The Information Junkie (3 page)

Then Blondie tripped into my life. But first I called up HAEMORRHOIDS on the Net. Information? Wow! Piles of it. Even a fellow-sufferers website:

How are they hanging?

What's the longest you've been in pain?

Have you tried...?

Have you had them injected? (
Injected?
INJECTED?? Didn't dare
think
about that.)

And finally the tales from those who'd had them KNIFED: Born-Again Bums.

Anyway, so I'm walking out of Boots the Chemists with my prescription, thinking about my bot and associated probbies when she slips on the pavement.

Glossy handbag contents scatter everywhere, including the emergency pantypad. Blood's pouring from her forehead but her pride's hurting more than her head. I offer a tissue, help her up, there's first aid from the pharmacist. We corral her wild belongings, smiling over the pad.

Someone moots coffee; the other agrees.

Blonde.
Genuine
blonde. None of your dark roots here. Oh, no. Nor was it a Scandinavian blonde. No: this was British blonde.

She sees my Boots' bag. Am I ill? Not exactly, just something that's going to need attending to, now and again...periodically. We smiled. We laughed. We danced for a while.

Someone's mobile rang. We checked simultaneously: it wasn't me; she didn't
normally
keep it switched on so it must have happened when she fell.

'I'm not answering that,' she said and hit the DECOY button then waited until the DIVERT cut in before pressing OFF. 'Bloody things,' she said. 'I've only got it for emergencies.' Her glance at mine invited a response.

'Oh,' I said. 'Just for the online real-time share prices and to check the weather forecast on the moon.'

She wasn't
quite
sure how to take me, fellas, but my offbeat charm and off-the-wall sense of humour was hooking her.

Straight, short, blonde hair. No curls, no waves, no style
per se
. A little make-up, not overdone. No visible rings. No visible means of support. Okay, girls, I know: but I am a chap and we will notice it when your nipples are not covered by the cups of the cantilever.

And perfect teeth: the sun shone
through
them and I could see
no
fillings.

Although we exchanged digital information I didn't think we'd see each other again: it was a polite transaction. She was okay for bumping into but looked just a bit
too intelligent
for me.

I also discovered later that she was fully PC literate; but she didn't know that I had a dinky little subroutine on my machine which lodged a copy of any E-mail sent from it. So, if anyone, including me, despatched an E then a copy would automatically enter my mail box. Tricky, or what?

Now, I know you shouldn't listen at keyholes but she'd told her mates all about ME!! She'd decided when she'd first met me that she:

...liked
his bum and his blond hair and since I'd never had a blond guy before I wondered
what he was like, you know, in the Y-Front
department. Decided there and then to get his shorts off and give him a
good
looking at. He was a pushover. I cooked for him first, you know, before I got him on the couch, then flashed my nips at him. He was BULGING. When his Levi's hit the deck I saw AUBURN hairs sprouting from his jockey shorts. And when I pulled off his nicks—wow! There was an elephant with orange hair!

But that was not until later. After the chemist episode I dismissed Belinda from my mind and got on with my life. Then one day she phoned me. I'd been so helpful. Would I like to come round for a meal?

When she let me in I couldn't smell cooking so assumed she'd be serving a sophisticated salad. But a glance at the dining table revealed an uncut loaf, a bread knife, a butter dish and a large lump of Cheddar. Oh, and a jug of iced water. I still thought it was going to be salad, but possibly one to which you added your own cheese. Perhaps she was slipping in a cheese course, or it was part of the starter. But when we sat at the table she, with a very straight face, said:

'Will you do the honours?'

I DID NOT KNOW HOW TO REACT.

She sustained the expression, then:

'What's the matter, Charlie? Don't you
like
cheese?'

She then did a strange thing. She stood, advanced and, thinking she'd softened me up, took my face in both hands, smiled warmly and kissed me briefly but moistly. Almost as a
reward
for my reaction. Now, wasn't that a strange thing to do?

'Oh, Charlie! Your
face!!
'

She skipped into the kitchen: 'Sit down, now. This won't take long.'

I am embarrassed. Very, very embarrassed.

I could hear the
MICROWAVE
revving and soon recognised the smell. Heinz. Then a ping. She produced two plates of
tinned
tomato soup.

