Lou Sanz

‘Hey slut!’ my girlfriend yelled at me as I greeted her for a coffee.

‘I’m reclaiming the word’ she informed me as I sat down opposite her in my denim-on-denim ensemble.

‘Yeah, I gathered as much’ I bemoaned partially because I knew where this conversation was headed and in no small part because the cafe she’d insisted on meeting at didn’t do soy milk.

‘It’s fine’ she said ‘I don’t know why it’s such an issue for you. Just get skim milk. Same, same Lou.’

This is why I needed a boyfriend, not for any other reason than to avoid these type of catch-ups. I imagined friends of old calling me up wanting to meet for a dairy laden latte and I’d be all ‘oh I’m sorry, I’d love to but I have a boyfriend and he has a penis I need to attend to…yeah, I know, it is a shame, but what you gonna do?’

‘You’re a slut Lou! I’m a slut Lou! We’re all sluts! Isn’t that great?!’

I looked at my tea delivered with nothing but a lemon wedge to mask its tea-like flavour.

‘I’m not a slut.’ I said as I eyed a woman leaving the Vegie Bar with a take-away coffee which I was certain was a soy coffee, probably a flat white by the looks of it; after all, we had the same shoes.

‘But of course you are’ my friend interjecting my hypothesis.

‘You’re a woman and you have sex, ipso facto you’re a slut Lou.’ I watched as she slammed her fork into her crumbling tower of cheesecake and I enjoyed the last bits of my lemon wedge.

‘The fact we have sex didn’t make us sluts, an ingrained misogyny in the lexicon did.’

My biscotto wasn’t hitting the spot but then again biscotti never did and yet each time I was still surprised by my little realisation.

‘No Lou you’re using traditional definitions. It doesn’t just have to be a woman who has multiple sexual partners at any one time Lou; it can also be applied to woman who just has sex in the winter in lieu of escalating electricity bills such as-‘

‘-so help me god do not even finish that sentence.’ I commanded, discreetly rubbing my new hot water bottle I’d only bought hours earlier in my bag; the only rubber in anyone’s life certain to stave off winter madness and combat escalating electricity bills.

Annoyed and scratching at her Henna tattoo from a hens night past she turned on me ‘I just don’t see what you’re problem is. Everyone’s talking about it! Come on Lou, Slut Walk – it’s what this is all about!’

‘You want the truth as unpopular as it maybe I just don’t believe in the word slut. There shouldn’t be such a word. It’s always been a bad word with bad connotations. You can’t reclaim a word created to be negative. I’ll concede that perhaps you can rehabilitate it – ‘

‘-Amy Winehouse was rehabilitated.’

‘Yeah, and it’s worked to startling affect hasn’t it?’

‘-What about cunt? That was reclaimed and it’s the same as sluts.’

‘What? That in a lot of ‘sluts’ have cunts?’

‘That’s a very simplified way of looking at things Lou but yes most ‘sluts’ do own a cunt but also that the word was reclaimed.’

‘If you want to get in a tit for tat about the word cunt – ‘

‘Ha! You said tit!’ squeeling like a school girl.

‘I also said tat but where’s its credit…’ I mumbled as waitress quietly put the bill down on our table.

‘Did you enjoy your lemon?’ she asked

‘Yes, yes I did. Thank you very much.’ She smiled as she took the lemon wedge and empty tea cup away.

‘Well someone’s got a cunt and that someone definitely likes a girl who enjoys a good lemon wedge…’ my friend languished back in her chair.

‘Shut it’ I said as I hunted around in my hand bag for my strawberry lipgloss.

‘I reckon you could slut it up with her good time.’

‘You’re using it as a verb now?’

‘When in Rome…’

‘That in no way applies to this discussion. We are not in a situation that warrants a deflection to the hedonistic times of ancient Rome.’

‘We are in Brunswick St…’

Neither of us said anything. Not a week earlier I’d been somewhat hedonistic just off Brunswick St…my friend didn’t need any more wins.

‘What I was getting at is that cunt is a word imbued with positive connotations until it was reappropriated for another means. A negative, oppressive means, but over time and with limited success I might add it’s started to live in a more positive light in the lexicon.’

‘So it’s kinda like the Rob Lowe of words?’

‘No, a woman’s vagina is nothing like Rob Lowe.’

‘But he was a good guy and then he shagged and filmed an underage girl and then bam! He’s on the West Wing!’

‘Ok the likelyhood of ever seeing a cunt on television over Rob Lowe…’

‘You’re missing my point Lou. I’ m just saying that women should be allowed to be sluts!’

‘How about women just being allowed to be women? You know to dress how they like as a woman, say what they like as a woman, live like they want as a woman and not be concerned with the ever present threat of being sexually assaulted or shamed? I’m just saying that seems like a better use of our energy as opposed to rebranding a word already fraught with problems.’

‘That wouldn’t fit on a t-shirt Lou.’

‘What?’

‘Your feminist rhetoric needs to fit on a t-shirt.’

Sadly she was right…

‘So for the walk what will your t-shirt read?’

‘Oh I’m not wearing a t-shirt, I’m just going to write slut across my breasts.’

‘Ok, fair enough. I guess I’ll just walk next to you.’

SlutWalk is happening on Saturday 28th May at 1pm, State Library and contrary to popular belief I believe it’s about how women should have the freedom to wear, say and live as they please without the threat of sexual violence and shaming. It is not about reclaiming the word; it is about taking away its meaning so that arseholes can’t use it to hurt us ever again.

Coming home from a gig on Saturday night realising that if I managed to make it home by 9pm The Bill would be in full throttle and even with my comprehensive knowledge of back-story I’d struggle to keep up, I stood waiting for the illustrious No 19 tram. Not to worry, I wasn’t alone. I had the luck of keeping company with a couple of teenagers/burgeoning football team and when I say a couple I mean not enough to terrify me into a gang bang, but enough to have quite clearly justified their purchase of two slabs of Jim Bean & Coke.

Not that I’m a snob in the traditional sense, but yes I will admit, a couple of slabs of some sort of pale ale and these young men would have easily transformed in my eyes from just sex offenders to alleged sex offenders.

One of them spat in front of me or threw up (I’m finding it harder and harder to tell these days) before asking me how my night was, well that’s what I thought ‘…avin a good night…cat…apper…penis’ meant.

Having promised myself not to get herpes in this lifetime I stepped back from him and then watched as he tried to chase a car packed with ‘the ladies’ down Sydney Rd egged on by his friends in a way a dog might chase a car, a dog whose parents paid for it’s private school education.

I noticed a girl in the mix drinking a Red Bull with her hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. She watched the idiots around her and for a moment I was reminded of a young me. One of the boys kept pulling her hooded sweat, trying to drag her over to him like a caveman but to her credit she spurned his advances as he tried to whisper something in her ear. She pushed him away.

