Today’s spammy lady letter (not claiming to be Russian this time) and my reply:-
I beg your pardon perhaps I am right. However I crossed with you at the mall. You remember the girl in red trousers. I pledged you that I’ll transfer to you my pictures.
You have a boy’s name. Did you know that? But that’s OK. I once dated a man with moobs so these days a few blurred lines are acceptable.
Now, down to business! You say you crossed with me at the mall? I can tell you’re not a local girl then as round here we’re all still calling The Mall by its former name of the Chequers Centre, or if you’ve been in these here parts since the 70s then The Stoneborough Centre. Nobody calls it the mall. We’re not American, you know.
You’re going to have to forgive me but I have no recollection of you or your legendary ‘red trousers’. Was it the day I was shopping for Shake n Vac in Wilkos? I could have been wildly distracted by the half-price dog treats or possibly by that incident with the gentleman who was licking all the sushi in the snack section and then putting it back. I’m so sorry for my shoddy memory. Your red trousers sound great, so you’d think I’d remember them. Especially in Maidstone…home of beige and navy blue. You’d think someone who dared to step out in something as jaunty and aflame as crimson britches would have stuck in my mind. But perhaps you only thought I was attracted to your trousers when I was actually looking at your sizeable arse? Or maybe I was privately mocking the way you walk (it’s a hobby of mine to laugh at tarty girls waddling in uncomfortable shoes you see, being the sort of girl who likes a more solid sort of wide-fit cankle boot myself – something comfy from Clarks perhaps or a well-heeled sturdy court shoe from Marks…mmm mmmm).
Yet you say you ‘pledged’ to transfer me your pictures? Were we drunk? Was this the night after that terrible episode of ‘Call the Midwives’ where I was still drowning my sorrows the next day about that poor syphilitic girl and the lady with the retained placenta? You ‘pledged’ them to me? What did I pledge in return? I’m so terribly sorry. Once again my memory fails me. I’m not in the habit of making heartfelt oaths to strange women in scarlet laderhosen but obviously on this occasion something in me must have snapped. Please tell me I didn’t pledge you my collection of novelty scented rubbers? They might not have any financial value but I’m very sentimental about some of them. Particularly the one I stole from Neneh Cherry’s handbag in 1986. And the one that got stuck up Brian Blessed’s nose at that Liberal Democrat fundraising evening after a dare that went wrong and had to be removed with eyebrow tweezers amongst some of the bluest language I’ve ever heard. Ah, sweet memories!
Anyway, I digress! You can’t have the collection, no matter what pictures you pledged me! I don’t care what you said or how vibrant your trousers were that day at ‘the mall’! Let’s just agree that you keep your pictures and I’ll keep my novelty scented rubber collection and we’ll never mention that day we crossed paths ever again. Deal?
You take care too,
Mrs Flange Treacle x