The Information Junkie Page 2

  She sat next to me this time on the velvet couch. I looked into her blue eyes, noted the delicate reddish eyelashes and as I looked down saw the finest golden tinge above her lip. Her face, which would never need make-up, was freckly. When I removed her glasses, she gave the tiniest questioning look and for only a moment appeared to miss her specs. My eyes couldn't help dropping lower and noting the tops of the soft freckled breasts which showed above her cotton top.

  Our first kiss took me back to Eden. All technology dissolved as we were whisked back millions of years. We greeted parents, grandparents, great-grandparents until time speeded up and there we were: primal, elemental and free. She took me by the hand through to the other room where clothes were peeled off. As her skirt fell to the floor I saw the golden hair sprouting from her pants and when I took off her knickers—wow! The sun caught her tufts and set the sheets alight.

  Then we set the room ablaze. We took fire from each other until we melted into the sunset with a quivering finish. The afterglow supported us like a hovercraft until the sun itself set, and darkness delivered us to sleep.

  *

  About two a.m. she asked me to leave: preferred to sleep alone, and could I please drop the latch on the way out? I walked home in the dark as the lights went out on the end of the world.

  Next day I gave her a Bell: just got the looooong tone so I rearranged the particles on her chromium dioxide. I waited. I eed her. I waited. Tried her mobile but just got its looooong tone so I left some ones and zeros on Rovafone's mainframe. I waited. Tried the quill and parchment. I waited. Knocked on her door and waited.

  I waited.

  I hate rejection. Don't you?

  Of course, now I'm beginning to want her more. Was this part of the chick's technique? Play so hard to get that the guy falls in love in desperation? Girls, why do you pull these stunts? Fellas, why do they do it? Why can't you just have a nice relationship without all these games?

  But by now the message is beginning to sink in: I am OUTSIDE the game. Perhaps there's something not quite right about me. But me and my mates go out for a few jars and they assure me I'm okay. It's the chick who's at fault.

  'Play it cool. Always play it cool with a woman. You'll never understand them, mate.'

  But, surely, if you a game of sorts. Aren't you? You are play it cool then you're playing participating. Perhaps that's an intentional part of the courtship process. Then I meditate on intentional. Darwin? God? Altruism? Indifferent gene? Random gene?

  'Come on, Charlie. Drink up. It's your round.'

  So I paid my share and we staggered to the Star of Ceylon where the violet décor reminded me of HER. Wow, guys! I had it bad.

  'Forget her, Charlie. She's only a bird. Think about the next one.'

  I didn't want to think about the next one. I wanted this one. Oh, Fiery, why are you doing this to me? Why can't things just be NICE all the time?

  Well, the drink made me feel worse and the meal didn't cheer me as it should have done.

  'Play the field, Charlie. Go out with lots of chicks.'

  Oops, cyberdiddlers! Got a bit low there. Let's lift it again—

  Something one of my lager buddies had said kept going round in my mind: Think of the next one. Well, I thought backwards first: of Cybernurse who'd been a blackhead (!); fiery Ffion who'd been a redhead; which left only—yes, folks, you've guessed it: the BLONDE. She's the subject of section three. But before we get to her you'll be wanting a resolution for section two. That's a reasonable request. Okay, here goes:

  Woke up one morning and amongst the post was a hand-delivered note. It was a one-sheeter: good quality, cream, A4 folded twice. The writing was elegant. I scanned it for good news, positive phrases. Caught the words sorry and goodbye. She'd had to think carefully since our meal, had had to go away to chill out at a friend's house in Romney Marsh. (Pictured her there: saw all the flat land, saw Dungeness Power Station, saw the pylons, looping their wires across the fields. Hoped the microwaves hadn't corrupted her data.)

  She said I was a great guy. (Oh, yes.) I had made her laugh. (Laugh? Laugh??) And she had enjoyed cooking for me. She thought our lovemaking had been astounding. But—and there always is a but in these things—we were temperamentally unsuited. She needed her freedom but thought I was looking for a permanent mate, to settle down. Aren't we all, electrodoodlers? She had a free spirit and could I please respect that? Could I also please take this as goodbye, and thanks? Hated that thanks. I'd rather not have met her, I'd rather not have made the bloody effort. I'd rather not have been born. I hate being rejected. I HATE it.

  Hey, it's getting me down again. Mustn't let it. Chew on this for an upper:

  You said you wanted an introduction. You've got it. You said you wanted a development. You've had it. You said you wanted a conclusion. Well, you've had sections one and two, so what does that leave? Hands up, now. No calling out. Yes, you at the back. Mm? Section three? Well done. One, two, three: the magic sequence.

  Keep your powder dry, cyberbuddies. Keep your software clear of strong magnets and don't hold your head too close to a mobile phone.

  I gave you a few clues in section one: I was getting older and wiser, beginning to learn from my mistakes. Well, we're now two-thirds of the way into my tale. I thought perhaps it was time to hose down my act. Perhaps time to get REAL. Now, there's a word to meditate on.

  No: I won't forget Ffion. I always want to remember that, when she did the V with her legs, she torched the bed. And that, my cyberlovelies, is something that no one can take from me.

  Hope you see lots more sunsets and that your vita remains dolce.

  3

  Wow! It's a trilogy!!!

  So, the fire fizzled as Ffion faded and Fleance fled, and I'd learned I was a great guy.(!) How old do you have to be to get wise...? I'll tell you:

  Happiness doesn't impress the vellum, it doesn't leave an imprint on the papyrus. But the opposites do. Was wondering how to handle it when Blondie tripped into my life.

  But, first: my lagermates were beginning to thin. No, not on top, although some of them were. No, they were shacking up and marrying, stuff like that. Our outings became less regular and the size of the group diminished.

  I woke up one morning wondering what the pain was. Here I was, once again with a heavy head, a bilious belly and a mouth like the inside of a Sumo wrestler's loincloth. Phew! Chew on that! And I was having a bad time on the pan.

  This was new.

  It started with a little nipping sensation while I was harvesting the (faecal) crop. Then started to get PAINFUL. So much so that I had to walk slowly or sometimes stop just to let it pass. Too tense to tease out my toxins. Too painful to propel my plop-plops. Too pensive to pass my pooh. Too prissy to pebbledash the pan. Not brave enough to drop my brownies. Insufficiently nimble to liberate my number-twos.

  Went to the doc who jerked a digit up my crack:

  YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!

  'Take deep breaths, Mr Smith.'

  Bloody haemorrhoids!!!

  'Here,' he said, writing on his prescription pad, 'insert [insert? insert?? INSERT???] one of these and smear on some of this.' He said, 'Go for the Stone Age Diet. And plenty of liquids. Oh, and ALCOHOL can worsen the condition.' And curries? 'No,' he said, 'curries are okay. As such.' [As such ?] 'Plenty of FIBRE, Mr Brown.'

  'Doc, why now? For years I've...'

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

  He's paid to deliver lines like that.

  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 Quartet. 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.