Monday, 4 October 2010


I have got post traumatic stress syndrome. I feel like I have just returned from a service in Afghanistan. I am going to start going to support groups and sit, looking dead behind the eyes, and be unable to talk about it. It is a marvel that I am even able to sit here typing, what I really want to do is sit on the sofa wrapped in a blanket, rocking back and forth and staring into space.Miss D and I had gone for a lovely little chat and some burgers at the local to catch up, as we hadn't had our usual Friday night meeting of minds over Jagerbombs. Miss D had already told me that she'd had an exhausting phone call off a mutual friend, wittering on about coming home from holidays.

We'd been sat talking while I minced about with popadoms for about half an hour when in she walked, bold as brass and carrying a Corona; Miss F - the local answer to Jeremy Kyle. It was only last week that I had drunkely spent half an hour doing an impression of her matter of fact way of talking at you and we were staggered to see her swanning in.

Meeting for a laugh and a snack is something Miss D and I like to do quite regularly, we bitch and make a plate of chips last an hour and a half. All of this stopped, however, when Miss F walked in. She launched into a baffling rant about how her appetite had changed and chose to demonstrate this by listing everything she had eaten over the last 24 hours.Miss D and I had no idea what to do. We had not invited this situation and we did not know why this was happening to us. Without drawing breath Miss F then ploughed straight into a tirade about how she'd had an argument with her parents about money. She continued from that straight into how she and Little J are going to Amsterdam where she'll pick him a 'brass'. Without pause she then explained how hilarious Little J is as he goes to all the cafes in the area and rates their full english breakfasts out of ten. He has apparently been doing this for three years.

Neither me nor Miss D knew how to escape this and there were no gaps in Miss F's speech to suggest it was meant to be a dialogue; she was just talking and talking and talking. All we could do was stare awkwardly at one another trying not to laugh while inhaling our food.

When she eventually stopped talking (long after our meals were finished) she suddenly started going on about how she had to go to a candle party. I do not know what a candle party is. I started saying "What is a candle party? What is a candle party?" in the frantic manner of somebody who had not been able to talk for an hour. She explained. And then carried on explaining.

And then Miss D and I were going to the candle party.

We arrived at a pub outside which a man was screaming at a woman in a car to get out. She was laughing, either hysterically or in hysterics. We had no idea what it was about. We awkwardly walked into the pub to see four people sat in the shadows with about 50 candles in the corner.

Miss D and I ran into the toilets.

"I know," she replied, "I literally cannot sit there and look at all those candles, what are we going to do? WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO???"
Eventually I remembered that I actually had a fairly legitimate reason to escape; I needed to get some sandwich fillers for my mum. We staggered back to the candle party and I blurted out to Miss F that I needed to leave. To my horror, she said "Oh, nevermind... shall I give you a lift home, D?"

I am a good and loyal friend and therefore would have been willing to say almost anything to make sure I did not leave Miss D at the horror of the candle party. I was on the cusp of just shouting "SHE LIVES WITH ME. AS OF NOW. WE'RE GOING." When Miss D firmly insisted she wouldn't stay and then we ran off.

As soon as we got in the car I pressed the lock all doors button and we sat in a stunned silence.

We blathered on about it in horror as we drove to the supermarket. Even when we got there we were still shocked about it and ended up staggering through the aisles like we'd just been released after ten years in a nuclear bunker.

I have now turned to blogging. I will have to become very famous and excellent and rich at it so I can afford the necessary plastic surgery to completely change my appearance and therefore enable myself to hide in plain sight from Miss F.

PS. As soon as I got home I decided to consult my lifestyle guidance counsellor- not that she knows of her title- Allie at Hyperbole and a Half, to see what she would have done in this situation. As is clear by her post "The Awkward Situation Survival Guide", she probably would have ended up at the candle party too.

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