Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Men Behaving Badly
It was only today, when I felt bound to be butch and lug some too-heavy boxes for one of my work-colleagues, that I realised I'm now the last remaining bloke in our work-place. That's right, we are now working in an all-girlie environment. The office is oozing with oestrogen.
At first, I thought I wouldn't mind being the sole male focus of their giggly attentions, the head of my very own troop of admiring fag-hags. After all, they've been letting me in on their boyfriend-problems, and I've been dishing out free fashion advice, and nicking their Beauty Flash, for years. A little more of the same wouldn't hurt, would it?
But I've surprised myself by missing the company of the boys (and that's the boys, not the boyz). I miss bloke-ish things like cracking seriously offensive jokes, and pretending to know tons about football; drinking too many Stellas too quickly in the huddled corners of run-down boozers, and talking tripe about seventies TV series; and, especially, and unlike on Old Compton Street, never being obliged to turn your head each time the door opens to size up the next bit of (male) totty.
Who'd ever have thought it, my dears? A closet straight-acting nellie queen after all.