The week that was wasn’t all that much. There were the usual minuted meetings about enclosures being squeezed so as to display every highly poisonous animal on earth in a desperate grab for visitors, a raft of customer complaints that the cafeteria isn’t catering to anyone beyond those who adore consuming genetically modified goop, and of course there was Friday’s unexpected surprise of catching two love birds going hammer, Trojan and tongue during my lunchtime walk. I wasn’t expecting anything special as I took my stroll around the rear of the enclosures, but there Tom was in all his multi-inched glory giving a through induction to one of the PhD students. It was just one of the perks of being a keeper of mammals and being thirty-two without a gram of fat on his body.Tom had offered me a ride on the pointy saddle about eight or more years ago, and at the time I withheld, thinking I could do better. That was the problem with my brain; all that withholding from thinking, and now I would have loved it if he had even bothered to shoot me a glance as I stood there gawking at his amazing dexterity with one leg propped against the wall.
Elizabeth in reception came up with the suggestion that I should hop onto something called Second Life in my quest for the ‘long lost other side of the bed warmeruperer’. Apparently everyone using it can look how they want to be and meet people from anywhere in the world, but even on the off-chance that the guy who liked like a 3D version of Tom actually was a buff-a-blow Tom in real life, which virtual character would actually want to go out with a forty-two year old anglo woman with sore arches and the occasional strand of grey hair?
I didn’t want to have to morph into Jennifer McCarthy in order to get some action, and even then, what’s the difference between virtual sex and my current relationship with Duracell and Co?
So many questions and too long to recharge,
Ms more-fabulous-if-I-was-blonde M.