What had I got into here?

The next course was
pre-cooked
fish and chips from a
polystyrene
tray, and tinned
processed
peas. From Marks and Spencer and Tesco. The oven had dried the food and we ate embarrassedly.

She finished with ice cream and custard.
Freezing
ice cream and
boiling
custard!!!!!! And the custard came from a
carton
. The saviour was the bottle of Soave. A gift?

Fancy pulling a stunt like that. Don't misunderstand me: I was beginning to...I wasn't quite sure...

I thought I'd stay for a coffee, talk for a while, thank her for the meal and make an excuse: I had to be up early for work.

 She had decided differently.

The wine had loosened us a little and she had fed me although it had not been a fantasy meal. I was looking around her lounge, trying to read her book titles when suddenly she was testing my lips. It was moist, exploratory on both our parts and I was in no hurry. But she kissed with a purpose. I felt her breasts, light, airy, still unsupported, behind her thin tee shirt and soon, perhaps a shade too soon, she dived for my trousers. We discarded the rest of our clothes before undulating on her couch.

Well, the sex made up for the meal. She was the first to raise the subject. Afterwards she apologised for the food, said she lacked culinary skills. I disagreed. She was mean with the microwave and avid with the oven. What was happening to me? And anyone with the FLAIR to serve custard with ice cream as a love potion had to be worth further research.

We sat there, without clothes, and talked.

She said, 'You're ginger.'

'No—Charlie.'

'No,' she said. 'Around your elephant,' and we both looked down at my pecker which had shrivelled inside its shell. It was at rest, peaceful, asleep.

I laughed but was also embarrassed. I must have blushed slightly because she reached over, cupped my face and kissed me again. Up perked the elephant.

Whilst talking I, without expression, said,

'If this relationship is going to develop you'll have to hone your kitchen skills.'

Her face fell. A genuine hurt.

But what was I saying? Yet
I
wasn't saying anything. Something inside me—no, there was something working
through
me. But I didn't want to get involved. I didn't want any responsibility. I did not want this.

'I've plenty of books,' she said, waving an arm loosely at a hastiness of cooks: Beeton through David to Smith. 'But I always louse it up. It was crap, wasn't it?'

(No, babe, it was a pig's arse.)

But that had ceased to matter because she was now chewing my bum and once again we played the pink elephant.

Now listen: looking back: Cyberchick had taken me to cyberspace; Fierychick had taken me to Eden then dumped me in Hell. And Belinda? Oh, she'd taken leave of my senses. That doesn't make sense. She'd made me take leave of my senses. No, that's not right, either. She'd introduced me to my senses? She'd made me see sense? She'd made me REAL?

Wow! What am I saying? Hey, Cyberbuddies, what a zinger! What a chick Belinda was. I mean, WOW! Could she...

Oh, dear, I don't seem able to do that any more. It all feels a bit silly, a bit—what's the word? Mm...
Immature!
I still loved my TOYS, though. I recalled another of her E-mails:

And when he broke wind he used to say, 'Nice one.' If he did it a second time he'd say, 'Even better.' Made me feel ill. And when he did it a third, or subsequent time, he went, 'Super Supremo.' And it was usually after a skinful or one of his wretched curries.

He used to blow off then waggle the duvet. Even did it (still does) in his sleep! Does Yours? Does Derek?

Doesn't she punctuate effectively? Even offers a paragraph break. So all these toys have their uses. But modern technology, IT technology, cannot cure a painful bot. No, sir. I still have the haemorrhoids. When the pain gets too bad I slip into the loo to insert a bullet. (How high, doc?
Oh, out of sight, out of mind.)

Belinda said, 'How do you deal with the pain?'

'I adopt the foetal crouch.'

'Faecal...?'

'No.T.'

'T?'

'Tee.'

'Tea?

'No: TEE.'

'Naughty?'

'No. T instead of C.'

'Sea?'

'Cee.'

'See...?'

'No. C...C.'

'Si, si?'

I laughed; she said:

'As in St Francis of A–?'

I laughed some more, before spelling it out:

'F–O–E–T–A–L.'

'...!'

