‘I do worry that someone might act in a certain way just to get onto the blog, for an ego boost or something…’
My friend shakes her head. ‘I don’t think that’s likely.’
‘No, you’re right, no one would bother doing that. It’s too much effort!’
The next day, I get a message from an acquaintance with – how to put it? – a reputation.
‘How are you? I decided i need to provide you with material for your blog’
Now ordinarily I’d take this to be a drunken rambling. But it was sent at lunchtime, and the guy is, insofar as I’m aware, gainfully employed. Still, I ignore it. As I’ve said before, I don’t want trouble.
So when Trouble, who has never shown any interest in reeling, comes through the doors of the Scottish dancing venue, it’s all I can do not to let my jaw drop. Instead I walk into a doorframe.
It’s the end of the night; I’m washing up. Trouble, all 6ft7 of him, sidles over.
‘I’d never noticed your height before,’ he says. ‘I think I’m going to have to marry you.’
‘Because it will make you feel shorter?’
Then he says the magic words.
‘I read your blog yesterday.’
‘Oh! What did you think?’
‘I think… I need to give you some material.’
I laugh. ‘It does concern me that someone might behave in a certain way just to influence their blog profile!’
‘Blog profile?!’ he says, laughing.
‘Yes, like this young man.’ I ruffle Freddie’s hair in passing.
Trouble’s friends call him over.
‘We should go on a date,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say, with mock seriousness.
‘You and me!’
I roll my eyes. ‘Forever!’
The next day, I get another message, asking what sort of places I like and when I’m free.
Anywhere without doorframes, and, like, never?