Bringing class where class has never gone before

Second day in Madrid - the scene.
Imogen is sitting in the beautiful hostel lobby talking to her mother on the phone. She is in a very good mood. Her mother is notably not finding the following exchange amusing in the slightest.
Imogen: So yes, so we're engaged and I'm going to marry him and we'll have lots of little unemployable Polish plumber babies of our own.
The Mother: Imogen. Are you pregnant?
Imogen: Yeah, the abortion laws in Poland are a bit odd, so we figured we might as well factor multiple small children into our plan for future bliss, because he's been married about five times before, and says that nothing ruins a marriage more than the unexpected. Or a free thinking wife.
The Mother: You're coming home, right now.
Imogen: Yeah, he wants to meet you, too, but I told him to wait until after the wedding, because then we may have a small child all of our very own, and then, you know, you could do the whole babysitting thing.

Is it at this point Imogen becomes aware she is being stared at in an utterly brazen manner by a hot bloke wearing the same Led Zeppelin t-shirt as her and a pair of skinny black jeans. Not unlike hers. She terminates the conversation - I must leave off now mummy, she says, ignoring the screeches from the other end. She wanders over towards the lobby vending machine that spits out a can of San Miguel for one euro. Turning away, she is caught by the hot bloke.
Hot Bloke: Was that your mother?
Imogen: Yeah. I had a spare half hour and I like to keep her on her toes.
Hot Bloke: *pauses* You're really fit and I fucking love your sense of humour.
Imogen: Oh. Nice t-shirt.

Ten minutes later. Imogen ad the hot bloke are dancing. The hot guy is coming across as more and more stoned. They are talking about one anothers travel plans.
Hot Bloke: I'm just here for a few days to see Bad Religion play.
Imogen: *scrunches nose* Oh. Right.
Hot Bloke: *catches nose scrunch and enthusiasm* They're awesome! Hey, are you up to much tomorrow night?
Imogen: No plans. No plans for tomorrow, no plans for the next few months.
Hot Bloke: Nothing at all? Hmm. Need somewhere to crash?

Imogen agrees. They book her flight back to London there and then.

-------------

This was, like, three days ago or something, and now I'm back in London - Holloway, to be more precise - and living with the hot bloke, who from this point on shall be known as Johnny.

It's all very surreal; that first night we went wandering all over Madrid at four am in search of somewhere to have sex (note; on the concrete floor of a building site underneath the lowest tier of scaffolding, might be handy and well hidden, but if you end up on bottom due to limited head room, your back is going to be scratched to shreds and you will, wandering back home through the city at dawn in your white summer dress, look like a rape victim).
By contrast, my first night ack here I was persuaded to go wandering around Holloway with him at four am in search of lemons, toilet paper and cayenne pepper.

Weird things always happen when I try to quit smoking.

We're getting maaaarried in the morrrrrning

I rather fancy the idea of being a divorcee before I'm twenty-two, I told her.
What are you talking about now?
Oh, yes. Didn't I mention I not only got unceremoniously dumped, but also jilted? At the very altar, so to speak?
What on earth are you talking about, Dolly?
Oh. So I forgot to tell you we were going to get married?

I had it all planned. Hallo, I'd say at those awkward family gatherings and when meeting up with old friends. Did I mention I got married at the weekend? And then I set to work pursuading the groom-to-be, which took remarkably little effort.

Toby said he could think of more sensible jokes. Yes, but with the same amount of comedy potential? I asked. He went on to suggest a plastic flower that squirts water at people, or an electric shock ring.

At this stage, I rather feel I have nothing to lose. Anyone fancy getting hitched? Tickets for Las Vegas, booked and paid for by the absent original fiance. Suitably seedy registry office affair intended, and non-negotiable. Bride-to-be is twenty, a size eight, brunette and a good catch. Even if the original groom-to-be is of a somewhat different opinion.

I used to be a feminist. No point anymore now I'm engaged.

"The great cat burgular of Santiago de Compostela"

The longer I know you, Alice told me switching from sympathetic to grumpy in a heartbeat when she realised I was focusing on entirely the wrong aspect of the story, the more of a caricature of yourself you become.

I have been mugged four times in the last year.

Thats a nice statement to stand alone, isn't it? First time - Nepal, last summer. I wasn't too embarrassed about it, as he was much bigger than me. I instantly threw myself into exploring all the dramatic outlets of the situation - in terms of police, emails home to friends and family alike, a trip to get what Joel refers to as a Refill but I prefer to term Getting a New Passport, which felt uncannily like I imagine applying for a bank loan would feel, complete with suspicious glances and difficult questions about What I'm Doing With my Life.
The second time was in Yemen last Decemberish. Not very exciting; no verbal interchange, no split second moment of eye contact compounded by heart stopping panic as you wonder exactly how much this is going to hurt. But one knife that struck me even at the time as being somewhat bigger than necessary. But, in all fairness, a pair of nail scissors waved in my general direction in a threatening manner would probably have had me handing over my handbag.
My bad. My tendency to wander around the less touristy areas of a city gets me into trouble fairly often.