‘No Tony, I’m not giving you a hand job.’

You go sister I thought as I smiled to myself.

‘Last time my hand cramped and I couldn’t text for like hours and you didn’t even cum, f**k that.’

How I yearned for those curious fumbling years…

Finally the tram arrived and we all climbed on board, the teenagers by now figuring that if they sat at the back of the tram they’d come across less like drunk dickheads and more like hip urban commuters. I moved to the front as I heard a conversation about ‘how to spot a tardo’ fade into the distance.

Deciding to stand for the next few stops, I noticed an older woman staring at me and found myself wondering for a brief moment if the No 19 was the tram of choice for lesbians to cruising away their Saturday night. I didn’t have to wait long for my answer as the woman came over to me.

‘You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age.’

Now I don’t know about you but I’ve never been into the idea of hooking up with people that look me, admitting though that I was yet to come across 5’3 curvy Latino type gentlemen who couldn’t grow a decent moustache, but hey, the night was young.

‘Um, thanks’ I replied to her, not that it was a compliment she’d paid me as I looked down at her cankles.

‘Back when I was your age I tried to kill myself, didn’t manage it mind you. Just ended up alone.’

My eyes drew away from her cankles and elasticised Susanne Gray pants and I suddenly realised how sad a complete stranger could make me feel.

I didn’t know what to say and my overwhelming curiosity to ask why she hadn’t kept trying was threatening to leap out of my mouth at any moment.

‘Um…I’m sure someone loves you.’ I offered.

‘Does someone love you?’ she asked.

Ouch.

‘My parents I think.’

‘Doesn’t count.’

‘Some of my friends?’

‘Doesn’t count.’

‘What, you mean like a boyfriend or something?’

‘I knew the touch of a man once, his name was Tom. Full of cock and confidence Tom was.’

‘What happened to Tom, did he die in the war or something?’

‘The war? I’m only 37, he was only 17.It was the love that dare not speak its name. Don’t be stupid. Died in the war. No, he just changed schools. It wasn’t meant to be.’

‘That’s a shame.’ I muttered, looking at this woman, this broken woman. Why had she been so unlucky? Would I have the same fate given I once admitted to a crush on the red head from Harry Potter?

‘If you don’t mind my saying your fringe makes you looks like a guard at a women’s prison.’

Oh, this must be why no one loved her.

I pulled the cord announcing my impending stop.

‘Ok, well you have a good night then.’

‘You don’t work in a woman’s prison do you?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘No’

‘Ok, no harm in asking.’ And with that she started up towards the back of the tram looking to acquaint herself with some of Jim Bean fuelled football team.

As I hoped off the tram I heard her turn to the girl I’d seen earlier.

‘You remind me of myself when I was your age.’

‘I’m not licking you out or nuffin’ the girl spat back at her.

You go sister I couldn’t help but smile to myself.

Often when one thinks of romance we conjure up images of young, nubile (look, maybe that’s just me and my penchant for being able to bounce things off walls) creatures, fornicating on a deserted beach at sunset, declaring a love that need not speak its name, unapologetically crushing the pink tinged roses he’d bought her at the start of their date…

To be honest though, after years of getting sand in my crutch and never been given flowers, when I think of romance it’s slightly more evolved, having changed from whispers of sweet nothings to something more along the lines of that if I’ve been seeing a guy for a few months and I don’t receive a phone call from a friend telling me he’s been shagging someone else, well I burst into tears of happiness cause fuck me I’ve never felt so much joy.

However in recent weeks my idea of romance has evolved once again, it’s more platonic by nature (and no, I’m not mounting objects on the wall and running at them). Whether this has been a result of getting better bed sheets or recent illness’s ‘how many flu’s can you get?’ it’s growing where?’ and ‘you’re not pregnant like we first thought, it’s an infection’, I’ve found myself seduced by the romance of being a shut in.

It started simply enough. Friends asking me to go and have a good time with them, sure it seemed like a nice idea but that would involved getting dressed into what I call my ‘outside’ clothes and I’d only recently discovered the benefits of your ex leaving his crap at yours – large over sized hooded jumpers. I needed to devote as much time as I could to this new found discovery. Of course I wasn’t a complete social drop out; I’d always offer a solution to my friends:

‘Come around to mine and I’ll make us some dinner, we don’t need to go out to have a good time.’

‘Will you be wearing pants?’

‘Yes’

‘And what about that gingham smock thing?’

‘I’ll be wearing both; I’ve neither shaved my underarms or my legs.’

I did understand though why my friends started seeing other people when my dinner menu consisted of the one and only question ‘baked beans or spaghettio’s, and I don’t have any bread, we’ll just have to make do without bread right?’

My flat mates were as supportive as they could be with it all, but when one wandered in to see me reading my copy of Laura Bushes biography and fiddling with the oven whilst drinking my 10th cup of strong Yorkshire tea for the day and lamenting I couldn’t find my anti-anxiety medication anywhere useful and must’ve left it in the shower, well he had to intervene cause ‘Lou, you haven’t showered in days, lets stop making shit up ok?’

I was sure I wasn’t a complete lost cause; after all I had to leave the house to go to my local video store to continue my research on British police procedural dramas. What I was researching I didn’t know quite yet. It had taken me about 30 seconds to admit to myself I’d so go Vincent D’Onofrio from Law & Order Criminal Intent, but the lead guy from Midsummer Murders, well it had been over 6 years and I still wasn’t convinced, as such there was much work to be done.

The video store was easy enough; people go in there with top high ponytails and hooded jumpers all the time. I made my selection, including some DVD’s of a show I was to be in, but when I got to the counter and the clerk informed me I was one over my Weekly Special limit I chose to put that DVD back – really, I thought, I should buy it, you know support local industry the way it was supporting me – the clerk seemed happy with my selection including the one I chose to put back.

‘Good choice putting that one back. If you asked me we stopped making people laugh when the Crocodile Hunter died.’

Arriving home shortly after I logged onto the internet and joined an online DVD rental store.

It was pointed out though at some point, even though I was literally living in my own filth trying to work to deadline that I might need deodorant or a leg razor, you know for ‘special occasions.’

Trudging out in my smock and high tops I walked the 50 meters to my local shopping centre and found myself staring at the deodorant rack, armed with soy milk, veggie burgers, HP sauce and Oreos, debating whether a further spend of 38c was warranted given I wasn’t loyal to any sort of particular brand. To this day I don’t know the difference between a deodorant and an antiperspirant and I’m afraid I’m too old to ask.

Now I’m not casting judgment on anyone that picks up in the toiletries aisle at a supermarket, but I’m not a huge fun of scoring anywhere near where they sell lubricant and indigestion tablets, because it would be too much like looking into a future relationship mirror. So imagine my surprise if you will when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around to see a man wearing elastic wasted trousers – enough said.

