals, nothing is more normal than this. But when it comes to sex work, it’s not the sort of stuff you engage in on the first date. Most of my first dates are spent trying to reassure clients and make them feel comfortable around me, cooking only happened twice. I suppose it’s one of those things that people usually do in their family circle, and sharing it with a stranger is weird – far more weird than having sex with that stranger. But it wasn’t the last time HB showed that his line between personal from public isn’t that well-defined. The time when I had to explain it to him why it’s not ok to walk in on someone in the bathroom – even if you’ve already seen this person naked and even had sex with them – is proof enough.

And you probably want to know what HB stands for. Not Hamish Buccleugh or other hard to pronounce Scottish name. In fact, it’s not a name at all, but he does sign his e-mails as HB closer to our coming dates. Everything is simple. He got this nickname during our second date. It was a crispy cold November afternoon; I texted to let him know that I’m in a cab and should be there in 10 minutes.

HB: I’m waiting outside for you.

Jewel: Go inside, you’ll freeze your balls off!

HB: My balls are hot!! I want to greet you when you arrive.

Jewel: Well hello, Hot Balls!

_____________

* A totally valid claim.

Sticky (and icky) business

There’s this restaurant on the corner from my home, where Walter and I often end up when he comes to pick me up or drop me off. It’s a cosy, very intimate place with great food. The waiters haven’t changed in the few years that we’ve visited it. The manager (who, I believe, is also the owner) is a short plump man in his forties, with dark curly hair, a moustache and an accent, always in a fluffy cardigan.

I remember the first time I was there without Walter. I was welcomed, given a table, and asked where my partner was.

“Whooahhhhe’s away on business!”

So after that I would only go there on my own as an exception to the rule. When together with Walter, the manager just lets us be.

On one of those exceptional days I spent a delightful afternoon in bed with Nicole, with Prince somewhere in the background, hovering above us like the Ghost of Hamlet’s father now and again. As is his habit, there were chocolates, presents and flowers. In the evening, on my way home, I was tired, hungry, and laden with beautifully wrapped boxes. The idea of cooking was a turn off and I asked the cabbie to drop me at the restaurant.

It’s a small place so it was only when I walked in that I noticed something was wrong. It was empty except for an elderly couple at a table in the corner and the manager standing by them. I clearly interrupted their conversation. The manager welcomed me heartily and explained that X-factor and football nights were always quiet. He offered me a table next to the couple. Leaving at this point would be plain rude (Of course it’s the football night, what was I thinking about! Bye!) Asking for another table would be even ruder.

I arranged the presents and the flowers on the adjacent chairs and hid my face in the menu. Didn’t help.

“So what are the presents about?”

“Oh, these are all… you know… birthday presents.”

“Your birthday! Isn’t it brilliant! Happy birthday! Give me a second, we’ll get a cake for you! Anna! Where do we keep cake candles?”

“Don’t worry about it, please! PLEASE! You know I don’t do gluten anyway!”

“Ah, true! Pity! But wait, where’s your partner? You had a birthday party and he wasn’t there with you? Don’t tell me he is away on business on such a day!”

The elderly couple were looking at me expectantly.

“Er… He’s… Ok, here’s what… happened. My birthday was some time ago… and erm… the party tonight was… at work (looking down at my own business outfit – on Prince’s request). Yes, in the office. They… (turning to the elderly couple) they threw a party for me tonight because I was away on my actual birthday. With my partner… of course.”

“Aw, he organised a little trip for you?”

Sometimes people want a story. Sometimes people think they are being friendly, when in reality they are being bored with what’s going on around. Sometimes you happen to be the only prey available to them. And most of the time – in my experience – the least painful way of getting them off your back is to give them what they want. Even when I’m not paid for it.

We have twins, Nicky and Vicky. They started school this year and we’ve never had so much headache before. Yes, they are identical. Vicky is quite a tomboy, but it’s Nicky who is the real pain in the patella. Yes, you are right, he spoils them rotten, it’s all his fault. Anyway, for my birthday… No, Vicky is half an hour older. So on my birthday my partner took me away for a few days, so we could have some time to ourselves. Oh, grandparents love them, they would have the kids every weekend if I allowed!

And so on.

Needless to say, Walter laughed. Needless to say, he immediately called our children Icky and Sticky. Needless to say, now and again he still asks how they are doing at school. Needless to say, we will never go to this restaurant again. Ever.

I hate friendly people.

It’s in the detail

I met HB in September. It was a curious date but you’ll hear more later. It was obvious that he looked forward to it. He dressed up (because my blog says I like a well-dressed man), he invested heavily in chocolate (because my blog mentions chocolate and so do I), and he clearly spent some time reading my blog – the telltale signs of a detail fetishist. I’ve already described a few of these here, I just didn’t describe them in detail. Now is a good time.

Body

This type of detail fetish is quite common is certain circles. The Nutter. Being a researcher, he had an eye for detail. And this eye was always open. Everything he saw was filed away neatly between his braincells, evidence was presented, conclusions were drawn, summary was printed in triplicate for each relevant department and the research abstracts were made available to me on request. He gave me the most intimate present I have ever received. A shirt. How is a shirt intimate? It was a shirt in my size, of my favourite shirt brand, with my favourite type of cuff, in a colour I often choose myself. None of these parameters were ever discussed. Moreover, when I asked “But why a shirt?” he said something that never occurred even to me. Because I’m a shirt-wearer. When I thought I was dressed, he thought of the patterns that made this type of behaviour different from that of specimens of corresponding gender, age and occupation. I freaked out, went and bought 2 sweaters. Half a year after we’d parted ways I had to admit that he was right. I’m a shirt-wearer.

