Poppies and Chest Hair

Well, yesterday was eventful. I planned out the rest of Lucy’s character, poured over the timeline and figured out some sub plots, and in between all of that, I discovered I had been discovered by a delightful internet troll called Poppy.

The writing did seem familiar, but many native English speakers make that mistake: ‘then’ when it should be ‘than’, ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’, and so on. I’m sure I do that too when I type something in a hurry and it comes out phonetically instead. But there was something slightly eerie about it, compounded by the fact that this Poppy person didn’t have a link to her name like users on this portal, where I publish some articles once in a while, usually do. I also found it a little strange that someone who clearly didn’t want to put a face to their opinions, said things like she would always “try to see the female perspective” (why exactly – why should we be favoured or disadvantaged based on genitals?! I’ll try to see everyone’s point of view, thanks very much, and make up my mind up based on what they say and do, not what’s in their pants) and a few other lines that seemed a little… …off.

There was something else too, but let’s not go into too much detail. Let’s just say when I realised who it was and discovered how this person had found her way to not only my articles, but this blog too, I went a little cold.

Anyway. That was exciting and I have never been stalked before, so I’m feeling quite flattered even though this definitely explored psychosis beyond what I find comfortable – witnessing the metamphetamine addict from afar, who sometimes dances around in parks here in Chiswick is plenty.

Anyway. I decided to deal with Poppy in a much better way than what I initially wanted to do: hide from her. And I’d never start the same kind of creeping up on people in cyber space using an alias. (Hi, by the way, if you’re here again – how’s your good self this morning? And Poppy and Rose?) So I will face it head on, and I will not care what people may think about it. I may not be all that complimentary and I’ve chucked a fair bit of chilli on there, but Poppy will hopefully understand that behaviour like that will make her the butt of the joke and given the severity of what she did (that I could indeed take further), she had a few jibes coming. Come on, it’s funny if you think about it. Fucked up, but funny.

Meanwhile in Chiswick…. …the morning sun is finding its way into this little writing spot I’ve created for myself in the dining room. Next to me on the table the Yatzy game B and I played last night. For a change, he won five times in a row and whooped loudly out of excitement, bless his little heart – I usually kick his ass. He’s snoozing as I write this, whereas I bounced up crazy early as usual and put on coffee, sorted out the dishes, pinched off dead flowers in the pots both on the balcony outside the kitchen and the one off our bedroom and then watered all those. Hopped back into bed to steal a few moments with the neglected B – he’s at his absolute tastiest first thing, his long and lean body all toasty and warm, that chest (that has the perfect amount of hair) at its absolute most delicious. I swear, I couldn’t have designed this man – he’s all my dreams come true, plus a few more that I wasn’t even aware of. Jackpot.

Hah! I remember when he came to Sweden with me for the first time. Given I was once in an abusive relationship (got beaten black and blue) and later on with a husband who spent the most part of our marriage bullying me, I guess it’s fair to say my family weren’t thrilled at the idea of a new guy on the scene. After all, they’d seen me go from a stick thin shadow of my former self who finally left a bad situation, morph back into the happy and cuddlier Anna they all used to know. I simply didn’t have a good track record when it came to selecting life partners, so my mother in particular could barely hide her scepticism.

So they all spent a couple of weeks with B. And fell in love with him just like I did. My father even did the pat on the shoulder thing (his greatest sign of approval), but I think B won him over initially just because he could hit a few clays. And then at the airport, my mother, who’d been so worried, thinking I might have picked another nut job, gave B the warmest hug (OK, she fancies him). Then when she hugged me she whispered in my ear, squeezing me a little tighter to emphasise her words: “look after that man”.

And she’s right. A guy this amazing you nurture, love to bits, appreciate, jump on to welcome him home, shower with gifts, kiss and cuddle any time you pass him, compliment and generally take care of the best you can. Oh, and I never have a headache, even when I have a headache, if you know what I mean. I’m a very, very fortunate girl and I am very, very aware of that fact.

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