‘I know you from somewhere’ he so eloquently observed.

My vanity got the better of me, Christ I was in a smock and trainers.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Yes, I saw you die at Vibe comedy one night. It was awful you were shit.’

‘Thanks.’
‘Me I like jokes that rhyme.’

‘We all have a type.’

‘That we do, that we do.’

‘So buying deodorant, you don’t smell that bad.’

‘I wear deodorant.’

‘Then why you buying more?’

‘It’s not like a never ending packet of Tim Tams.’

‘I don’t understand’.

…and it was at that point I realized he quite possibly wasn’t even 24, of course he wouldn’t get the reference.

‘Look, um, if you’re not doing anything would you like to come to Maccas with me? I have a voucher and a health care car, gets you a discount’

He then noticed my soy milk and before I could answer…

‘..hey sorry, just saw the soy milk, but that’s cool, we both like vag.’

I went home and joined Woolworths Home Delivery and safe in the knowledge I wasn’t leaving my house anytime soon, took off my pants.

It’s a new year, a new blog, well ok, maybe I’m just using a different font on the blog but it’s hot, so off you go have a shower and cool down…I’ll wait, but not forever, only fleetingly…you have to admit it’s more romantic that way.

Now before I sat down and decided on that font change (and trust me that was as a hard a decision as whether or not to throw out my Leona Edmiston tights because they kept falling down and I couldn’t justify wearing my undies on the outside of them anymore just to hold them up), I was at a summer music festival kicking back with the kids (well people predominantly born in the 80s) and as much as I’d like to admit I went with my surfer buddies armed with our date rape drug of choice and St Tropez tan accelerator I was actually there for work – drunk, ambiguously consensual he-said, she-said group sex would have to be on hold for the festive season.(… and that’s why children I don’t believe in Santa Claus).

After very limited and ill considered conversation by my director along the lines of:

‘You’re doing it Lou’

‘But I have artisitic credibility’

‘You just stuck a twig up your nose for a joke Lou’

‘Well played, well played…’

…it was decided that it would be cute to film me trying to stalk Karen O of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’s – a band I was dying to see, but preferrably not while being led away with handcuffs.

It’s not that I didn’t kinda like the idea of following Karen O around for a few days, trying to get her to notice me where maybe she’d catch my eye as we both ordered another plate of Gado Gado in the dining tent and both laughed that there was such a thing as too much satay, it was more the fact I’m completely rubbish at stalking, it feeds into a deep seeded insecurity from high school. I knew my best friend was friending someone else on the side. When I confronted her of course she denied it, so I decided to follow her – the problem is it’s rather hard to stalk someone at the local swimming pool incognito when you have only just learnt to swim again after having tubes in your ears for 4 years and as such are surrounded by flotation devices and still manage to nearly drown in the wading pool and the cute life guard has to rescue you, arse in the air as your best friend yells from the other side of the pool

 ’Are you stalking me Lou?’

‘…yes, yes I am and I think some kid just urinated in here, and I’m pretty sure I got some in my mouth…’

‘I don’t think we should be friends anymore’

‘Yeah, thought you’d say that, fair call.’

So aware of my shortcoming’s as a stalker I asked around:

‘I tried stalking once, but ended up being charged and it just left a bad taste in my mouth after that’ bemoaned a random stranger stabbing his dinner next to me one night.

‘Yeah, I can see how that might dampen the whole experience’

‘I didn’t think she’d take it so seriously, it’s not like the window wasn’t already open. You want anything from the bar?’

‘Um, no thanks, trying not to drink around repeat offenders, bit of a New Year’s resolution.’ I joked as I edged my self closer to the cute boy seated to the other side of me, but it would appear that the only difference between him and the guy one might describe to a judge as a ‘perpretrator’ was he just had never been caught.

‘It’s all about electronic stalking and getting the right software to erase your IP address. You gotta be smart about these things, otherwise it goes from being romantic to downright scary.’

His other advice involved:

1. Breaking the lock of their door by filling it with blu tak so as to make it easier to open when they weren’t at home and then smelling something of theirs.

2. Climbing a tree outside their home, but make sure they don’t see you. You want them  to feel someone’s presence, enough to make the hair on the back of their neck stand on, but not enough for them to call the police.

3. Hiring someone to do it because you can’t be everywhere at once and  the thing about stalking is consistancy, you need to be consistant.

Great,  so cute guy was not only romantic but also a little bit scary…well I could break that new years resolution later. A  girlfriend of mine justified his explanations by citing that his parents met via stalking – ah, well if it’s a family tradition…and as for my friend there was no use in asking her for advice because here was a woman that stalked her current beau to the point she sent him anonymous messages, flyered their neighbourhood with declarations of her love for him and made a film about the whole thing – me Googling Karen O paled in comparisons to the lengths those around me had gone to to get someone to notice them.

What didn’t help was that she wasn’t due to arrive until about an hour before her set, so I spent the days leading up asking around after her, getting free juice off the boys that ran the juice stand, molesting the VIP bus driver for information and being forced on a ferris wheel(with the lady who ran it telling me to grow a pair as I trepidatiously stepped on board) regardless of my fear of heights to see whether or not her helicopter had arrived yet, being caught pretending to break into her house and using the word strap-on straight to camera more than was probably necessary at the time and building a shrine of Ms O near our camping spot – in short it was 56 hours of humiliating myself for a joke that at this stage was more set-up then punchline.

And then finally she arrived and with her arrival came the declaration that no one was allowed near her. I was relieved, I’d never actually planned on meeting Ms O, in fact the joke rested on my inability to meet her and so now I could just sit back and enjoy her concert, well just before I was told I was going to have to climb a fence into the mosh pit armed with a sign that read ‘Karen O be my best friend and maybe something more’…yep, I wasn’t quite done with my destroying my career quite yet.

My friend handed me her scotch filled hip flask and with dutch courage I headed out into the 16, 000 strong crowd, well me behind a barrier with water pistol armed security and some delightful boys behind me miming me giving them blow jobs straight to camera – such is the burden of fame I’ve been told. If that wasn’t enough, a segment I’d shot then went to air…

‘Is that you?’ a regular looking cockspanker next me asked.

‘Yep’ I nodded.

And with that confirmed he tossed a bottle at my face.

‘You gonna cry now?’ he scathingly asked.

‘No’ I told him, but of course Isaid that without taking into consideration that only moments later  a renegade beach ball would hit me in the eye and it was then I burst into tears – I like to choose my moments – a bottle in the eye doesn’t make me cry, but soft beach toys…

Running away to the toilets I found my hip flask friend and got drunk on the steps of the VIP toilets, at one point drawing the attention of a local Melbourne muscian who told me that some woman had licked him that day when she realised who he was…’so you see Lou there are cockspankers everywhere.’ He was right, I needed to get my dignity back and the only way to do that was to go and watch Ms O on stage, strutting her confident gold…the only problem was I’d gotten so drunk I’d missed the concert – I was losing my patience with 2009 fast.

