Ah the life of an international playgirl - London, Worcester and this weekend... Reading.
I went to stay with my friend Camilla and her husband who I met a few years ago at The Italian Institute when Camilla took a course there after retiring from her job in the City. Her husband, a delightful, well-heeled and florid man called Mike had already taken the leap into golf and Sky Sports some years earlier and the two of them have subsequently grown rather fond of a gin and tonic. It was kind of them to ask me and even kinder that they had lined up tickets for a play at the Henley Fringe, at which I was confident, I would be the only unmarried woman, possibly even the only unmarried woman under 65. But never mind. There would be gin.
Alice calls me while I'm on my way there to tell him she has made her toy boy her friend on Facebook.
'You realise that now he'll know about every aspect of your life - and all about your kids too if they're your friends.'
'Ah yes, I never thought about that. But he seems very nice. I can see what people have written on his wall and he sounds very normal. I think he might have swine flu.' She announces, breezily as I hope that's all he has. 'We had a really long chat yesterday...'
'I thought he had swine flu?'
'Yes but we chatted on Instant Messenger. Turns out he likes art...'
'...as well as older women.'
She laughs. She really doesn't care. I love that about her.
'You're so old-fashioned mum, says my daughter later when I express my misgivings about people on Facebook which, frankly, I can't see the point of, except as an exercise in misery or envy. 'It's by far the safest way of checking people out,' she insists.
'How so?'
'Well you can see what kind of things they do - and who they're seeing. You really don't know how to stalk, do you?'
'Why on earth would I want to?' I mean, I've seen how upset she was after her ex boyfriend changed his status from 'in a relationship' to 'single' and I know that she gets bummed out when her current boyfriend writes on her wall and that of ten other people all on the same day. I don't want to know that sort of thing. Ignorance is bliss. The Internet leaves you nowhere to hide. Even from your own horrible insecurities. What with Twitter and Facebook and mobiles, MSM, Skype, Gmail, email and text messages, as Drew Barrymore says in He's Just Not That Into You (and yes, I know this all too well) it merely gives you a whole range of methods to miscommunicate as well as several different media in which nobody gets in touch with you. The last time I had a barrage of texts - 14 empty messages - was when Mark the builder put his phone in his pocket and forgot to switch it off.
Alice gets lots of messages on Facebook from friends, she says. I only have about 8 friends and most of them I see on a daily basis anyway. I never even check my page or anyone else's. Though I do get emails (so far, all lovely) from women who have read and liked my book who have Googled me, and this blog creates some traffic, of which only the dog-mad person was hostile - but also incredibly funny. I'm not complaining, but I do like my compartments to remain separate.
The phone rings again as I'm approaching Reading. Alice tells me that she has arranged to meet her chap at her office in the afternoon.
'Alice! Do you learn nothing? Meet him at a pub for god's sake. Have you not seen Waiting for Mr Goodbar?'
'Waiting for who?'
I explain. 'Oh it'll be fine,' she insists breezily. 'But if I do end up murdered, his name is Dave and he works for Virgin.'
Yeah, and he likes art... I'm sure that's going to be very helpful for the CID.
'Just one other thing though..'
'Yessssssss...?'
'I need to ask a technical question.'
'Okay....' Be aware I'm on a crowded train on a Saturday morning. I had meant to drive but some upsetting news at home had rendered me unable to operate heavy machinery. I suddenly wished I was behind the wheel without access to the phone.
'He says (noise of her fumbling with her phone and tapping) "Do you like to be (LOUD STATIC)?" but I'm not sure what he means.'
'I didn't hear you, can you say it again?' I ask with some trepidation.
'Reading, Reading, all change for Reading,' says a disembodied voice inside a tin can.
'(MORE STATIC).'
'Nope, still didn't get it. Spell it for me.' I say and brace myself.
