Part Two

The coffee shop is a great place for a gorgeous specimen of manhood, such as myself, to collect lovely ladies. I can sit in a comfortable leatherette armchair next to the faux fireplace, slipping on my double decaf latte macchiato with skim milk and scope the lady folk as they wander past. How could a lady not be attracted to such a sophisticated male as myself? I can spy on them as they wander down the street and give them my most endearing smile, although that one probably needs some work as it usually ends with the object of my affections walking swiftly away or throwing up in the nearest rubbish receptacle. Perhaps my smile is just so overpowering that the average lady cannot handle it. I think I will muse on that further.

In summer you can sit outside and get up close and personal. Although sitting outside means you also need to get up close and personal with the smokers who, along with literally being a dying breed, are more than happy to ensure that your clothing ends up smelling like a Friday night at the local pub. But if you can manage to overlook such small inconveniences, such as the potential for lung cancer and the fact that you smell like last weeks ashtray, it is a perfectly pleasant place to while away a few hours.

So I while away my evening hours chatting with the girls behind the counter and spying on the local talent. I have an especially close connection with Anna who never fails to tell me when she will be on shift next. I think she has some minor problem with her memory though because she always seems to be working different days to the ones that she tells me. Poor child. It must be difficult when you are literally overwhelmed by a personality such as mine. This evening she is being overworked by her terrible boss. This is the third time in the last 30 minutes that she's had to go off and clean the toilets. I am sure that these are the cleanest toilets in town, without a doubt. Such dedication to ones job must be applauded, and I will do just that when she gets back. I will give her a standing ovation. The customers in this coffee shop should know exactly what sort of lengths the staff here are willing to go to to ensure the hygiene of the premises!

Across the tables from me I spy a leggy brunette. And when I say leggy, I mean leggy. The woman is practically two meters tall! Not that will be a challenge for me. I will draw myself up to my full one meter fifty centimeters and pile on the charm. There is no way that a lady like that should be forced to send her evenings with her friends when my stellar personality is available. My witty repartee will have her splitting her sides with laughter and she will hang on my every word. In a way I feel sorry for her. She has no idea of what is about to hit her.

As I prepare my plan of attack, or rather choose one from the hundreds instantly at my disposal, I gaze once more in her direction. The amber light from the 80's disco lamps has bathed her in a jaundice glow, considering what is about to happen to her that may be an appropriate color for the moment. Her hair falls from her head and down past her face and over her shoulders, framing her perfectly, the moment is almost too perfect. I breath a deep sigh which manages to escape my body with a sound like a rutting adult brown beer, perhaps not the most appropriate sound for the moment. She looks across at me with a wistful smile, or perhaps a look of disgust, it's difficult to tell in this light. Her friend whispers something in her ear and they both laugh. I am sure they are wondering which one of them will be the lucky one to strike gold with me. Her friend can forget it though, her only taste is in her mouth. That french fella Peter Cardigan wouldn't bury a dead cat in that dress. It may say Gucci on the label but it should just read Gauche!

I wonder what our children will be like? Will they be long and leggy like my wife to be or will they be more stout in stature like myself. Just because you're short doesn't mean you're not worthy. Napoleon was vertically challenged and he handed the English their arses on more than one occasion. I'm not sure that Napoleon was sporting a second stomach in quite the same way as myself, but then he spent his entire life with his hand in his jacket so perhaps he was holding it in on purpose. I will have to research that fact a little more. It's something that I pride myself in, research. There is nothing that a lady likes better than a well researched member of the opposite sex. I have been known to talk for a full 30 minutes uninterrupted on the migratory habits of the Godwit. Well I was probably uninterrupted because everyone was trying to get their drinks from the bar 5 minutes after I started, but I can't let a small thing like that get in the way of my moment in the spotlight.

I notice that the leggy goddess has just finished her drink so this is the perfect time to enact plan number three hundred and forty five. This calls for a highly specialized look and an offer of a glass of Spirulina and Prune juice. It's a practically infallible plan. Well I say practically because the past few, actually six, times I've used it the results have been less than stunning. But I put it down to the weather, lighting, time of the day, month, year. In fact there are any number of factors that can cause this plan to go ever so slightly astray. I'm happy with the basic premise though. The Spirulina and Prune juice combination just needs to be paired together with the right combination of other elements to have the desired effect.

As I stroll over the leggy goddess and her friend are deep in conversation. No matter, they will be stunned into silence with my presence. So I wait, as still as the morning air on a cold winters day. As diligient as one of those blokes standing outside that Queen lady's house in London (saw that on the TV once but more about that later). I clear my throat ever so gently and manage to hawk up a sizable piece of last nights dinner. Ok not the smoothest move in the world but the odds are still well in my favor. I'm just about to catch the eye of my leggy goddess and seal the deal when dead cat dress lady turns around and snarls at me "Two Chi Latte's and make sure they're hot this time!".

Well the clock stops and it's probably just as well for the feline shroud wearer. I mean is this woman blind as well as having horrible taste. Actually that could well explain it because if she wasn't blind I would happily take a serving tray and insert it sideways down her throat. Not that anything like that would shut the bitch up. Just take one look at those arms. She could rip the legs off a crocodile without breaking a sweat. It's at this point in the proceedings that I realize that moggy murderer is getting out of her chair and still mouthing off in my direction. Time to make a strategic retreat from my leggy destiny and get to the front door before I'm drawing disability payments.

