In which I nearly have sex

So, his boyfriend had left the pub and he offered to walk me home. It was a warm summer's evening, and I was charmed.

He walked me home. He followed me up in the lift and into the flat. And then he pounced.

There was a brief, exciting tussle. And then something caught his eye, and he stopped. "Oh my god!" he gasped, "Is that really a script for what I think it is! Wow! I am like the world's biggest fan!"

I got rid of him within minutes. Sadly, I appear to have got good at saying "No" to attractive men. That's three times in a fortnight that roughly the same thing has happened. Virtue's comforting. But just a little dull.

Sheeptacular

Spent a day at the Royal Welsh Show. Handing out leaflets, meeting children and parents, and generally soaking up the atmosphere.

I loved agricultural shows when I was young. Every year, we'd go to the East of England, and I'd eat a pork pie, look at cows and sheep and pigs and horses, and maybe pop into the BBC stand to pick up a piece of paper that was exciting just cos it said "BBC". Somewhere I've still got em.

Anyway, there I was, handing out leaflets and posters and stuff and feeling a bit rubbish for not speaking any Welsh (how I cringed when a five year-old said patiently "Diolch means thank you. There.").

Most of the people were deeply lovely, but it was amazing how the 0.001% of vile people can really leave you in a mood. The Dad who just pointed at me, snapped his fingers and then pointed at his two kids. The girl who asked me all sweetness for a poster, then threw it away over her shoulder, still smiling at me. The little boy with the milkshake... oh, but hang on, the twitching's started again.

Oh and then the grans. One came up to me, asking "Can I have a cool drink for the little kiddies?" I apologised, we didn't do drinks. "I see," she said, eyeing my cup of coffe, "You don't do drinks. No. That's right." And then sailed away, dripping dignified disdain.

I didn't really get to explore. Apparently the Sheeptacular was unmissable, but there just wasn't time to see performing pedigree pullovers.

I did get to see a jolly woman parading her horse and trap round the main ground, while giving off a commentary that sounded, as someone put it "just a shade too excited" - "Now, then Jasper's really breaking into it... oh good Jasper! Jasper! Oh a little faster! You too, Starlight! Really go for it! There we are! Yes!"

The real delight was, of course, Welsh farmers with their shirts off. Without a thought or a care in the world. Topless tractor totty just strolling around, or watching a display of dancing ducks, or whatever. Shyly oblivous to the world, yet beautiful and content. Like barely living Greek statuary. Only with cheap tattoos and a thousand acres.

I bought a pork pie. Sadly, not at the fair, but at Tesco Services.

The other me

Just checked my online bank. Over the weekend, I would appear to have developed a quite ruinous taste for online poker and the gee-gees.

Bless first direct though. "We spotted it at once, sir. It's a sure sign of fraud. Or divorce."

24 update

Caught up with the latest series. In which Jack gets on board an airplane by disguising himself as luggage and Chloe gets a stun gun.

87% of 24 is Made for Gays.
The other 13% (inane torture) is just there to reassure straight men that they're not watching something poofy.

Rebranding

Why we should all behave like the BBC: "I'd like you to call me Bradley instead of Daniel, please. I had a terrible time in Marseilles, and I'd like to put it all behind me." from GUM Clinic

My Welshest yet

*hilarious* fake tan disaster. I look like a coal miner.

UPDATE: I've now got a real sunburnt nose. I'd like to think this makes the overall effect realistic. Sadly, if I was a cat I'd be called Patch, and if I was a puppet I'd be called Sooty.

Post!

Completely forgot I'd gone a bit mental on Amazon during the summer heat. Got back to the flat to discover...

- a book of plays
- a book about whores
- Spiderman Lego Train. Complete with Lego Doctor Octopus.

Quiver.

Who moved my cheese?

There's a revered management strategy called "Who moved my cheese?" - a simple parable about two mice who go to the same place in a maze every day for their cheese. One day, the cheese has moved. The clever mouse goes hunting for the cheese. The stupid mouse stays, waiting for the cheese to come back.

Yesterday, my cheese moved. Or my maze moved. Or something. And anyway, I'm lactose intolerant. But there was a restructuring work thing. With flow charts. And a complicated circular diagram thing like those Georgia O'Keefe drawings of lady bits.

After much hunting through these charts, I discovered what my new role might be: "Embedded Future Media Technologist".

I explained this to the people in Cardiff. They're now calling me "the inbred".

Mind the gaps

Go see a dentist. Now. I'm going to.

I had drinks with two exes last week. Normally, I throw myself at them. Even the fat ones. But what saved me this time was that both of them had disgusting teeth.

Adam (the ex boyfriend) merely had a gaping hole in his stained teeth. A fascinating, jagged wedge that almost sparkled in the dim light. For Joe (the ex shag), however, it was worse. Years of doing his own dentistry with home filling kits had caught up with him. Instead of a normal row of gnashers, his teeth were like pebbles on a beach - layers upon layers of wedged fillings, each a different shade of fizzing decay.

The teeth were my salvation. Joe is astonishingly beautiful and terribly straightforward... but everytime he grinned his rockery smile my stomach lurched.

Adam hasn't really changed much since last I saw him. Still madly in pursuit of teenagers ("Was at an 18th birthday party last night. Shan't see him again."), and a career. He's now decided to become a lawyer. I begged him not to.

Finally, after a year, he gave me back some of my stuff. Or rather, a pile of books and a t-shirt that wasn't mine. "This isn't mine," I said.

Adam glanced at it. "No. Too small," and pocketed it.

Apart from vile teeth, both insisted on showing me their camera phones, full of pictures of their recent shags.

"It's because they're desperate to prove they're doing okay," I explained to Lee over lunch the next day.

"Yeees," Lee toyed idly with his salad, "That's absolutely it. Life's downhill after you. Carry on telling yourself that. Go you."

So anyway, two evenings of looking at bad teeth and pictures of my ex shags. Adam looked down at his phone sadly. "That's all of them. Howabout you? Any pics on your phone?"

Yes Adam. One of you sucking off an old man for money.

There was culture

Went to see a fabulous satire about Welsh politics. It summed up perfectly everything about why the Theatre's not like going to the Cinema - you could see the cast, the rest of the audience, and even, in a corner, the author, staring hard at a spot on the floor.

Shamefully, it's been six months since I've been to the theatre. My Cardiff flat's about 100 yards from a theatre, but it appears to rotate Festen with The Vagina Monologues and, currently, a Rod Stewart Musical.

Apparently, I missed the week when Kate O'Mara was in an Agatha Christie.