Soul

Walter has a heart for detail. He may be unable to recall what I wore for our last date, but he always knows how I’m going to react to something before I decide if I even want to react. Walter made it clear from the start that much as he enjoys the carnal part of our relationship, its less physical aspect is at least equally important to him; but it was our (almost) totally social date that made me see the bigger picture. During lunch we talked about the potential sequel to my video. A few days before that a client had shown me a video of a London lady which I, of course, shared with Walter. Unfortunately, the video isn’t there anymore, but it was a minute long shot of a provocatively dressed woman, tracing the outline of her hips, showing some skin above the stocking and then playing with her cleavage. The film was really well made, sufficiently tasteful, revealing and yet preserving the lady’s anonymity. I liked it, but I simply could not imagine having one of these myself. The inner resistance to it was puzzling to me until Walter shrugged and simply said, ‘This isn’t you. The London woman is playing with the viewer, showing off her assets. You don’t do this. You express your sexuality naturally: the way you move, the way you smile… To show how sexy you are, a film needs to show you doing everyday things.’

Ah, to have spent years selling your sexuality and have a man tell you how you best express it…

Mind

This last variation of detail fetish is most probably a by-product of a long unhappy relationship, although I can personally attest that certain occupations can also influence its development. It doesn’t come naturally to HB, it stems from his desire to please – a natural desire, but because his natural abilities to fulfil it have never been appreciated and therefore cultivated, he developed a mind for detail. Once an object is chosen, he takes it upon himself to read every scrap of information that can be found. Every e-mail. Every tweet. Every blog entry. Even I haven’t read them all. He’s done it twice. What he can’t find information about, he asks. And he listens. I commented on a beautiful fan in a shop window and I received it a few days later. I mentioned that I particularly like a specific gluten-free snack, and now I’m given it every time I see him (yes, I always think of Pavlov’s dog, too). The most memorable experience HB provided me with was finding lambs for me after I said I’d always wanted to see lambs up close – you’ll have to wait for the details, I’m afraid. Of course I’m pleased, but I’m also touched. I’ve been blessed with wonderful people for clients and the fact that some of them go out of their way to please me is nothing short of miraculous. I must have done something seriously good in my past lives.

Edinburgh escorts

My restaurant business

It’s odd but this part of London I have not visited before. From the cab window I can see little boats and large willow trees, bridges above the canal and ducks in the water; everything in Little Venice looks cute and laziness-inducing even in the hail – up until the moment I suddenly think “And how is this different from the Water of Leith?”

I’ve lived in Edinburgh long enough to be unable to enjoy London again.

By the time I check in and unpack, the raging torrent outside turns into an ordinary rain and then disappears altogether; the sky is bright and clear blue and my mood is better. I put on my new grey jumper and set off to explore.

I walk down the path along the water for quite a while before I suddenly realise I’m in Paddington. By now it’s well past 6 so I pick a restaurant for an early dinner.

In front of me, a couple of empty tables away, a man is sitting on his own, nose in a newspaper, picking at something on a plate with his fork now and again. He raises his eyes from his paper and instead of looking at his fork he looks at me. I acknowledge his gaze. Half a salad later I catch his eyes on me again. I look back. He smiles. Must be the new jumper. I smile back. With pleasure.

He looks like someone who would work in Central London and live in Watford with a wife, 2 kids and a dog. Only he’s clearly just finished work and instead of rushing home for dinner he’s idly reading a newspaper in a restaurant and making eyes at a strange woman. Either not married or something is rotten in the state of Watford. His plate is long empty and he’s still there, looking at his newspaper.

He stands up eventually, picks up his raincoat and briefcase, and waves good-bye to me. I wave back. He leaves.

What an English way to go. Sometimes I wonder how this nation still reproduces. You see a woman, you show your interest, the woman reciprocates – what do you do? You leave! Why not come up to the woman and tell her that her smile made your dinner and that you’d like to buy her a hot chocolate*. Or at least pay for her salad. Ah, romance is dead…

Independent Edinburgh escortsBack in Edinburgh, a few days later, I’m having lunch at my favourite restaurant. The waiter, who had previously endeared himself so much by totally looking at my bum, brings me a hot chocolate. In the centre of the thick cinnamon-sprinkled froth I can see a little, uneven heart-shaped opening. Clearly custom-made, not a result of a mould or some froth-arranging device. An analogue of waving at me? Or just re-creation of something memorable?

* I sometimes have a feeling men don’t understand the concept of offering a drink to a woman. By buying her a drink you buy her time. If she accepts your offer, she agrees to give you her attention for as long as the drink lasts. This drink should be enough for both of you to decide if another drink is a good idea or if you’d like to move on. See, nothing scary! Yes, you two enter into a sort of social contract but it’s not a commitment to spend the rest of your lives together. Not even an obligation to exchange phone numbers. Just an opportunity to get to know each other a little to decide if it’s worth it.

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As you no doubt have noticed, I’ve been very quiet lately. August is a mad time anyway, plus I’ve been working on a personal problem so I didn’t have that much time left. I am sorry about any disappointment caused and I will try to resume the semblance of regularity on this blog. To make up for my online absence, I looked at some of the old drafts and here‘s a new old entry for your amusement.