Exiting The Courtyard in a jubilant and cheeky mood. Swinging round into the glass doors at great velocity I see my friend Jim, who should technically be my evil arch enemy, as he is from (pause for dread and “de-de-dehhhh” noise) OLD VISION.
Gliding through the doorway I raise my right hand and am about to offer a friendly and perhaps over-enthusiastic wave. Suddenly, I am filled with horror and panic as I realise he is talking to someone else, someone who is ALSO FROM VISION (de-de-dehhh here again if you like…) but whose name is someoneIthinkIknowthenameofbutcantquiiiiteremember. In a rash, shock horror move I for some reason decide to therefore extend my left arm outwards as well, waving to them both in order not to snub boyontheleftwhosenameIdooonthinkisPaddybutIdontknowwhatitbloodyisanditisSOtoolatetoask?
Turning myself into what could only be defined as a human windmill of etiquette, I swiftly shoot my arms out, thrusting and rotating my palms into both of their faces with such violence that I a) nearly break Jim’s nose and b) destroy what now seems like it was probably quite an important and serious convo.
As I realise I have made myself into a Charlotte-rotisserie I see their faces. Jim looks shocked. Nameless boy looks expressionless, but I figure that can’t be good. In an even more daring and reckless move I decide to coo “helllloooo Vision!” in a high pitched and manic voice.
I regret all of this. Sorry Jim. Sorry…other boy….
Derwent Bar. About 20 sex themed songs after 8pm. Take Me Out. (This is not a suggestion by the way, it’s the name of the event….) Final round. I am surrounded by roughly 10 Helen of Troy lookalikes.
It’s the question round. It’s the only part in Take Me Out where I have been required to utter anything other than either a girlish, brainless titter accompanied with a large quantity of hair flicking, or a “whooping” noise of the kind done on Jerry Springer. The latter, by the way, I am particularly ill at ease with.
I have never been the kind to “whoop” on queue. So. The Big Question. “What’s the best thing about a horse?” I am unprepared for this. My careful homework with my housemates prepped me for “what food would you eat off me?” or “would you let *insert suitably inappropriate phrase* on your *insert suitably appropriate body part*” but not, sadly, for anything involving horses.
Answers fly left, right and centre from my exotic competitors. “You can mount them,” cites one with a cheeky wink. “I don’t know, but I’d love to ride you,” replies another Princess of the Jungle. But what can I think of? “Shiny.”
That’s literally aaaalll that comes to mind. In my head I try to sex it up a bit. “They’re shiny, but I like it like that,” I think. Nope, that’s no good. “They’re shiny, which is slippery, which is a bit… oh fuck”. Finally, it’s the girl next to me. She offers an answer I cant remember, but which offers a level of “whooping” (and, also I believe “ooh yeaaa”s) which shoots off the Richter scale.
“So, Charlotte, can you top that?” offers our saucy hostess. The crowd waits with baited/alcoholic breath. “Um, no, Sarah, no I can’t”. Oh dear.
In the Nouse office, having been recently introduced to the delights of chatroulette.com. Yet, it seems, not sufficiently warned.
“What are you doing Charlotte?”
“Ah Leigh, well you see this guy on his webcam is having a nap, which is sooo funny, so I’m pretending to have a nap too so that when he wakes up he’ll get really confused!”
“He’s not having a nap, Charlotte.”
“Of course he is Leigh! What else would he be doing with his head on the desk and his hands underneath!”
*Leigh Clarke, Sports Journalist and chatroulette sage at this points illuminates his somewhat naive editress”
“Oh God, click next Leigh, click!”