Not only has he had to put up with me crying down the phone to him about my utter shit storm of a week (the culmination of which was me crying at work like a mad bitch after failing two quality checks in a row – fail three and you’re out on your arse) but he then has to deal with me being underwhelmed by the theoretical situations which he deems worthy of honour-defending.
Now, on the same day as I was The Girl Who Cried at Work (the companion story to The Boy who Cried Wolf, the moral of which is don’t cry at work or there’s going to be a whisper campaign that you once cried because you were PMSing and your computer crashed) I was going to a Death Cab for Cutie gig. Just I was about to enter the venue having got past three kinds of security, I hear one man shout me back.
Mockney security man: Not wishing to be funny, but how old are you? (It was a 16+ gig, I’ve just finished a four year a degree).
Me: I’m TWENTY-TWO! (wishing I could flick a v with both hands to demonstrate my age).
Mockney security man: Sorry, my mistake, in you go. (By this point, he’s looking a bit guilty, so I thought I ought to help him out of his faux-pas).
Me: It’s ok; you must have just seen me from the back.
MSM: Even now I’ve seen you from the front I’m still not convinced…
After the day I’d had I was ready to knee him in the jewlies by this point.
My face must have said as much.
MSM: What?! Are you going to beat me up now?
So, I was telling Andrew this story and I said to him ‘It’s lucky you weren’t there, really. I’d probably have said something stupid like “Not me, but this hairy mother fucker will!” and it would probably just been embarrassing for everyone.’
“To be honest, there’s no way I was going to defend your honour there. It’s like that time you wanted to me to tell that fat man who insulted your parking to treat you like a lady.” (in my defence, I was at least… a third joking about this request).
“ANDREW! By insulting me he was insulting you! He was saying you were a paedo for fancying me.”
“He wasn’t.”
“He WAS! And worse! He was calling you a CHILD FUCKER. A CHILD FUCKER. Are you going to stand back and let some rude mockney call me an infant and you a nonce?”
Ad infinitum. Ad naseum.
So, yeah. I felt a bit sorry for him after I’d calmed down. Like he could probably do better than me. And maybe he ought to start looking.
Still, this is the same man who spent a good half an hour trying to convince me that Juno would have still worked if the titular character had been giving away a piano instead of a baby, so I can’t feel too bad.
Give and take. Give and take.