Feeling a little ill I headed off into the bathroom only to turn around and realise I was face-to-face with a sweat covered woman – Karen O.

‘Hi’ she beamed at me as she adjusted her hair in the mirror.

‘You ok?’

‘Yep, I’m fine’ I mumbled back (please don’t light a match around me Ms O, I’ll kill us both)

‘Did you enjoy the concert?’

‘Um, I didn’t see it…I’ve been trying to stalk you.’

‘Oh’

…awkward……………………….silence……awkward silence…………………………………………………….

‘Do you want a photo?’

This was my opporunity to get my dignity back, to finally get the front foot…and so I said the only thing I could say.

‘No, that’s cool.’

‘You sure?’ asked a perplexed Ms O

‘Yeah, totally, I have heaps of posters of you…I even have a shrine of you up here with me so I’m sorted.’

‘Ok’ and with that Ms O, or Kazza as I like to now call her walked away from me and to be honest I would’ve walked away from me too and sure I might’ve misplaced my dignity that day and ruined any chance ever of being Facebook friends with Ms O but I got something better than that – I’d successfully (albeit incidentally) stalked Karen O and so I smiled to my make-up smeared, scotch soaked self with toilet paper stuck in my shoe reflection and hi-fived it.

Surely I was the winner here? and now to make the bold decision…whether or not to throw out those tights as I could feel my undies rolling down again…

I’m really going to stop walking home. Sure I need the exercise but for the sake of my sanity and at the risk of exacerbating my already impotent nature when it comes to relating to the average person, I really think I must stop.

To be honest though, this is not something that has gradually been eating away at me, adding to my state of restless sleep and unsatisfying daily minutiae; it has it’s nexus firmly rooted in an encounter I had on Tuesday, and before you judge me with me with your judging hats (I should know, I own 3 in various colours) this is not an over reaction, well 3 days later it isn’t, but possibly on retrospect it might be seen as a slightly over zealous and ill thought out move on my part.

Her name was Betty. She was, and is one of my on-and-off again friends. The sort that always seem like a good idea at the time, but 20 minutes into a lecture from them on how cork shoes never really got a fair run, not to mention Espadrilles and it’s all Jennifer Aniston’s fault, you can understand why Brad left her for Angelina – you stare at them with all the hatred you can muster and then come to the crushing realisation that being with them only makes you hate yourself more.

But my Betty was worse than that; spending more then an Australia Day lunch with her made me want to do things to myself, bad things to myself. Like the time I actually contemplated going home, foraging around my clutter cupboard for my tennis racket, far from it’s glory days of Under 15 Round Robin matches and immersing it in a bath of rust and lime scales for 24-48 hours, where upon immersion complete I would de-string it, leave it in the rain and then after a couple of whiskeys insert it either orally or otherwise into myself and scraping my insides out.

And yet here I was now, walking in the middle of the city, unaware that she was right behind me – that is until she yanked my iPod ear phones out of my ear, and then in front of everyone I screamed ‘I’m being assaulted’ which was not only humiliating to myself, but a point of great concern to everyone walking past who really quite clearly didn’t give a toss – I felt comforted in the knowledge that had I been being assaulted the most I could hope for was a couple testing out their new iPhone posting yet another urban stereotype on YouTube with the tag line ‘the girl who got over excited when her friend touched her.’

Now, here’s the thing, I’ve only recently surrendered my Sony Discman because after scratching my forth copy of Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation and then being informed it is no longer available to purchase in any other format than Mp3 (yes, I felt like chaining myself to a Sanity Christmas display stand as well) I conceded defeat and got an iPod, nothing fancy, you can’t touch the screen, but it’s mine and I’ll be damned if anyone other than myself or a mugger yank it out of my ears…

‘What the hell?’ I spun around only to come face to face with Betty.

‘Hey’ she offered back – no apology, no nothing, as I struggled to pick up my head set and stuff it in my hand bag.

‘That kinda hurt’ I muttered…

‘Hurt – what hurt?’

‘When you pulled my head back via my earphones just now’

‘Did I?’ she stated – it wasn’t a question, she knew what she had done – let the dance begin I thought. Let us dance.

‘I haven’t seen you since Australia Day – you never call, why is it you never call Lou?’

‘I invited you to my birthday’

‘Ahh, yes, Sex and the City was on at the IMAX the next night and I really needed to rest my eyes.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Yep’

‘And I invited you to my show’.

‘Oh…well Andrew didn’t want to go.’

‘Andrew?

‘I got a new boyfriend, well he really started out a f**k buddy but than I thought come on Betty you’re over 25 and you have to start getting serious about your life, like what if the world ends and you have no one to get on the Arc with, like I’m sure they’ll be a boat for the singles, but really what would God get of saving them, I mean really – how committed are you in saving humanity if you aren’t willing to breed for existence right? And anyway, Andrews doesn’t really like funny girls, which has really kept me in check, I can tell you.’

‘Fair enough’

‘You know Andrew anyway; you went to high school together’

‘Yep.’ – we never spoke, most of our interaction coming to down to him coming up with a scoring system of how many things the boys in class could get down my top without me noticing.

‘So what’s new with you Lou?’

‘Not much.’

‘Still living with your parents?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s not very good is it? – Not very good for your ‘life’ hey?’

‘I don’t have a ‘life’ so it suits me just fine. I’m actually very busy.’

‘You just said you weren’t doing much.’

‘Well its just stuff, like I have (oh please Lou, don’t stoop this low) – I have a couple of scripts I’m developing.’

‘That’s great Lou, just great. I tend to think screenwriting is like how everyone was in a band in the 90’s won’t you agree?’

‘Not really, I think there’s a lot more to it –‘

‘– I’m just trying to say that isn’t everyone developing a screenplay? Like my autistic cousin Benji could have something development if he was so inclined – surely you agree Lou?’ - Again, not a question, more a statement.

‘I guess if he was motivated that way’

‘Don’t be cruel Lou, for god sake he’s autistic.’

I had nothing to say, she was right, I had been cruel – cruel for thinking that at right that very moment she was talking to me I was thinking that I really wanted to be home self-harming myself live on the web.

‘What you listening to anyway?’ she grabbed at my iPod and examined for evidence of music.

‘Dannii Minogue?’ she quipped, reluctant to give it back to me like a mother who just discovered her toddler was playing with laundry detergent.

‘Yes, Dannii’ – judging hats on!

And she scrolled through my selection I could see her face despair – but that was cool, I was ready for this, and I’d been waiting for this moment all my life.

Her head shot up ‘You’ve got her entire back catalogue Lou.’

‘Yeah, lots of people do.’

‘That’s not true, is it Lou?’

