Rough House Rosie

By Alison October 2, 2008 No Comments 4 Min Read

There is a bit of me loathe to tell this story mostly based on the premise that my dear Daddy suspects I get myself into these kind of scrapes merely to give myself something to write about here…
If only that were true Daddy. If only that were true.
But it isn’t. The fact is that I am currently sporting a black eye, bruised head and hideously split lip because I spend far too much time running around the house in a giddy fashion, usually in stiletto’s, something I feel obliged to state here and now,  because Mum tosses and turns in her little bed, demented by the worry that you will think that having broken my hand dancing on Boxing Morning and now inflicting the kind of damage that does indeed imply I’ve done ten rounds with Clara Bow, I am something of a drunken lush but this is simply not the case. I was not drunk.
In fact it should be here by noted that I am rarely drunk but often stupid, and having got these minor disclaimers out of the way I shall now proceed to tell the story.
On Friday night I went on the worst date ever. Did you hear that? It was the WORST DATE EVER. Yes indeed, far worse than the ludicrous but funny, date I enjoyed with the Elvis impersonator saving up for a face lift  and much, much worse than the date with a pint sized man who wanted to take me on a cruise with his geriatric Mother. Oh yes dating throws up some of quite the oddest specimens on the planet but none quite as quirky- awful as Dear Mr Friday Night.
So there we were me and him. I was doing my usual smile a lot and in the absence of the possibility of escape, talk the leg off him and he was looking, frankly, absolutely bloody terrified. And so it went on. I  talked and he stared at his pint of beer like he’d never had a drink before and then in a rather unexpected turn of events, developed an American accent after the first mouthful.
So, said I,where abouts do you live? (Manhatten? Texas? What is that accent??)
You’re soooo cute, said he.
What kind of music do you like, said I?
You’re soooooooooooo cute, said he.
Oh Dear God, said I.
You’re sooooooooooooooo cute, said he.
I’m going to the toilet, said I, getting up to excuse myself.
Wow, shouted he, that’s ONE GREAT BIG ASS you got going on there!

Game over, I think you will agree?
And so I called a taxi, and me and my fake American friend got into it, and when it stopped outside my house, I thanked him for a lovely evening and he lunged towards me and asked me for some money towards the ride home and then planted the worse kiss I have ever had smack on my lips, before informing me that it would be “cool” to do it all over again. Horrified, and panicking in case out of pure politeness I agreed to see him again, I backed out of the taxi, big ass first and dived into the house.
And that should have the end of that. But oh no, the universe wasn’t finished punishing me. It struck me as I put my key in the door that I still hadn’t been the loo, so without stopping to remove my ludicrously high heels, I ran up the stairs, down the hallway and this is where it all goes hazy, into the bathroom, whereupon I can only surmise that after skidding down the step I got into a fight with the toilet and had a full on scrap with the floor and finally knocked myself out for who knows how long, finally coming round in a pool of the kind of blood that was spurting merrily from my lip and gathering in my ears.
It could have happened to anyone couldn’t it?
But it didn’t. Yet again it happened to me. The next day Finley and I attended another kid’s party (save me from the nightmare that pass the parcel) with Kath and Eleanor in tow, and as a gaggle of yummy mummies looked at me and debated whether the horror that was on my lip was a very nasty infectious cold sore of the Amy Winehouse kind or that bless me I was the victim of let’s not talk about it, domestic violence, I watched the proceedings in a state of advanced concussion, while  Kath delivered the truth and merrily informed them that until she met me, she hadn’t realised it was possible for one woman to have so any calamities.
But here I was: living proof that life could be worse!
Crazy but oh soooooooooo cute.

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