Sydney Life

The last time we spoke, I was being hounded by Mr. T.

Since then, a hound has saved me from Mr. T.

Allow me to update you, and possibly even sedate you, with my by-now boring story of two birds, a stone and a perfect hit.

At a friend’s birthday party some weeks ago, I was enjoying myself. I wasn’t even meant to be there that weekend, I had told my boss that I’d housesit for her (but then realised that my own parents were going away, and that our house needed to be ‘sat’); I also had a lot of uni work to do. I told myself that I’d make an appearance at the party, drink a glass of wine, drop off my present, and return home to my very dear friend, Transmeta the Laptop.

But two hours into the evening, and zero glasses of wine drunk, I was having far too good a time to leave. The name of the good time was Mr. P. And he was lovely.

We were flirting and talking and cutting birthday cake and, well, flirting. He had brought his dog (let’s not ask why, people. Leave it. Let it go. I have. The kid was cute. He was charming. And he was flirting with me. We do not need to ask why the dog was there. Got it?) When I told him that I wasn’t exactly an animal lover, he told me (and I quote) that I just hadn’t met the right animal yet. He proceeded to take my hand in his, and used it to stroke his dog. (NB This is not a euphemism. There was an actual dog involved.)

The dog: not so bad. The boy: hmmm hmmm hmmm. Surely it is bad news when one resorts to onomatopoeia to describe one’s feelings?

Later that evening, with Mr T. all but forgotten, I got to wondering. Was this the non-set-up set-up I had been waiting for? Was this boy more than a Friday night flirt?

My thoughts were I interrupted by a car; hurtling right toward me, and everyone else at the party. It was midnight – who the hell could this be?

Miss C answered my question: “Lauren! Oh God….it’s….it’s Mr. T!”

It was the fastest I’d ever run I tell ya, kids, I could have qualified for the Olympics that night. There’s nothing like an emotional Cancer to get a gal running for the nearest hideaway.

Miss C and I hid inside. Panting, we frantically looked around for a getaway. Could we stay inside all night? Would he come inside? Were our frenzied screams as obvious as we feared they might be?

A knock at the door: Mr P. wanted to know what had caused our scurry. As I explained, a slow smile (have I mentioned the smile? Oh God…the smile!) began to form.

“Lauren, it’s fine. Go back outside. I’ll be there in a minute. We’ll pretend we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Don’t worry about it.”

Ta-da! I could not have planned it better in my mind.

If I was qualifying for the Olympics that night, Mr. P could have won an Oscar. The acting was perfect – “Sweetie, are you warm enough?”…. “Honey, do you need another drink?” There were kisses planted on my forehead, an arm around my shoulder, a hand on my thigh (not too high, Mum, don’t fret.)

Despite our quite obvious lovefest, Mr. T ambled on over to say hello. Again, I couldn’t have planned it better myself: the dog (who is now my best friend) began barking incessantly. In an attempt to stifle my laughter, I buried my head in Mr. P’s shoulder.

And there they were: butterflies. Maybe I am an animal lover, after all.