Friend of Tactless Friend Reality Check
November 3, 2011 § 36 Comments
A few days ago, in my post entitled Cleavage, Heels and Flattery, I wrote about a friend of my tactless friend who goes in for CH&F big time and currently has no fewer eight men circling her. While this would not seem just to the majority of plankton who have no such widespread attention directed towards us, I have now learned a little more about the reality of her circumstances which turn out, rather gratifyingly, not to be quite as they may seem.
The truth, according to a not famously reliable but nonetheless insistent source (to whom I spoke on the telephone yesterday and who is not my tactless friend), is that she does not fancy any of them. She has been opining the fact that one, in particular (who happens to be the man my tactless friend informed me has eight women on the go) declares undying love, but has, he has informed her, a little business to attend to before he can give himself wholly to her and they can live happily ever after. The business is to get rid of some of the other women, apparently, and it is taking a certain amount of time. I bet. He is almost definitely spinning the same yarn to each member of his female team on a different night of the week. This man, a friend of my parents, I have known since I was a child. He is successful and well-known and is clever and good company, but cannot be said to be even a feeble watercolour let alone a grandiose oil painting. Think, more, trashy “art” on Hyde park railings on a Sunday afternoon. He took my mother to a restaurant many years ago and put his forearm out to her across the table. It was not a pretty sight, she said, describing it with vivid revulsion. I shall refrain from passing on her description for fear of being accused of look-ism; suffice it to say, think hair (copious amounts thereof), think pale, think unfortunate colouring, think skin furniture.
Well, his shenanigans are not really bothering Friend-of-Tactless-Friend because she remains unconvinced by all the circlers, including him. She is unnerved by his declarations coupled with a seeming inability to look her in the eye. I am not sure this “relationship” is going anywhere, but this F-O-T-F did ask my source how I was getting along. My source mentioned that I had been having a shit time and that I was on my own. F-O-T-F said she was going to help me find someone. Perhaps she envisages fobbing me off with one of her eight circlers whom she has already discarded, in her mind at least.
I am not so sure I am going to find her cast-offs any more alluring than she does, but I await the call-up.
Meanwhile, I have been thinking, thinking, thinking that I have got to do something. Fuck all happening at the moment. Nothing from Poppy Seed or Kidnap Negotiator (heart not bleeding on both counts) or Smidgen or Long Shot (heart very much bleeding on both counts). Total fucking silence and what’s more Smidgen has a very good reason to be offering me some serious TLC (to do with our project which a few days ago has encountered a severe set-back).
So, time to widen the skimpy net. I wonder – though, don’t all shout at once, as I am nowhere near the point of actually doing it – if I might do well to look at the famous personal ads in the London Review of Books? It is a publication I admire and I don’t imagine that it is one which attracts total weirdos as do so many more prosaic classifieds.
At least if there are any fucking weirdos on it, the chances are they can read.
Hum. If top of Plan A is staying chez BF with Long Shot, and if another part of it is emailing Smidgen about the project in a few days if he hasn’t contacted me, then the LRB is definitely one to include in my Plan C.
But what of Plan B you may wonder?
NYFI. [Not Yet Fucking Identified].