Could It Be Magic?

Armed with her resolution re EnunuchMan and the festering pants, PussyGirl had returned to her filtering and filing.

She had been literally inundated with profiles and requests for all sorts of communication - some barely acceptable to the average decent citizen.
PussyGirl, was above all a pragmatist and she knew that in order to meet her Prince, she would have to kiss all sorts of amphibians.

In fact, she saw this as all part of the fun; she hadn't been kissed for a long time and at least, she thought, if nothing else, she would relearn the age old art of liplocking.

PussyGirl had been contacted by MagicMan - the moniker will become clear as this tale unfolds - and had decided, after various postponments, that she really ought to meet him.

"There is something endearing about persistance," she thought "and what harm can it do to meet for dinner?" He had contacted her assiduously over a period of six weeks. Looking back, PG knew that this should have been a warning sign, but she was an optimist at heart.

The protocol was straightforward : -

1. Accept initial request for contact details; use a chat service whenever possible, otherwise the emotionally challenged ones start sending you pictures of their penises at all hours of the morning in the futile hope that you may be overwhelmed by the sight of such appendage and instantly demand sexual communion with them

2. After a satisfactory exchange of chit chat, cut to the chase and arrange a telephonic exchange - mainly to ensure they at least SOUND reasonable and have no heavy breathing issues (sadly halitosis, club feet and dodgy dress sense are not detectable via phone lines).

3. Pick a date - always ensuring that it is somewhere visible and close to the tube if an emergency exit is deemed necessary.

And so, MagicMan had passed the initial filtering and a date had been set. The venue? A riverside eaterie south of the river. What could go wrong?

As PussyGirl waited, the first doubts began to creep into her mind. She had seen a photo, but it was slightly blurred. She did remeber that he looked a bit small; but hey Dustin Hoffman is small and he is OK. Tom Cruise is also small - hmmmmmmm. Enough said.

MagicMan phoned her just as he was due to arrive:

"Now, where is this bloody restaurant????????? I am in it and I can't see you, unless you don't look like your photo...."

"Well I am here, in the place we agreed, just by Tower Bridge, southside....."

"What? You didn't bloody tell me southside, I am by St Katherine's Dock...."

"Not to worry, you mustn't have checked the map on the link I sent. Look, just drive across the bridge, I am still waiting for our table, so I will let them know..."

"Drive across? Don't you know how many miles I have done today, Manchester to London and more. Christ, what a grind!"

"Ok, look if it is too much trouble, let's leave it. You sound agitated..."

" I AM NOT AGITATED AND I WILL BE THERE!!!!"

Yikes, he was one angry man. Still, wait and see. Could just have had a bad day.

Half an hour later, the full horror of her error became apparent. Here he was is all his gameshow host glory, with an overpressed suit and a much too sharp shirt. His tie was ridiculous and the cufflinks too bad to mention. And the hair? one word - bouffant.

PussyGirl decided to persist, he could be nice, don't judge a book by its cover (this one would be a crappy life manual with an uber glitzy cover for sure).

MagicMan was keen to talk, about himself mainly. He was separated from the bitch from hell, sold "biological implements" for a living - his own company mind, and had a son who was at university "wasting his time, like everyone who goes to uni".

PussyGirl saw an opening and leapt at it: "well, I work at a uni and I have to say, there is a value attached to Higher Education."

And then, he was off.

To summarise, MagicMan ranted at length about the wastrels in Education, his own University of Life approach and the fact that while PussyGirl might be fluent in seven languages, he delivered results for the economy and could get by with a phrase book.

It got worse; he offered to pay the bill, informing her that it was on expenses anyway, so he wasn't really inviting her to dinner - which was a good thing because women used sex to bribe men and they (men) had to use money............

"Oh, Lord," she said to herself "no wonder it seemed easy to get hits. These guys are all unloveable at best and angry misogynists at worst. I need to escape and fast."

PussyGirl informed MagicMan that she really should be making her way home as it was getting late and academia, despite his misgivings, could be a tiring place for feline temptresses.

As they walked to the tube, she hoped and prayed he would not try to kiss her.

"Listen, love. I just want to say that I have had a cracking evening and you are not bad really. I've an hotel booked round the corner, and it would be a shame to waste it."

PussyGirl sweetly replied "Indeed, so you should go back and make the most of it, unless you are planning on sleeping in the street."

"What? I came all this way and now you are not coming back with me. I was gonna tell you that I thought I had won the lottery when I met you. Not bad looking, a bit on the chubby side, but I like something to grab hold of, but......"

PussyGirl didn't hear the rest of his sentence, she had already made her escape and was boarding the train home.

"Jesus, I nver met such an angry man. He reminds me of someone. Hmmmmm........"

And then it came to her, "An Angry Paul Daniels!!!!"

And that, dear reader, is angry.........