Thursday, October 14, 2004
Cat And Mouse
A friend recently revealed that until she'd got to know me she'd always found me somewhat intimidating, and regularly approached me with all the enthusiasm of Christian in the arena taking Tiddles his tea. And that was so silly, she said, as she slurped on her second sherry, because actually I'm really rather nice.
(Sweet one week. Nice the next. If this carries on much longer then it'll be beatification by bedtime, and sainthood shortly after Sunday evening's Songs of Praise. )
I suppose I do have a bit of a reputation for having a loud line in put-downs, dropping acerbic acid-drops and lobbing coruscating comments like a third-rate Dorothy Parker knocking back the Absolut in her own Vicious Circle of one. And I am, after all, never knowingly underheard.
It's a habit I should temper, learnt back in the bad old gays, when pre-emptive attack was the best form of defence against criticism and abuse. But like most wisecracking nellies, or Just Jack wannabes, beneath the bitchy badinage and brassy behaviour, the vitriol is strictly vanilla, and the sarcasm and barbed one-liners played largely for laughs.
Honest, my dears, deep down I'm really just one big shy pussycat.
Playing with my mice.