‘As a matter of fact there are a lot of us out there who think Dannii has done a lot more for modern music than anyone is willing to give her credit for.’

I knew it was a bold statement, yes, I also know there wasn’t much to back it up and her ill fated marriage to Julian McMahon and her slight dalliance with being a darling of the Right in 2002 following a poorly interpreted magazine interview about the French fascist president at the time did tear at her credibility – but I wasn’t backing down.

I snatched my iPod back.

‘How soon we forget how important she is culturally to us! – I mean what? Have we all forgotten Secrets! Or how she made every frumpy brunette in Australia actually think they too could be on Young Talent Time! Or how she was nominated for a Gold Logie! And yes, we’d all like to forget ‘This is It’ but you can’t honestly say that Neon Nights did not have some well earned party anthem highlights, and sure she looks a little strange now in the flesh and slightly out of proportion – but she’s the accessible Minogue and for that, and that reason alone I will always go to bat for her and so Betty if you want to make something of this go right ahead, but her music gives me a much needed spring to my step as I walk home and no one is going to take that away from me – no one….especially not the likes of you.’

For a moment she said nothing, nor did the crowd that had gathered for my rousing ‘Pro Dannii’ speech. For a moment I expected a slow clap to start rumbling up through the crowd of 5 or so, I expected Betty to look at me with tears in her eyes and thank me for finally making it ok to like Dannii, something so many of us have been seeking permission for, for years…

…but as the crowd left to go and watch a guy talk to himself on the other side of Bourke St Mall, I was not left with a liberated and admiring Betty but was faced instead with a Betty who know longer knew the person that stood before her.

‘Listen Lou…’

She reached her arm up to my shoulder, but quickly pulled away, as if correcting herself.

‘I – it’s just don’t think we can be friends anymore, well not for now anyway….you seem a little lost and I’ve made a promise to myself to only surround myself with people who have direction and a firm grasp on what is right and wrong, and from what I’ve just witnessed Lou, you can no longer tell the difference. Take care Lou.’

And with that she looked at me one last time, clutching my iPod and started to walk away…but it was ok, I had Dannii and you know what that’s all I needed.

And so, looking back and with the kindness of hindsight it would be wrong of me to stop walking home, sure it reaffirms that my talent lies almost exclusively in alienating people and losing friends (to misquote a book) but more importantly because if no ones actually listening to Dannii does she really exist?

At a BBQ on the weekend, a friend of mine after checking I was single, over my slight thing for sexually ambiguous and in some cases ambitious men, wasn’t a little bit gay as was the current rumour of the day or celibate, declared to me that she had found me the perfect guy  – her son.

‘He’s good looking’

‘All mother’s say that.’

‘Yes, but I can appreciate his good looks not only as a mother, but also as a woman.’

‘This is how Norman Bates got started…’

‘No, you’re wrong there – maybe if Mrs Bates had appreciated her sons beauty then he wouldn’t have done the horrid things he did.’

‘I think you’re wrong. I think it was her ‘appreciation’ of her son that started all the ‘troubles’.

‘Well my son is not Norman Bates, Louise.’

‘I think someone doth protest too much…’

‘Anyway’…choosing to ignore me…’He’s not only good looking, but he’s also funny, smart, well read and likes strong woman.’

‘I just don’t think so…’ I mumbled back as I played with an ingrown hair on my leg.

‘So, he’s got a girlfriend – I’m sure a woman like you Lou can work around that.’

I watched as my piece of cheese fell into the make shift ashtray of a coffee cup – perhaps I could invoke the 10 second rule – it began to felt into the tar and ash – perhaps not.

‘I don’t do mistress very well – it’s got something to do with a level of self respect I’ve built up over the years – both a blessing and a curse, I know.’

My friend adjusted her skirt, so her undies were no longer visible.

‘No, no, you wouldn’t be his mistress, you’d be his girlfriend and then you’d get married and I’d become your mother-in-law – oh it’s almost too perfect Lou.’

As I reached for a handful of potato chips I was confronted with the sudden realisation that perhaps I’d forgotten to put deodorant on that morning…and then suddenly the penny dropped.

‘You want me to break them up?’

My friend grabbed for the wine bottle, but it was empty – a half drunk, slightly warmed crownie would have to do. She lit another cigarette.

‘Yes, yes – fundamentally your role would be to break them up, but you would have other activities to fill your days with.’

I now felt like a character in a Bronte novel, sent away to act as Governess to three wayward daughters, but always knowing that the true meaning behind my employment was to give the Lord of the house the heir he always wanted and the heir his now barren (after an episode of Typhoid), frigid wife could not give him.

‘He needs an older woman to show him the ways.’

‘Older?’

‘Yes, an older woman to take control of the situation so to speak.’

‘He’s got a girlfriend, I’m sure he’s coping just fine.’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure he’s ever bought her to orgasm, and that concerns me Lou, as a mother that concerns me.’

‘Drugs, as a mother drugs should be a concern – maybe he takes drugs?’

‘And if he did Lou I’d have no control of it – you know what teenagers are like these days.’

‘Teenagers?’

‘Well he’s almost 18, so I guess we can’t really call him a teenager anymore!’

She popped the cork on another bottle and offered me a glass – in a state of befuddlement I accepted.

‘I think you’ll find you can call him a teenager a lot longer– because he is one! – What the hell!’

‘Don’t be like that Lou, I’m totally cool with you dating my son, it’s not exactly illegal – I mean he’s 17!’

‘And I’m almost 30.’

‘Exactly – that’s why it will work.’

To be fair, with the exception of his age he sounded great and it wasn’t like I’d be scraping the barrel on this one, I mean the fact he didn’t have a drivers license had never been an obstacle before, the fact he didn’t have full time employment (fuck Lou! when did you start demanding the world!) and the fact he hadn’t finished high school …well you see where I’m going with this…

‘Come on Lou, you know you’d be perfect together.’

‘He’s a child – I don’t want children.’

‘It’s not like you gave birth to him.’ She spat out as she ashed her cigarette on my dissolving bit of cheese.

‘…Oh well when you put it like that, it doesn’t seem nearly as wrong as society would dictate.’

‘I’m just saying Lou, I understand now why some fathers send their sons to older prostitutes…like in France.’

I put my wine down and considered for a moment what she was saying…it didn’t take nearly as long as I’m making out.

‘I’m not a prostitute.’

‘And you’re not French either…don’t split hairs Lou.’

‘I don’t really see it as splitting hairs, more as a much needed clarification it would seem.’

‘Well if I were you Lou, I’d take it as a compliment – the French are a very sophisticated people.’

‘Ok  – so why not send your son to France, may be on a high school exchange program? – You know, under the guise of getting an education, but really what he’s getting is an education…but then he finds out he’s barren….’

‘What – my son isn’t barren.’

