The Pilgrims' Progress - Part the Second.

I hate farewells. There's something about departures which saddens me immensely. Unfortunately, I happen to live in one of the most transient cities in the world. People come here for three year postings and take off to the other end of the universe. It's par for the course, but even after a decade of living here, I have yet to get used to it. I suppose one could try and avoid meeting diplos altogether but it happens. Diplo Version 1 (to borrow Sin's terminology) is leaving and I decided to host a small farewell for him last night. Diplo has been a good friend during his two and some year stint here and we share many interests in common. Being the multi tasker that I am, I also decided to help Lady M and the Brunette by using the farewell dinner as a mask of sorts, so they could invite their respective lust objects over.

First, the Brunette. I had decided to invite Mr Darcy to see if any chemistry could be built up. The Brunette, you will recall, had lost a shoe the last time I tried to bring them together. Mr Darcy was duly called and he accepted the invitation with great enthusiasm. Alas, the day before he called to apologise. Work was taking him to Bangkok. Hang on. Nobody goes to Bangkok on work. Is Mr Darcy just another frustrated sex tourist? We don't know. For now I am tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

And then there's Lady M. Alas, her objet du jour was in town and was the first person to arrive. The Jellyfish (as I shall henceforth refer to him) hasn't changed one bit. He exuded false confidence from every pore. His opening gambit was to rubbish my Davidoff cigar and suggest I smoke a Cuban instead. Pretentious twat. Beware of men who insist on consuming what is popularly perceived to be the best. Things could only get worse. And they did. One of my guests (the Princess) arrived from the other side of the Border. The Princess is pretty and bright. The Jellyfish is neither. He tried his damndest to get to know the Princess better, but if there's one thing royalty knows, it is how to deliver a royal snub. Try as he may, the Jellyfish made no headway. The Princess won hands down. Her body langauge screamed "Get away from me you oily sleazebag."

And then came the grand finale. Having failed with the Princess, the Jellyfish decided to bond with me. Big mistake. I am not an easy bonder. It takes me time to mull, muse, chew and ruminate over who my pals are. I have very few, but I prefer it that way. The bonding technique was crude to the point of ...well...a good puke. "Have you ever had it off with a north Chinese woman?" Me: "Errr. No. Actually not South Chinese either" I replied, thereby wiping off the possibility of sexual conquest with a third of the World's female population. "Great sex. And they're tall." This, I think, was an oblique reference to Lady M who is not the world's tallest person. I could feel the enamel on my teeth begin to crumble to powder. "I have a Moroccan woman in London. She looks like Angelina Jolie." Hang on. This was becoming repellant. Clearly, the Jellyfish could not have much of an interest in Lady M, if he was regaling her best friend of his Occidental and Oriental shags.

I am now stuck with having to tell Lady M the sad truth. A truth I sensed at the outset but I had to wait to have proven. The Jellyfish is an asshole of the highest order. She looked so obliviously happy last night that I was scared to broach the subject. She suggested dinner with him tomorrow and I declined in no uncertain terms. Men are complete bastards. I am contemplating lesbianism as a serious alternative. Ciao.