Since I gave up smoking, drink has started to become a problem. Not in it's self. As long as I can afford it and still get to work, I don't see anything's wrong. It's the tendency I have, to talk total bollocks and email when pissed, that's
the problem. Sunday mornings are the worst. I check out my 'sent items'. Cringe at some of the things I've typed. Sometimes I realise I've not only written total tosh but I've then sent it to the wrong person.
I ought to have a breathalyzer fitted to the computer. Can't log on unless the alcohol level is safe.
Saturday night. I've promised to take a lady home. Even though I didn't know she was moving on to a different pub, I still keep it. It's an unusually warm for a wet winters night and I don't mind. The uphill wander is pleasant.
"....but you sometimes like having sex with men right?" She muses on the way home.
This took me a little by surprise.
"No." I said. It was probably time I clarified things. Whilst I enjoy sexual ambiguity, I ought to explain to people I choose to hang out with.
"Even if the entire female population of the planed evaporated, I wouldn't have sex with men."
I'm guessing some rumor is circulating the village. It may have been fueled by my regularly answering the question,
"Are you gay?" with a flirtatious flick of the eyebrows and the reply, "I might be."
My Englishness is often interpreted in Wales as camp.
Later back with the girls at my local, Nutty, the lady next to me asks, ".....but you sometimes like having sex with men right?"
Twice in one night and with identical wording. Something going on. I put her right and resolve to investigate in the morning.
Sunday morning looking through the sent items, there is one to Nutty in which I sign off,
'Tickersoid the poof.'