Caveat: That I am writing this is more a reflection of its painful irony and priceless comic timing than any vestigial fuzzy feelings towards Sam.
Two Sundays ago, I was enjoying a very decadent and lazy Sunday. I had literally double-booked myself and so had one brunch scheduled at 10.30 with the girls at Wagyu on Wyndham Street and another one at noon at Heirloom in Sheung Wan. Yes I know my ass is quite vast, as it is, but this double booking was not one I could I have avoided.
I was in a silly mood so I wore a navy mickey mouse tee with a very short black skirt and multicoloured patent Bass brogues. I like walking in my brogues, they seem to put a spring in my step, as do conversations and coffee with my girls. It was a beautiful day, so I set about on a lazy Sunday stroll from Wyndham down to the end of Hollywood Road where Heirloom is.
And incidentally also where His Doucheness, the Lord of the Turds lives.*
I wasn’t texting during this particular stroll, no, I was admiring the graffiti and the antique shops and oh is that a new bar, cool! And then right in front of me, barely 20 metres away, I saw him. He was walking right towards me but he wasn’t looking at me (thankfully). He was looking at the girl whose hand he was holding.
Right, no time to waste (see what I did there?). Choose awkward run-in and forced conversation or Choose Life. I chose life. I dashed across the street (it would have been a fantastically ironic moment to have been run over by a taxi but thankfully, again, I wasn’t). There was a huge pit on the side of the road for cable repairs or some such so there were all manner of barriers to give me cover. I could have ducked but I really didn’t need to. Okay maybe I ducked a little. But I stuck my head up like a gopher for one microsecond to sneak a second glance at the woman. She was in blue jeans and a blue striped full-sleeve teeshirt (both the same shade of blue). I could have shouted “There’s Waldo!” but I am above that (only ever so slightly). She was rather plain looking, Chinese and older than me. All of which struck me at first as slightly odd (as Sam, despite being half-Chinese had told me he would never date a Chinese girl and that his mother forbade it. How laughable this sounds in hindsight.)
But then again I am glad cause Sam is pretty boring himself and does not read or have any intellectual pursuits. Well unless you count following the gossip around WAGs of football as an intellectual pursuit.# True story – he once talked to me about Nicole Schersinger or however you spell her last name. I reacted with a disgusted expression which came to my face faster than my brain could tell it not to. Can you blame me?
Obviously, I was infuriated by what I had seen and offended not at the fact that he’d moved on pretty quickly but at the fact that a bald, boring 38-year-old who is pretty vanilla in bed can be a womanizer. Holding hands and strolling with any girl he can get his hands on like a card-carrying slut! More fundamentally, I was infuriated that I showed such poor judgment. I had no idea that underneath the nice-guy-exterior was a certified twat.
And that he ruined my mid-Sunday-afternoon-pottering. Fuck him.
# Lehmunade met him a long time ago, before Sam and I even went on our first date, and she had categorically said “he is not intelligent enough for you”. Shimpy’s reaction to my having gone on a date with him was “Really? That guy?” I had brushed off their comments then but really, I ought to listen to the gut, my own and my friends’.
*And where I live. He lives about 300 metres away from me and works 10 feet away from me. The entire time I was writing this post, Sam was in his boss’s office, which is right behind my desk, laughing his irritating, joyless, fake laughter. Let that sink in. No one deserves the next Nobel Peace Prize more than I do for not hurling a large, heavy object in Sam’s general direction.