Tickling my feet
So, after all the whining and bouncing of plans me and my fabby pink shoes finally got onto a train and made the date/meeting thingy on Friday. Which was lovely. Yay. Nice bottle of wine, some gentle flirting, all very civilised apart from my getting slightly squiffy due to not eating anything.
He's sweet and interesting and nice looking and, as I discovered when we popped into his apartment to sort out some work stuff, absolutely fucking loaded. Like, millionaire minted.
And there's me, all bargain shoes and designer copy handbag. Eep. Something tells me this isn't going to be a long term thing.
But all is good cos we have nice chemistry and I've agreed to do some work for him and it's always good to have a boss that fancies you when it comes to bonus time.
Discovering I was, literally, up the road from where Miss Tickle was I stuck up two mental fingers and walked to the pub. This was very good for my psyche but not for my feet cos those shoes were meant for mens shoulders not mean streets.
Being too late for the first performance gave me a chance to sit on another lovely sofa and drink the pain away. Which I did till I heard lots of applause (the audience obviously liked my word) and found myself surrounded by the arms and smiles of lovely tickleness. I should hate her cos she's so young and gorgeous but you just can't cos she's so joyful and lovely and sweet you could eat her all up.
By the power of blog she knew who I was and we had a lovely chat before she tickled off and did important directorial things. The second play was great and I forgot that my feet hurt while I gazed at the rather handsome in a surfer dude way blonde actor. And then remembered they were killing me the instant I walked outside afterward so I flagged a cab down.
Cabbie laughs when I moan about my aching feet and mentions the impracticality of the shoes then tries to get me to use the cab all the way home stating a fare of £75. I'm stunned and say 'do I look like I have £75 to spend on a cab?!', his reply was 'Come on, how much were them daft shoes? And that bag must have cost twice that'
Maybe it's a better copy than I thought...
7 comments:
Nice to hear that life is so in the pink at the moment!
It was so lovely to see you FB, really gorgeous. And I'm glad you liked it. And your shoes are ace.
x
Ha, brilliant.
When I use the term 'nice looking', I'm usually referring to someone who is nice but fucking minging, or fat.
Which one was he?
xx
ooohhh, Angie, maybe you could be his 'pretty woman!'
Never assume that men are attracted to someone or not because they are from the same social class or equally minted Ange! Believe me, that is so far from the truth. I agree with Vi, you could be his pretty woman (not that I'm implying you are in any way like the character in the film of course).
I did feel a bit like Julia Roberts standing in his fabulous kitchen but somehow I can't see him wanting anything long term with a dippy blonde who wouldn't know how to work his posh coffee machine and had cardboard in her shoes :-)
Post a Comment