Bastard / not bastard

Esteem is a fickle thing.  Last week, on two consecutive evenings I enjoyed that rare feeling of genuine connection with people.  The platform of little shared experience, industry knowledge, football fandom segued into banter, drinks exchanged, a sense of being on the same wavelength and reciprocal free mockery.  I left both feeling that maybe not all people are crap.  And hell, maybe I’m not either.  I’m actually ok.  I can relate with my fellow man well, providing they’re not idiots.  I can make them like me by just being myself, easily enough.  Engaging with them, showing basic interest, being human.  It’s not difficult.

Aweek later I’m wondering if I’m actually a cunt.

I highlighted an industry contact early on in my freelance life as being potentially useful.  Well connected, smartish if guarded, good reputation, something weirdly impenetrable, but still worth aligning with.  So I did.  My reservations fluctuated at each time of meeting.  Though nice and genuine enough, she never asked a single question about me which wasn’t to do with work.  Where are you from, what are your interests, where are you going on holiday.. ? – I consider that kind of fluff important in initially forging relationships, so I asked those questions, received willing-sounding answers, but the questions were never returned.  We spoke of work things.  She also reveals excessive detail through prodigious, largely dull tweeting and Facebook updates, and carries this air of confidence and a consumingly smug verisimilitude.  She extols the virtues of having an opinion, whatever that opinion is, so people remember you.  Even if it’s dubious-to-bollocks, which hers often are.  I frequently found myself tongue-biting, not inclined to argue with her.  She adopts a veneer of smiley fluffyness which is actually quite hollow and difficult to get to know.  Mid 40s, single, advertising her availability to all via Twitter: a sign of rigid self belief and don’t-give-a-shit confidence, or deep insecurity?

I wear that ambiguity too though.  Well, maybe a bit.  Look around.  That’s why I have this account, and did have another which I tweeted anonymously through and brought on this whole sorry palaver.  I believed not many people read it, as this one.  After much of yesterday being annoyed by her, I tweeted through it that I’d spent the day in a city office with quite posh people, who’s first names I critically and stupidly named.  They were very posh names, but not outlandish, unique names.

I shan’t copy verbatim, or even close as I’m nervous that the words may be Googled and lead to this site, forcing another deletion.

The second message was the more indicting, but led to by those first names – which was how the lady somehow found the account.  I said that I wondered why I chose to work with them, because they were annoying, and I used a silly adverb before annoying.  I mentioned no names.  In doing this I slit my throat. 

(Although me saying that something’s annoying isn’t uncommon.  Most things and people annoy me in some way: I’m a sad, sorry, miserable misanthropic twat.  In fact, it’d probably be more unnerving if Iwasn’t annoyed in any way.  But that’s all quite tricky to convey).

Earlyish this morning my mobile buzzed with the name of the posh lady.  I answered brightly, wondering what she wanted.  I had no problem at all with the poshness thing really; it just amused me and I liked the lady.  And there was the potential of some freelance work through her agency, as well as the work I’d been doing at her premises with the other annoying one.  She told me that the other one had sent her a message, flagging my tweets, and she said it was best if we don’t work together or pursue our professional relationship. 

This struck me hard, winded me.  What?!  Why?  How?  What the fuck had I done?  Did send it in the wrong account..?  No.  It was made stranger by the fact that my sleep had been interrupted by a persistently nagging dream that I’d dropped such a Twitter clanger.  Was I actually still asleep?  Nope, definitely not.  Damn.  Just coincidence or did I subconsciously do something, notice something the day before?  A freaky cosmic premonition?  I hadn’t posted to the wrong account or linked it.  It was still on that silly anonymous account.  How had she then found it?  The names?  A search?  It was quite creepy that she had, however she had.  Did I even want to know?  Why didn’t she come directly to me rather than report it through a message to the posh lady, like a telltale schoolgirl snitch?  I flushed hot and cold, panicked, in shock, apologised profusely, expressed my embarrassment, said “I understand” too much.  What more could I do?  I’d been hung out to dry.  Plus, two potential contracts snuffed out.

After leaving a message on her voicemail in the morning, she returned my call at lunchtime, no doubt keen to get it over with.  Disgusted and disappointed were words she used a lot.  Disgusted?!  Really?  I’d tweeted that I found some colleagues quite annoying.  A betrayal of trust, perhaps.  But was that really disgusting?  Sling me onto death row with all the paedos immedately.  She beat me to the punch in verbally severing our business ties.  I said I wanted to be civil and amicable in public, should we come across each other at events.  This was rejected.

So, from a decent, likeable chap to disgusting bastard in one week.  I should do makeunders for the nice and sell them to ITV2.


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