“I can pick you up, if you give me your address,” a new Bright Young Thing texts. Not Bright Young Naked Thing from yesterday – this one is 29, has dirty blond hair and green eyes and has moved from the South of France to a village near my parental home. His profile states “can sing Lady in Red in French to the right girl.”
“Thank you very much for the offer, but let’s meet there,” I tell him. It’s just possible that he’s a serial killer and I don’t want to get murdered before lunch. Still, a nice gesture for him to offer to pick me up and take me to the restaurant.
Am very pleased with self for securing a date. However, there are now other pressing problems to attend to. Somehow have to become mentally normal by the weekend to be The Perfect Flatmate for my darling cousin who has just moved in to the flat.
Have been living on own for several months and have rather got into the routine of an elderly Major in an Agatha Christie novel: lying around the flat drinking gin in my underwear and watching The World At War, Churchill’s Darkest Decision and Napoleon’s Russian Campaign on the television. All I need to complete the picture is an arthritic spaniel called Tanganyika or Burma or something. I suppose at least I don’t make much noise as I’m asleep about eighteen hours per day.
Also have to attempt to catch the furry monster in before it gets dark. The parentals are both out. Mum will be furious if he’s not in by nightfall but he’s ignoring my entreaties…