She's working on the cooking but I don't mind because I
can
cook. Oh yes, superdoodlers, I'm a whizz in the kitchen—too many bachelor years trying to reproduce the Star of India at home. Came nowhere near. No: Belinda, the blonde bombshell, is a star on the keyboards. No, not a Yamaha or a Steinway. Or a Bernstein. No: she's a P.A.

Pleasing Alternative? Pretty Alluring? Presently Available? Preserving Archives? Playing Auntie? Pressing Advantage? Paying Attention? Paying Accounts? Pickling Aardvarks? Phoning Adam? Phoning Aliens? Painting Aborigines? Pedantically Arguing?

No, no. She's
a
P.A.

— Indefinite article P.A.

— Ay P.A.

She can do it properly, too—both hands,
all
fingers. I diddle with one. So, cyberscribblers, I'd met my technomatch.

Hey, dudes, got a bit of a tingle. Oh, yes. The hormones are flowing, the juices mounting. It's now more than a tingle, or a sparkle. It's a TWINKLE! Wow! It's a full-blown emotional overload. Three is (are?) not going to be enough. Got a feeling I'm going to need four. Oh, yes.

Wow, cyberdudies: it's turning into a
Quart
et. Kwör-tet. Eat your heart out Laurence Durrell.

But first you'll require a resolution to section three? Okay, babes. Try this for size:

Belinda stays. We cook together. We laugh together. We josh.
She
can sink a lager and a vindaloo with the best and does not eject either. Apart from peeing out the H2O. Now, there's an advantage us lads have over you lasses. Because we pee standing up we catch the afterglow: viz. curry, asparagus, puffed wheat. Because you squat to squirt you're denied that. Oh, you get that too? I did wonder.

But of course B prefers to drink and grab an Indian
not
in a crowd. Sounds like a happy ending? Well, you've got section four yet. And you have one further character to meet. And no: not female.

By the way, when B moved in my hemmies started to ease. Honey—you've shrunk my piles. True Love Cures Painful Arse. Doctor love?

When I sat at my keyboard I sometimes felt as if I were at the top of a mountain; at other times as if I'd just reached a plateau. I was an OUTSIDER. I envied youngsters their perfect teeth. Have you noticed the way the sun shine
s through
perfect teeth? Belinda's are and it does.

Keep your powder dry, cyberbuddies. Keep your software safe. Always save onto a backup disc. And don't logoff till you have.

I
must
end on an UP note:

Wow—buddies! What a trip this has been. Are you fit for the final furlong? Can you manage the extra mile? Listen. It's all—no, I mean ALL—resolved in section four. Section four for the Big Finish, so...

...keep your chakras cleansed and your options open; find the balance between feeling and thought. Hang loose but hang in there...

4

But the doc had already delivered his heavy load, his vast cargo, his megajuggernaut.

'As you get older, bits of you don't work so well.'

'But doc, that's not in my script. I demand a rethink.'

Silence.

'Doc, that I do not like.'

'That's the script,' said the doc. 'And that's your life.'

'You cannot be dog-star.'

Silence.

'Sure?'

He nodded.

'This is not an auditory hallucination?'

He shook his head.

'There must be some mistake...'

The doc laid down his pen, removed his other hand from the keyboard and sat back into his chair, the full open-body posture.

'Doc, what's up?'

'Mr Jones...'he glanced at his screen...'Charles, I have to certify death. I have to give bad news. It is the part of my job I least like.'

I looked into his eyes; they held a story. The story had been there for some time and constantly retold. Right from medical school when he'd been introduced to all those EXQUISITE stunts the human body can pull, and from the moment he had sliced his first cadaver. The mystery of life had shot out of HIS life before adolescence had delivered its final rush. No wonder medical students drank and smoked so heavily. No wonder they laughed so raucously. It's GALLOWS humour. Wow! We're all going to die: some of us nastily, others spectacularly, most pedestrianly.

'Charlie,' he said, 'people die every day.
'

I said, 'Yes. But that's OTHERS. And at least they're doing it discreetly.'

He left another silence. It was one of those
professional
silences: the type designed to make you feel uncomfortable and naked. One of those YOU are compelled to break.