Saturday, 10 January 2009

Last Night

It's becoming a familiar tale. On Wednesday I say I think The Man could be in London. On Thursday I get an email from a guy in London who says he took a photo of someone who looks like The Man. He leaves his number so I phone him up. We arrange to meet on Friday night next to Nelson's Column. I'm there at 7pm. It's -2 already and not even my new hat is preventing my ears from turning blue. Damn you Ted Baker. At 7.30pm he still hasn't turned up. (The guy with his photo I mean, not Ted Baker). I get my phone out of my pocket. I call him. No answer. I leave a message. Ten minutes later I call him again. No answer. I'm not happy. In fact, I'm annoyed. I get my bus and go home.

Now I know it sounds like a bit of fun - making me hang around in sub zero temperatures while you are at home in the warm watching the Darts - but it's not very nice is it? I'm never going to turn down an opportunity to meet someone who might have vital information. The time I do will be the time the information is genuine. That's the way life works. It means I am open up to abuse. And abuse is bad.

It's not just the fact that I was bloody freezing though. What also annoys me is that, as strange as it sounds, I also have a life. Last night I had an offer to have a drink in the warm with a friend. But I had to say 'No' because some guy thought he'd be really funny. So now of course my friend thinks that I would much rather be sat at home starring at the wall rather than having a drink with her. Terrific. And I can't tell her why I couldn't have a drink because she wouldn't understand. I'll have to buy her a present now to show her that she is much higher up on my priority list than walls.

I have no option, therefore, but to make a plea. Please stop. Please stop the pranks. It's beginning to ruin my life and have dramatic consequences on the size of my wallet. Thank you kindly.

NB: If you want something else to read while you are sat at your desk supposedly working, may I recommend Mike Gayle's To Do List