‘That’s not what he told me the other night when he couldn’t find a condom.’ I joked to lighten the mood, in retrospect it was ill timed.

‘That’s not funny Lou. Nothing to joke about.’

‘I know – I’m sorry.’

Grabbing her car keys I watched my friend as she busied herself to leave.

‘You know what Lou, on second thought I think you should stay away from my son – I thought an older woman would be good because of the maturity you’d bring to the situation, but once again you’ve proved me wrong.’

‘It was a joke.’

And then my friend Tom came over to introduce me to whom I could only guess was his new girlfriend and her 12-year-old son –

‘Hey Lou’ he yelled.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere – there’s some special people I’d like you to meet.’ He tussled the 12 year olds hair, as if they were about to toss a ball around.

And before I could respond my friend turned to me with a kindly reminder, just before she was to storm away from me…

‘Sex with teenage boys is nothing to laugh about Lou’

Suddenly everyone stopped and stared.

‘Stay away from my son – it would do you good to remember that.’

And with that she left.

I turned around to my friend Tom and his newfound family.

‘Who wants to play a bit of football?’ I asked Tom’s proxy son.

‘I don’t think so.’ Tom replied on his behalf.

‘Yeah…I thought as much…’ I replied.

It was time to leave the BBQ – the Mister Whippy van had arrived and I felt a lynching on the horizon.

For years my relationship with my self-esteem has been fraught with friction, none of it helped by my self-esteems amazing ability to fuck off when I quite obviously need it the most.  Such famous incidences include:

1.    The time that in the middle of sex a guy told me he fancied someone else and without the guidance of ‘self-esteem’ I thought what the hell ‘let’s finish what we started, I mean he had to like me to get this far.’

2.    The time I set my boyfriend up with my friend because she was blonde because as he told me ‘come on Lou, you know this isn’t going to work out, like I don’t even like you much, well not as much as I like your friend – come on help a fella out.’ And with my self-esteem nowhere in sight I did.

3.    The time I closed my eyes and let an old boyfriend of mine pretend I was a man, my self-esteem more then likely watched from a gallery seat.

4.    The time I got back together with an ex based on this conversation ‘so I was in San Fran trying to tap… well, let’s just call them someone, and… let’s just say their tits weren’t real and then I thought ‘you know what… Lou’s tits are real’ and so then I thought about it some more and thought ‘yeah, I quite like Lou’s tits’, so deep down in my subconscious that meant that some part of me was attracted to you, and is probably still attracted to you – so what do you say we give it another shot? – and I did.

Now I’m not sure what when my self-esteem decided to leave me, but if I had to guestimate I’d say it was around the time I needed to get my first bra. I was about 14 and after my mothers comments of ‘I can see your crumpets’ and ‘someone’s been invited to party at bolder mountain!’ I agreed to go and get fitted for a bra. As my mum grabbed the car keys and rounded up my father and younger brother for another Sanz family adventure I excused myself to the bathroom only to discover that to coincide with ‘Lou gets her first bra’ I also had been visited for the first time by ‘Aunt Flo’.

Now. I’m not sure how most of you purchase your feminine hygiene products, but on that day my mother decided we should stop into ‘Campbell’s Cash’n’Carry’ to stock up; but she didn’t come in with me, couldn’t find a car park – no she sent my dad and I in together and just before we stepped inside the building she wound the window down and shouted ‘get super  – I’ve run out of mattress protectors.’

The department store wasn’t much better, as mum had ordered my brother to walk behind me on ‘spot patrol’. A lovely woman named Irene approached us to help out – I think she saw the large jumper tied around my waste as a sign that perhaps this was the first time out of the house without my polio support unit. She offered my mother one of those bras that does up at the front – my mother was not impressed ‘gotta make the boys or girls work for their crumpet – hey Lou? Hey? Hi five!’ I watched in horror as my mother and Irene shared skin.

Finally I convinced my mum that the dignity of a changing room was much needed, especially after that cute Xavier boy walked past me as my mother fitted a bra on the outside of my Sportsgirl t-shirt and just as he was in ear shot spoke the irretrievable words ‘and smells like someone’s going need deodorant too – this is a big day for you Lou – if you’re lucky it’ll be boys next.’ Following that remark I knew I was going to be lucky to be fingered by a cousin in later years.

Now it’s rather hard to hang yourself in a department store change room, but fuck I gave it a right go and if you look at the little stool they give you to rest your clothes on as your jumping off point then you’re well on your way to success, that is until your little brother crawls under the door but only enough to see you putting a bra around your neck and screams out ‘mum, dad! Lou’s doing that thing that Michael Hutchinson did to have an origami!’.

Suddenly the door burst open, my father hurtling towards me before I could jump off the stool and my mother sternly standing in front me taking the scene in – me in my undies and a bra around my neck, my brother still lying on the floor and all she could think to do was offer up more advice ‘now is not the time to start a life of self pleasure Lou – first things first let’s get you some supportive underwear and then what you do behind the privacy of closed doors is up to you.’ She then turned to my brother ‘now who wants milkshakes?’ and then to my father ‘I think your daughter might like your opinion on the whole front or back clasp debate Michael.’

I didn’t think it could get much worse but as the years went on my self-esteem became more of absence in my life rather than an active participant – such as last Friday night when I ended up at Billboard nightclub.

I could end this story on that above line alone but then I wouldn’t get to the bit where inside the nightclub and with my friend telling me I looked like a mother searching for her wayward daughter and almost being overwhelmed by the amount of pussy that one can glance based entirely on the knowledge that Friday nights at Billboard appear to be underwear free nights, I had a man approach me – ‘a man of the one eyebrow, I sweat a lot and probably chaff variety’- and what happened next was entirely my self-esteems fault – rather than think I was too good for him, what went through my mind was this ‘that guy looked around this nightclub spotted me and thought I can tap that – oh my god he thought I was achievable; I have become achievable for men who fit the profile of a sex offender – fuck me, does this mean I’ve finally decided on a type?

My friends laughed at me, pointing out that maybe tonight I could find if sex-offenders spooned after that act and so I escaped off into the bathroom hoping to just take a moment to find my confidence in the bottom of my handbag when I walked in on two girls helping each other adjust their g-strings and in the middle of a conversation entitled ‘if you don’t get Brazilian waxes you shouldn’t be allowed to have sex.’

It was then I realised I couldn’t hate my self-esteem – because unlike those two girls in that bathroom that night, well at least I knew what self-esteem was (well that’s what I told myself as I removed the toilet paper from the bottom of my shoe that both girls were kind enough to point out – they could probably tell I was one of those girls now banned from sex according to their new rules) – Score one for Lou! Hi-five….anyone?…anyone?…anyone at all….

