If ever a brain has been completely addled by too much flirting, it’s mine. It needs to pack it’s flip-flops, cancel the milk and go for a holiday someplace that it can’t even begin to think about the be-trousered of our species.
This became apparent last week when I was nattering away to a distinguished chap I’d met on the 2.15 to Chipping-Norton. Having mentioned I was considering popping the old homestead up for sale, he, being in the business, suggested we get together back in London for a small snifter so that he could give me a bit of advice on the matter.
Well, he had a few more grey hairs on his lemon than I would usually plump for, but he had buckets of charm and the sort of confidence that makes a girl go fizzy in her tummy, so I accepted, and a couple of days later we met for said drinkaroos.
It was all going like a dream. Initially he gave me lots of property advice as promised, but then, as the magical elixir worked its usual wonders we relaxed into normal conversational nonsense.
I started bandying about all the classic flirtation shenanigans – twiddling my locks, gazing into his peepers, pampering his ego – but I hadn’t really been getting too much back by way of the same – oh sure we were nattering away like a pair of old biddies at a bus–stop, but he hadn’t yet poked me with his flirtatious wares.
The grey–matter kicked into gear and I hazarded he might have been a bit unsure as to whether I was really keen – what with my popping out of my mother’s undercarriage in the same year he was enjoying his first legal booze-up – so I figured I needed to step it up a notch and show him the clear green light.
I changed my seating position to right next to him, and, at what I considered was an appropriate interlude, I placed my digits and palm upon his upper thigh and gave it a significant sqquuuueeezzzzeeee.
Well, the man jumped so high he almost biffed his bonce on the ceiling! When he finally landed he yelped, “What, in the name of Hades, are you doing?”
It’s fair to say I didn’t really know how to answer this. I blustered something about wanting to show him that I liked him and blushed hideously. Eek.
Still decidedly angry around the gills he pointed out how inappropriate it was given we’d spent the last hour talking about his recent wedding day!
Yikes! My brain, so used to flirting in every situation, had gone into automatic mode. It seems I’d been nodding and smiling along with the conversation but not actually taking any of it in – I was too concerned with my flirting techniques.
All this lovely man had wanted to do was generously give some advice to another human being and I’d rewarded him with an improper grope. Oh dear.
So my friends, this is why I really do need that holiday – but bugger Spain, I reckon a nunnery is the best place for me, anyone know where I can find one?