Thursday, September 28, 2006

The Last Time

- or -

In Times Of Desperation - Rehash

I have actually had sex during the lifetime of this little blog, you know. A long time ago, true, back when absolutely no-one was paying any attention. I would direct you to the archives, but they’re all cringingly shit.

But seeing as there is fuck-all else happening, here it all is again, summarised in one big fuck-off blog-post.

The Scene – Glastonbury 2005

I am wearing a wedding dress that my mother made*. My friend is rigged out in top-hat and tails, accessorised with a leopard-print cane. But only an hour or so after we arrive at Lost Vagueness, my friend decides that he is ‘tired’ and wants to go home. Lightweight.

I stay. I get chatting to a bloke at the bar. Normally, I don’t talk to strange men in bars, but hey, this is Glastonbury. He’s not tall, he’s not dark, and he’s certainly not handsome, but he’s clearly got a hot body under his tux. Finding out that I’m alone, he invites me to join him and his friend on the dancefloor.

My heart sinks when I see that the ‘friend’ is a gorgeous girl.

"We’re not a couple", he announces after a while.

I take the hint. We spend the next few hours kissing on the dancefloor. We are very compatible.

By 5:30, the sun has come up and the marquee is finally starting to thin out. He invites himself back to my tent. Normally, I never share my tent. (The previous year, I refused to let Wet Lettuce 2 come anywhere near it.) But I assent.

Under my wedding dress I am wearing my grey gym shorts (in case it got cold later) and on my feet I have socks, then plastic bags, then trainers. This does not put Glastonbury Guy off in the slightest. Despite the confines we manage to, well, you can imagine. (And credit to any man who happily gives a lass a good tonguing on day four of a festival.)

The next weekend, he comes to visit me in Bristol. A few weeks later, I see him in London. We manage to christen most rooms in both our houses.

I go back home, and never hear from him again.


Months pass. Then I get a text.

"Hi Spinny, it’s Glastonbury Guy. I had my phone stolen, just found your number. Give me a call sometime."

Cheeky fucker. I text him back, saying that he can call me.

Then my phone was nicked too. I have no idea if he ever called again. I suspect not.

But as I look into the yawning chasm of celibacy, loneliness and spinsterhood of my future, I remember the last time. Perched on the back of a sofa, mid-monday-afternoon, in a flat somewhere in Tooting. If the last time was indeed The Last Time, as least it was a good one.

* There is a perfectly rational explanation as to why I own a wedding dress made by my mother.


  • There is absolutely NO REASON why your last time should be your Last Time. you've loads of life left in you! (and Bob Swipe totally wants to jump your bones.)

    great story.

    By Blogger Chaucer's Bitch, at 9:02 PM  

  • If it's any comfort, I only get to have sex once a year (and it's about time). Sadly that was the case for most of my marriage too.

    By Blogger GreatSheElephant, at 12:09 PM  

  • by the by, what is the rational explanation for owning a wedding dress made by your mother?

    By Blogger Chaucer's Bitch, at 2:10 PM  

  • Yeah, more detail about the wedding dress.

    By Blogger realdoc, at 3:20 PM  

  • I got shagged at Glastonbury once too.

    By Blogger UnderCrackers, at 7:07 PM  

  • Also got me car nicked.....fucked twice that year.

    By Blogger UnderCrackers, at 7:08 PM  

  • Sorry, the wedding dress story is very boring. I was supposed to be going to a 'House of Horrors' themed big fancy dress corporate do (which got cancelled in the end anyhow).

    So I decided to go as her out of Bride of Frankenstein. (My Mum, being a woman of the fifties, knows how ot sew.)

    I kept the dress for a while, but then I decided it was a bad omen for a young spinster to have a wedding dress in her wardrobe. Not like giving it away has improved my luck or owt.

    By Blogger Spinsterella, at 7:56 PM  

  • "...(and Bob Swipe totally wants to jump your bones.)"

    that's in a *totally* Evel Knevel type way of jumping bones, obviously...

    (For the record, I've been sticking it to Chaucer's Bitch for some time already. Spinny's just a fall back in case I ever have to do the Canterbury Tales questionnaire and CB finally realises I don't actually know the first thing about early English Lit. - I just watched the one with Dennis Waterman and Billie Piper. At least I've skimmed a couple of Johnny Coe back covers, you know, like...)

    Back on subject - great post Spin,
    even if it's "slight return". I almsot wish I was 33 again....there's a sweetness about feeling all alone that you can (believe it or not) get nostalgic about even afetr you've coupled up...

    By Blogger Robert A. Swipe, at 11:26 PM  

  • Instantly have hypnotherapy and remember his phone number. Perhaps he was THE ONE! (OK, perhaps not.) Yes, wedding dresses are a bad thing. Miss Havisham and all that. Still, nice book. And nice post, as ever.

    By Blogger BiB, at 4:10 PM  

  • Hypnotherapy is crap.

    There is no such thing as The One.

    By Blogger Chaucer's Bitch, at 6:53 PM  

  • ...see, im wondering whether you still have that couch...

    (swipe has been surplanted by that cetacean bloke. you snooze, you lose, bobby.)

    By Blogger First Nations, at 7:08 PM  

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