The most attractive body part

A man with a lovely French name and a surprisingly non-French accent called a few days in advance to arrange an evening together. The details are discussed, and I ask him to text me on the day by midday to confirm.

Midday came and went and the confirmation text did not arrive. I was rather surprised as he really did not sound like a time waster. Oh well, to err is human. I make plans for the day and get on with my life. At 6.30 he calls to POLITELY enquire if I’m planning to show up at all – weren’t we supposed to meet at 6? It turns out that he did text to confirm. A few times. I just didn’t receive anything.

DEAR CLIENTS AND CLIENTS-TO-BE. I WILL ALWAYS TEXT YOU BACK TO ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR CONFIRMATION. IF YOU HAVEN’T HEARD FROM ME WITHIN HALF AN HOUR, DO YOURSELVES A FAVOUR AND CALL ME.

I could have gone for a show. I could have taken another booking. I could have gone shopping. In Glasgow. Or could have taken a bus tour to explore Highlands. Or South America. But luckily for both of us I was at home fighting my e-mail overload. I was ready in 30 minutes. My personal record. Well, given normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even go to the corner shop looking like that: I saved time by not shaving my legs, I didn’t have a chance to think through my attire (my shoes did not match my handbag which did not match my jacket which did not match my jeans. My lingerie did not match anything of the above), my make up did not bear close scrutiny and my hairdo was a complete hairdon’t (© Walter, Jewel®), but I felt responsible (why?) for the muck up and wanted to make up if it was at all possible. 5 minutes to confirm the hotel details, 5 minutes to make sure there are enough condoms in the work handbag, 5 minutes for the cab to arrive, 10 minutes for the ride. I was in the hotel bar in under an hour. The client turned out to be Belgian.

What do you call the play before the foreplay? This client was my first Belgian experience (or at least the first one to admit he was Belgian) so I need at least another 3 before I can tell you for sure if anteforeplay is a traditional Belgian sport/ pastime/ form of socialising. It was all, however, compensated by the inevitable finale. I know these moments can be intense, but this I’ve never had before: all of a sudden I’m pushed aside and I can distinctly feel my right radius rubbing against my right ulna where he grabbed me by the arm – the only reason I’m not falling off the bed. He lets go eventually and 3 red marks, like red anemones, burst into blossom on the delicate skin of the inside of my wrist where his fingers were. All this in complete silence: I’m too deep in shock to open my mouth and he’s too deep in whatever’s going through any man’s mind at that moment. “Just growl next time, will you?” became an inside joke for the rest of the booking.

As the emotions and excitement of it all ebb away, we’re chatting, his hand on my bum.

-It is quite nice actually. What’s your favourite part of your body? The one that you appreciate the most?

-My brain.

Alright, I know that strictly speaking a brain is not a body part, but every morning, as I count my blessings, the head on my shoulders is the third on the list. The client agrees readily, which makes it easier for me to go on and say that he was right and my bum’s not bad at all.

Oh, and did he simply growl the next time? No, he didn’t.

How did this happen?

I’ve had a wonderful week:

A few days in London – ECP keeps coming up with some really interesting projects. Not to mention the people I got to see again.

My sister has graduated! Really proud of her. The party was terrific!

Midsummer’s Night Eve is coming – spent the whole day today making plans.

Have finished the festival roster – which friend is coming over when and for how long. I have a feeling I might have to take half August off.

Got a new pair of shoes! Life is beautiful!

And all this was spoilt by just one question! I was at *** Hotel waiting for a cab to go home, it arrived, I got in, the driver turned round and said: “Going back to no X in YZ Street, Jane?”

As a cabbie, you get to see hundreds of people on daily basis. How many times do you need to take a particular jane from point A to a hotel and then back to point A to start recognising her? And to think that jane only gets to see the back of your head! Ever!

I am SO moving flats when the festival is over!

Hope Edinburgh cabbies don’t read ladies’ blogs.

A better way

A few days before I left for London, I’d been given a pack of truffles. It was only a small pack so I’ve been having one a day since. Exquisite.

Hand made, they are irregular in shape, and slightly bigger than my mouth would be happy with, but biting would be a crime – destroying the spirit of a truffle.

So I stuff the whole thing into my mouth. And I wait. The truffle is covered in fine chocolate dust. It’s bitter. I hate bitter chocolate with every gland of my tongue. Three thousand years ago I’d be executed by the Mayans for sacrilege.

So I wait. And little by little, the bitter dust dissolves and opens the truffle heart.  The heart starts to melt slowly and seductively, the rich chocolate juice filling my mouth. It’s sweet and creamy, but there’s some dark mysterious bitterness to it, redolent of the night.

Of course, you can always gobble the truffle up and you will still enjoy it. It will never even occur to you that you might have missed something, but if you take your time, the experience is much more rewarding.

London is great, by the way.