I would have made it out the door by myself, there was no need for the pussy punisher to launch a drop goal effort from 20 meters out! Of course with dumb luck she landed her toe square in the rectal zone and the next thing I know I'm flying across the room and collide with the waitress bringing in the leftover iced coffees and rather full ashtrays. If the woman was playing ten pin bowling I'm sure she'd have called it a strike. The waitress managed to jump out of the way but lost control of the tray in the process. I passed under just as the full load of iced coffee and cigarette butts landed on my persona, which was rapidly becoming non grata, and I ended up on my hands and knees on the sidewalk covered in warm milk and left over fag ends. Meanwhile Babe Ruthless is standing in the doorway screaming something about pervert. What is wrong with these women?

As I drag my sore and sorry arse back home I start to wonder if I should have maybe listened to that little voice in my head that was telling me it might be a good time to do up the zipper on my trousers ...

Part One

By anyones measure my life is pretty screwed up. My wife left me for a Nigerian scammer whom she fell in love with online. The guy played her like a violin for 6 months before dropping the "I need money" bombshell on her. Of course she was so smitten with "Lurve" that she promptly drained the joint bank account and then left me to join the scam. The bitch left me with a six month lease and nothing to pay it with. At least she didn't sell all the furniture!

I had no idea it was coming either. She'd been the perfect wife, well as perfect as anyone can be I guess and then the next minute it's Godzilla of the Kitchen. I swear I had no idea it was even possible to use that many insults in a single sentence without taking a breath. With a single intake of air she was able to dismantle my masculinity, sexual prowess (or rather gross lack of), personal hygiene, potential for fatherhood, ability to save the world, likelihood of being taken out by some virulent strain of herpes and all round humanity. Man she was cold. Of course I did everything a man should do in that situation. I begged, I pleaded and basically demeaned myself in ways that no self-respecting male should ever resort to. In short I turned into a complete pussy. There is nothing less attractive to a woman than a man on his knees, begging, who has fewer balls than she does.

Eventually I manned up and kicked the bitch to the curb. Of course I missed her arse by 2 months, but it's the thought that counts. Once I'd managed to get over the fact that the woman of my dreams had turned into some psychotic who'd turn over 4 years of wedded bliss for a bit of spicy chat on the Internet I was on a roll. Well at least until fate turned up again and kicked me in the balls.

So on top of all this domestic bliss I got fired this year, twice, by email if you can believe it. Bastards didn't even have the balls to pick up the phone and ring me. Of course beside the DCM (Don't Come Monday) I also got the SUWNPYE (Screw you we're not paying you either) from the second company, and I'm sure was followed by fingers in the ears and a "Na na na na na na!" or maybe just a single finger salute. It would be enough to drive a man to drink, which I would have done if I could have actually afforded it. I don't think there is anything lower than firing someone by email, unless it's firing them by text message. Personally I think the cheap bastards didn't choose that option because it costs money to send a text message.

You know you work your heart out putting in 3 and even 4 hour days and they are just so unappreciative. The trouble with being a genius is that no one ever understands that you produce more in a 3 hour stint than the rest of their workforce can muster in an entire week. And when you politely point this out to the uninitiated it's usually followed by blank stares and a lot of muttering. You know I don't know why it has to be that difficult. I'm a genius, you're a moron, just shut up and listen. It's not exactly rocket science. Anyway this point never registered with either company and so I find myself drifting from unpaid work to underpaid work just trying to make the car payments.

I'm of course in this entire trance state before I realise that the girl opposite me on the tram is making serious doe eyes at me. This happens to me a lot you know, the women of this world are just so entranced with my mystique that they often become jibbering idiots in the face of my magnetic personality. So I decide to drop her the dis-interested look, that one which says I'd be into you if only you had a personality with more than one dimension. Well that one seems to just go right past her and she continues to give me the look. You know the one. The one that says if we weren't surrounded by 200 complete strangers, some with serious hygiene issues, then I'd be over that seat and rip your clothes off you right now. Ok you may not be familiar with that one but then that is probably what separates you and I in the first place. I'm the one who is completely irresistible and you're the one that people would step over even if you were bleeding to death in the street.

Just to put you in the picture she's about 170cm, long black hair, curves in all the right places and these deep brown eyes that just put you in a trance, ok probably not you because she'd never actually make eye contact with you, but with a god like personality such as myself she not only makes eye contact, she's unable to release it. I have her in my grasp, my tentacles of irresistibility drawing her in with the tenacity of a Rottweiller with an old shoe. It's only a moment in the fabric of space time, but it lasts a lifetime. I see our wedding so clearly, a deserted beach on a remote tropical island, we both wear white. The minister says "You may now kiss the bride" before disappearing in a flash and leaving us alone on the beach. We embrace, caress, fondle, savor. Our bodies become one as we slowly drop to the sand in the embrace of a couple so deeply in tune with each other. Her heart skips a beat as my lips engage hers. A kiss like she has never felt in her entire life before. The kiss of soul mates made for each other. The years flash before our eyes as children appear enmasse. Birthdays, Christmases, School Plays all shared in that same happy wedded bliss. We grow old together, watching sunsets (or could be sunrises, who knows once senility sets in) just sitting there and enjoying each others company in the autumn of our .... WTF? The bitch is reading the information panel over my shoulder! What is wrong with the women of this world? Here she is, faced with a man of such animal magnetism I practically have my own magnetic field and she's reading the information panel? I knew she was a tramp the moment I set eyes on her. Frankly I hope she gets hit by a runaway shopping trolley at the tram stop.