Mr EPC

March 2011

Not being on talking terms with the Plumber, Fate steps into the picture and deposits a tall, slim, charming and very witty Energy Performance Assessor on my doorstep.  Well, not literally.  But he does lean over at a landlord meeting and kiss me on the lips.  I was so shocked I didn't quite know where to look.  But as he is so tall his crotch is almost at my eye level, I did happen to look there and noticed his erection was about to poke my eye out.

As he was drunk and I was sober I took him home.  After I'd almost wet myself laughing at his stupid Renault (one of those ones with the bum sticking out), he invited me in for a coffee and said he might have to rape me.  Of course, any normal sane woman would have run a mile at that point.  However, I am neither normal nor sane and thought he was probably joking.  Anyway, I was interested to see whether he had an umbrella stuffed down his trousers. 

I then remembered that, yet again, my lady garden was in dire need of a strimming.  Look guys, I know you like to think that us women are smooth as a baby's bum down there with almost no effort on our part but I can tell you, and I am pretty non-hairy as it goes, that it is a constant hassle trying to keep everything neat down there.  Plus, a slight regrowth gets very itchy so the temptation to let it grow a bit longer when you're having a temporary dry spell is hard to resist.

So, there I am, in his kitchen, being snogged enthusiastically, and having what definitely feels like an umbrella pressed against my crotch, when I suddenly remember that, after my Plumber experience, I cannot have him fumbling down there and finding a far-flung bit of the Amazon Rainforest, cos it will all end badly.  So what do I do? Gaze sexily into his eyes and say, "darling, I am mad with lust and can't wait to see more of you, but I promised my son I would be home by 11."  No, I push him off me quite forcibly, pick up my keys and handbag and say "gotta go now, lovely time, byee!!" and run off into the night.  I have a dim memory of him staring at me perplexedly and saying, "is it my car?", but I might have imagined that.