Monday 2nd April. Cufflinks v Serial-Killers.

My general malaise continues.

Yesterday I spent sulking because Annabelle had gone off to the Royal Albert Hall to see Jessie J and the Teenager was out cheerfully being sixteen years old with his mates.

It’s not that I want my kids with me 24/7 (God forbid, can you imagine…..?)  But, if I’m feeling needy and over-looked, the last thing I want is them (or anyone else for that matter) to be out having fun and ‘getting the most out of their lives’.

When I’m wallowing in self-pity, the only possible thing that can go any way at all to cheering me up is hearing that someone else is having a demonstrably worse time than me.

For that I need Jeremy Kyle and a love triangle that includes at least two members of the same family, one of whom who, hopefully, has no teeth and a kid called ‘Lampshade-Airhunter.’

Since it was the weekend and Jezza isn’t on, I had to satisfy myself with ‘Snapped: Women Who Kill’ on the Crime and Investigation channel. It wasn’t ideal but did sort of do the trick since, unlike the stars of the gripping ‘docu-drama-re-enactments’, my dismembered corpse has  yet to be discovered in a dumpster in Texas.

A win is a win my friend.

Whilst its true to say that the headless torsos of the victims of these slasher-crimes are, arguably, in a worse boat than I currently am,  in terms of increasing my self-esteem, it was pretty slim-pickin’s.

I did manage, at about three ‘o’ clock,  to swap sprawling face-down in bed watching TV, for sprawling face-down on the sofa watching TV, but the pyjamas remained firmly in place so in terms of a step in the right direction, it was merely geographical rather than metaphysical in nature.

In all honesty, the activities of the ‘Prairie-Fart-(Idaho)-Serial-Killer’ notwithstanding, I spent most of the day thinking about Red-Herrings.

In particular Red-Herrings that wear business suits and carry brief-cases.

Why is it that men are so hell-bent on using the ‘blindfold and dartboard’ method of having a conversation with a woman?

Friend-Kate says it’s because they, lacking a true understanding of us women-crittures and in a misguided attempt to bring us happiness, are gamely having a bash at ‘telling us what it is that they think we want to be hearing.’

Friend-Karen says it’s because they want to get into your knickers so they bullshit and fire off random sentences until they do, whereupon they totally lose interest.

Either way, (and this isn’t a knicker-related confession, although I’ll let you draw your own conclusions on that one) when the interest has waned, your only memories of the relationship are the wispy vapour-trails left behind from the castles that he earnestly, and furthermore insistently, constructed in the air for you.

Or in my case, the ‘recently renovated’ four bed detached in a Buckinghamshire village that we were, having on/offed it for six frustrating years, finally going to call home.

So why the need for all the ‘No, really, I mean-it’s?

I wasn’t actually looking for a new home?

Nor was I, originally, in the market for having to start cooking/gardening/ ironing or picking up my laundry?

His pitch however, was so convincing, that at one point in the three month ‘Red-Herring-Tender-Process’ I found myself emailing him prospective duvet covers for approval?

There can be no excuse, I should have known better.

I, like many women before me, took a trip up the Yellow-Brick-Road toward the gleaming turrets and towers of Munchkin-Land.

I fell for the absolutely worst kind of man.

The Red-Herring.

According to the FBI profilers in Virginia, USA, at least you know where you are with a serial-killer.

Red-Herrings might wear cufflinks but they take their time, they do their research and ultimately, they also get the job done.

Just because you don’t end up face-down in a water-barrel the first time you get a lift from them, doesn’t mean you aint going to end up battered and bleeding.

Consider yourself warned.

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