I rather felt, at the time, that I was becoming quite the connoisseur of varying mugging techniques. I mean, twice does seem like quite a lot, doesn't it?

I was mugged again in Seoul a few months ago (post on Seoul - intense - and the Buddhist temple retreat - uncharacteristic and a half, but very cool - is forthcoming) by a very big man with hairy knuckles who used my hair to good advantage as leverage to bully me out of my Manolos and my money.

I felt rather like Carrie Bradshaw, except I wasn't in my home town and got to walk home in my barefeet. Ten minutes, but nonetheless.
My fucking Manolos.
Five minutes later, I fished a cigarette out of my jacket pocket and lit up. Nerves, you know. I smoked a lot when I was first learning to drive - high stress situations, both of them. Feeling less like crying I did another inhale - and got whacked round my head by an old lady looking downright furious. I choked on the smoke, had a slight panic attack, then realised my social faux pas.

I found, in the aftermath of that day, a huge amount of dramatic resources to exploit, finding the possibilities endless - you know; teary victim, outraged label queen, indignant fashionista, wry amusement, dry acceptance.

And then, very much more recently, I was in Santiago de Compostela and I got, if you can imagine this, mugged. A-fucking-gain. This time wins hands down over the others though; he was very pretty - I'm a bit cross that about that. Men that pretty don't come along everyday. Or rather, they haven't since I started working in a teeny tiny Galician village you'll never hear of, near Pontedeume which you might hear of one day, near La Coruña. Which is Google-able. Because the only men who've hit on me in the last four months were old men in the street, various inbred looking blokes from the village and the elderly caretaker. More of whom later.

So I'm understandably a bit put out that when a beautiful man does pop up in my sphere, he wants to steal my money.

But, to be fair, girls with character flaws like mine will always have the potential blindspot that makes them likely to give guys who look quite that beautiful all their money.

It's ok. I'm used to it now, I told my mother. I normally adhere to the 'Never tell your mother anything' rule, but . . . dramatic possibilties, you know. He was very gentlemanly about the whole thing, letting me open my purse and just give him the money. Which saves me the whole fuss and bother of canceling my plastic collection. Again.

I hate that this has happened to me so many times I can judge Gentlemanly Mugging Behaviour. Marks out of ten - did they take anything unnecessary? Did they have obscene amounts of body hair on their fists and, perhaps due to some hitherto unrealised hatred of those with decidely less body hair, feel it necessary to inflict pain upon them by tearing out a handful of their own glossy locks? Did they have a very big shiny knife that was waved in your vague direction that means you can't quite remember what they looked like but are pretty sure you could pick the knife out of a line-up?

I hate to admit it but Alice may well have been right. A variety of reactions that I can pick and choose from has always been my default position. It's all to do with defining a sense of self, something I'm working on.

Wallowing in my gaping character flaws

I remember thinking I was a people person. These days, I have absolutely no idea why.


JOEL: I don't think you're going to be happy with anyone.
ME: So, what, your advice is…? Shack up with someone I’m not happy with and be happy?
JOEL: No, my advice is much more subtle than that, Cupcake. *steals cigarette* Stop being a twat.
ME: *meaningful pause* Well, gosh, why didn't I realise that was the reason? Thanks for being so succinct.
JOEL: I am trying to help you out, you know. You always do this, conjure up some tiny little flaw which you then use to push people away.
ME: Oh fuck me, we've progressed to people? Like, in general? I thought we were talking about boyfriendlies. *fliches cigarette* That must be why I've had trouble following your train of thought.
JOEL: *pissy look, snatches fag back and puts it out* You have a history of this.
ME: Why are you pissed off? OK, OK. *raises hands in mock surrender* Just be sure to let me know when I decide to push you away, then.
JOEL: You're just annoyed because you had the perfect person, you panicked and you blew it.
ME: What are you talking about? He finished with me. Remember that tiny little insignificant detail?
JOEL: We're not talking about him right now. You know you pushed him into it.
ME: *ignores him, lights up, tries not to throw a tantrum* I liked you much better when you were too busy trying to get your hands up my top to psychoanalyse me.
JOEL: Just admit he was the perfect guy for you, get back with him, and then I'll get back to my default position.
ME: *finally realising I'm in over my head* He is so NOT perfect.