Exiting the David Jones food court use to be one of my greatest thrills (understand, I spend most of my day typing words into an inanimate object that fails to engage me in any sort of conversation and no, it’s a not a boy – BAM!) and it was upon making this exit that I ran into a guy called Gareth (yep, let’s call him that cause it’s his real name )

He was a guy I’d met through friends about 18 months back when I relocated to Melbourne. We got on, he was cute, had brown hair and made me laugh and so we agreed to go and have a drink together. Nothing too formal, just a casual get to know you better inner city drink.

But as luck would have it I needed to fly to Sydney that weekend, so we rescheduled – he then had a sudden deadline, we rescheduled. He rang me for that drink; I was going to London for a week but would call when I got back. I did, but he was relocating to New York indefinitely. It was just one of those things…and yet, now here he was standing before me in his cords and tussled hair, maybe it was fate, him catching me just as I was in the middle of gorging on DJ’s fresh baked cookies.

‘Hello’ I smiled as we enviably crossed paths.

‘Oh hi’ he smiled back.

‘You’re back!’ I proclaimed.

‘I’m back’ he too proclaimed!

‘Wow’ I surmised.

‘You look great’ he observed.

‘So do you’ I offered back.

‘What have you been up to?’ he enquired.

‘Oh you know the usual…deadlines and stuff.’ I surrended.

‘Yep, don’t I know it’ he casually laughed back.

‘Yeah’ I nodded.

And then silence befell us both.

‘So maybe we should catch up for that drink?’ I coyishly asked.

Pause.

‘I don’t think so.’ He said.

(Note to self: this is why you don’t ask people out Lou, you see what happens! Sure, you might be a sure thing Lou, but that doesn’t mean everyone else is – BAD GIRL! BAD GIRL!)

‘Oh ok then…’ the words stumbled out of my mouth, as some random biscuit crumbs escaped down my cleavage; a once sexy calling card now functioning as a tragic catchment area.

As I started to schlep away my shoe decided to fall off (don’t look back Lou, keep walking, you don’t need that shoe, you’re a one shoe kinda gal, just keep walking…you’re almost out of site…) and then came a tap on my shoulder.

It was Gareth – I means how many times did I have to run into that guy today!!!!!!!!!

‘You? What do you want?’

‘I wanted to ask you a question?’ he asserted.

‘Yeah, sure whatever…’ I mumbled back.

‘Why would you want to have a drink with a guy that obviously can’t stand the site of?’

‘What?’

‘Well you kept cancelling, and I’m not great with hints but I get there…eventually.’

‘So did you! You cancelled all the time!’

‘I had things come up – you told me you understood Lou.’

‘I had things come up too.’

‘Writing a blog is not a ‘thing’.

‘Yeah, well writing for the…. what it is you wrote for?’

‘The New Yorker Louise.’

‘Yeah, well writing for the New Yorker is not a thing either.’

‘I’ll think you find it is Lou’

“I know you are, but what am I?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing – Belle Jour made money from her blog.’

‘The prostitute?’

‘Yeah, but she was high end.’

‘You’re not high end are you Lou, you have stumpy legs.’

‘Don’t you think I know that!’?

I turned to walk away…’Hey not so fast lady, you didn’t answer my question.’

‘I liked you – I wanted that drink and now I’m back in Melbourne, I can’t say much more than that.’ I spat out, now wishing I’d picked up my other shoe.

‘And you’re committed to Melbourne now?’

‘Yes’ I replied

Now as soon as I said that word I should’ve frozen time, stepped out and gone and got a tattoo in my forehead that read: ‘everything I say from this point in will sound desperate.’

‘I was only asking you out for a drink’ – translated as ‘I’d drink petrol to be with you.’

‘So, are you seeing anyone right now?’ – translated as  ‘I’m fertile, there’s an alley round back, lets go make babies – HI FIVE!’

‘I’m staying with my parents’ – translated as ‘It’s a been a while….’

So you can imagine it came as quite a shock to young Gareth after he leaned in and whispered in my ear ‘Ok, I’ll give you another chance’  -that my response might be ‘thanks, but no thanks.’

‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed! ‘You never liked me and you know how I know? You never even tried to track me down on Facebook!’

‘What? – I didn’t even know your surname!’

‘LIAR!’

‘What is your trauma?’

‘Oh I know all about you Ms Sanz – your comedy, your lesbian group for comics, you’re little blog…and yet you know nothing about me.’

‘Oh believe me Gareth I’m learning a lot right now.’

‘I kept waiting for your friendship request, but nothing…day after day, month after month…’

‘You’re kidding me…you could’ve requested me you know, Facebook is a two way street.’

‘You’d like that wouldn’t you Lou, some guy crawling to you. Back to you.’

‘Back to me? We were never together.’

‘Well that’s news to me Lou.’

(Note to self: buy that house in the country and begin a life of solitude, buy a pug, call him Ned – he will be the only companion you never need.)

‘Listen Gareth I was only suggesting we have a drink to be polite, I’m actually seeing someone right now…sure it’s new and every – ‘

‘LIAR!!!! LOU! LIAR!’

‘Ok, I’m going to go…’

‘What you fail to realise Lou is I read your blogs, your little stories. I know the truth.’

I walked away, his voice fading into the distance…so you read my blogs to you Gareth? Well I hoped you enjoyed this one!!!!

Last week I was off finishing up a contract when I noticed one of the girls in the office staring at me, the type of stare normally reserved for the blacks drinking from whites only water fountains in Mississippi during the 1960’s, gays attending an evangelical church conference, or a severe burns victim.

‘Is everything ok?’ I asked, putting my pen down.

‘You’re left handed’ she pointed out, almost accusingly. Obviously she’d never seen a ‘Southpaw’ up close before, perhaps her only exposure being a leftie idiot savant who ‘liked sling blades’ but accidentally beat children to death with rocks. I could see it in her eyes, the sort of eyes that said ‘being left is a choice so don’t flaunt it round these parts.’

‘And you’re ok with it?’ she continued.

‘Ok with what?’

‘You know, being all left?’

‘It’s not really something I can do anything about, I was born this way.’

‘My grandma says it’s a choice.’

‘You’re grandma isn’t the most educated of people is she?’

‘Well at least she ain’t a leftie.’

…this was not a time for ‘touches’….

I picked up my pen, partly in an act of defiance, partly because there was work to be done ‘You can get it fixed right? – like there’s lots of mutations they can fix these days’.

“It’s not a mutation’

‘I’m just surprised with all the advancements in technology you haven’t done anything bout it.’

‘It’s not something you can fix’.

‘Oh, that’s a shame – I’m sure if you wanted to change you could, but I guess you minorities like your soap boxes. Personally couldn’t think of anything worse.’

‘Really? You couldn’t think of anything worse then being left handed?’

She spat out what was left of her chewing tobacco and sized me up one last time.

‘I had to hit a ball with my left hand once, looked like a spastic - now if you ask me that ain’t no way to live.’

And with that she went back to work, or posting anti abortion rhetoric on the web, I didn’t want to speculate.

This wasn’t the first time I’d faced the ‘idiot brigade’ (a group of like minded people generally set up to pontificate about subjects they know little to nothing about).

At a pub once playing pool a small man, who after inadvertently trying to touch my vagina 2-3 times while trying to reach his beer, noticed rather suddenly as I was about to take my shot that I was in face left handed – he called it out from the other side of the room ‘well fuck me till Tuesday she’s a leftie…shit hand jobs but gotta give em an A for effort’.

So now we were bad at manual labour, which further compounded what the lady at the supermarket check out once said to me as a signed for my purchase.

‘you think you guys be extinct by now, what with survival of the fittest and all, I mean statistically you’re more likely to be schizophrenic, more prone to alcoholism, dyslexia, Chron’s disease and mental disabilities…like you hear all them people going on about how getting rid of a kid when they have the downy gene, if it were me and my kid was a leftie, I’d have to say I ‘d give it some thought – I mean most of you can’t even cut paper.’

Ok –she was right there, most of us (lefties) remember primary school and being allocated the special green Crayola scissors sans blades! And it didn’t matter how many times you tried to tell the teacher that you didn’t have a learning disability you were never allowed on the swing like the other kids and, were supervised unlike the right handed kids in class whenever you required a toilet trip, or any other trip that involved being responsible for locking your own door.

Registering at a doctor’s surgery one day, my boyfriend noted that I had failed to put anything in the ‘suffer from any other condition we should know about’ section.

‘You should let them know you’re a left handed.’

‘Why?’

‘Cause what if they give you the wrong medication?’

‘Maybe you should put down you’re Jewish’.

‘That’s being stupid, it’s not an illness – it’s something you’re born with.’

‘But what if they give you medication for Christians?’

‘What a stupid thing to say Lou, for a smart girl you can be so ignorant sometimes, I mean you try being part of a minority.’

I was banned from writing on the board at school because I was a ‘smudger’, a devout Catholic wouldn’t sit next to me once because I was powered by the hand of the devil; this was a girl mind you who masturbated next to me 8 months later in church, but to her credit she used she used her right hand – the hand that Jesus would’ve used.

My mum even took me to a left-handed support group once (where you could buy the T-Shirt; ‘Once you’ve turned left you won’t want the rest’), where an expert on the affliction came along to talk to us (he was right handed). He told us that in his experience that being left handed was just one of life’s anomalies – sure we all had a predisposition to violent primitive crimes, but we also be geniuses in the making, basically that we made up the extremely gifted – we all smiled – but he continued – ‘but a majority will find that you make up the extremely compromised’, and we should be encouraged to get involved in wrestling and boxing – any sort of primitive sport that doesn’t involve thought or reason – we were after all left handed and according to Darwin’s theory of evolution should’ve been killed off years ago – and then he asked if there were any more chocolate biscuits left to go with his tea.

The mutants in the room all grunted, some even banged their chests…but chose not to attack…our time would come.

Not to long ago I went on a date with someone. Things looked promising that is until he asked me what my favourite colour was; when I responded ‘red’ rather then smile with the knowing that comes with sitting opposite me complete with red lipstick and nails, he merely got out a notepad and pen and said ‘you’ll have to pick another one, that’s already taken’.

‘Already taken?’ I asked quizzically ‘ are we playing a game?’

‘No, it’s just I like to colour code everyone in my life and red just happens to be taken’ He waited, pen poised for my next suggestion.

‘Ok, well I’ve always quite liked green’ and in an awkward attempt to flirt, as I leaned across the table and traced my red nails over his hand ‘I especially like green on dark haired boys.’

Pulling his hand away to flick through his notepad he let out a gentle sigh ‘nup, sorry – gone’.

I slumped back into my seat and closed my legs. ‘Ok fine, why don’t you tell me what’s available and I’ll be that’.

As he took the last piece of bread in the basket, he chewed silently for a moment and then with his mouth still full remarked ‘well, there’s lilac or mahogany brown’.

Now, I don’t know about any other ladies out there but the idea of being assigned a colour usually relegated to the 1990’s or a Harvey Norman catalogue wasn’t really what I had in mind, surely I was good enough to claim a primary colour? I mean we were on a date, he could’ve just lied, but as was the case with most men I’d been meeting of late, this one had a flare for the truth.

‘I don’t want to be a catalogue colour’ I mumbled, tearing at my drink coaster.

‘I don’t really think you’re in a position to choose Lou – I mean did you honestly think you’d risen to the ranks of being allocated a primary colour?’

I said nothing, as my eyes scoured the restaurant for a bar tender.

He smiled to himself as he shut his notepad ‘oh, you did – you thought you were better then mahogany brown – oh how cute. That’s why I like you Lou you always dream big but end up getting woken right before the end.’

I contemplated emptying the ash tray of beer liquid that had somehow found a home there when he placed his hand over mine.

‘If it makes you feel any better, most of the woman I date get  a little upset about the colour code thing.’

‘Most of the woman?’

Like an impending sex offender he grabbed my hand harder and looked into my eyes.

‘That’s kinda what got this whole colour coded thing started’.

I pulled away and began fingering my pasta.

‘So this whole colour coding thing is a new thing?’

‘Yep, it’s the only way I know to tell all you girls apart’.

Ok – so it’s now at this point that most people ask ‘where the fuck do you meet these guys Lou?’ And it is at this point in my life that I say ‘I choose not to answer that, just leave me alone – life is a journey!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

‘Tell us apart!?!’ I yelled – the whole restaurant turned.

‘Hey, lower your voice Lou’

‘Sorry’…I mumbled…

‘That’s ok, apology accepted’ He looked around the restaurant, most people had returned to their meals.

‘Tell us apart?’ I whispered harshly ‘have you ever thought of just looking at our faces, it’s generally how people tell people apart.’

‘Conventionally yes, but when you’re seeing more then one girl at once it can get confusing’

‘you’re seeing someone else?’

‘I’m a player Lou, you know that.’

‘No I didn’t – you failed to mention it between the whole – I’ve never met anyone like you bullshit you were peddling’

‘Ok Lou, now you’re just being petulant’

I drained the last of my wine.

‘So, who is she? This ‘other’ girl?’

‘It wouldn’t be ethical of me to name names’

‘This isn’t a war crimes tribunal’ I spat out.

‘Fine, but if I tell you we’re splitting cheesecake for desert – deal?’

I pondered it a moment – the cheese cake did look good….very good….

‘Deal.’

‘The other girl is the colour red’

I was quiet for a moment. The funny thing is I would of been fine had she been beige or bisque – but red – my colour!

‘That’s funny’ I said ‘Cause you’re about to see red’

And with that I poked him in the eye with my desert fork. No cheesecake for me.