Seven weeks ago…
Morag: So have you ever been in love?
Scat: I’m not really sure.
Morag: If you’re not sure, then you probably haven’t.
I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but when it happens, you know.
Scat: Oh, I didn’t realize it was that simple. In that case, yes. Yes, I have.
Morag: Who with?
Scat: Just some chick.
Scat: Yes, babe?
Morag: Don’t be a jerk.
Scat: I’m not really, I just… OK, what do you want to know?
Morag: Well, what was her name?
Scat: Her name was Zuhal.
Morag: That’s an unusual name.
Scat: She was an unusual girl.
Morag: Where did you meet her?
Scat: I met her at the candy store.
No, just kidding.
I met her at Glastonbury a few summers ago. She was selling toffee apples to help disadvantaged kittens or somesuch.
I bought all of them.
50 toffee apples.
Then we went round the kiddies’ area together giving them away to little children.
Morag: Awww. That’s lovely, Stan.
Scat: Oh God, I’m sorry. Please say you didn’t believe me.
Morag: Oh you shit. Of course I believed you. Who would make up such a thing?
Scat: Oh come on, disadvantaged kittens?
Morag: I didn’t necessarily believe that bit, but the rest seemed plausible.
I actually met Zuhal on a film set. We were both extras on The Passion of the Christ.
Morag: Oh COCK OFF!!!
I’m never going to believe another word you say.
Scat: Our first date was entirely in Latin.
Morag: Does she even exist at all in fact?
And I’ve never been to Glastonbury.
Morag: So you haven’t been in love then?
Scat: I think I have. I mean, I’ve suffered all the symptoms. I’ve vomited and wept and gone to sleep and woke up feeling completely obsessed with someone, but it’s never necessarily been reciprocated.
Basically if there’s more to love than vomiting and pain, then no, I probably haven’t.
Scat: What about you?
Have you ever been in love?
Morag: Yeah, twice I think.
Scat: When you’ve been in love, you don’t think. You KNOW.
Morag: Oh yeah. Twice then.
Scat: Once with Ollie. And…?
Morag: A guy called Duke.
Scat: Duke? Like Mussolini? Il Duce?
Morag: I guess.
Scat: Was he like Mussolini in other ways?
Morag: I don’t know much about Mussolini to be honest.
Did Mussolini drive a Nissan Micra?
Morag: Did he have Celtic tattoos all over his arms and neck?
Scat: I believe he did, yes.
Morag: Did Mussolini have flesh panels?
Scat: Panels of flesh?
Morag: Flesh panels are those discs that go in people’s ear lobes and stretch them out.
That's what he called them anyway. The internet doesn't seem to agree.
Scat: Oh God, so that there’s just a big hoop of skin dangling down when they take them out?
Scat: Like a broken condom?
Morag: Yes, those.
Scat: Yeah, yeah, Mussolini had flesh panels.
Morag: Then yes. He was very like Mussolini.
Scat: What was it you loved about Mussolini then?
Morag: I think it was more what he represented. He was much older than me and – potentially at least – much wiser. I was only 17 when we started seeing each other and we were together for like, five years.
Scat: God, that’s a long time.
Morag: Then I found out he was seeing not one other person, but about half a dozen other people most of the time we were together. He didn’t treat me very well. But he was like an outlaw, you know?
Scat: In a Nissan Micra?
Morag: Yeah, he used to do graffiti. He wasn’t very good actually, but he was brave. You would see his name in some very hard to get to places.
Scat: He sounds like a dick.
Morag: He was a dick. But for a while there, I loved him.
I was consumed by him.
Love is blind.
Scat: I’ve always taken solace from that.
Morag: I love your back.
Scat: I’m sorry?
Morag: Your back. I want to bite it.
Scat: Oh come on, my back is vile. It’s all flaccid skin and stretchmarks.
Morag: I like it.
Scat: You loved it a second ago. Had you forgotten about the stretchmarks?
Morag: No. I do love it. And I love your hands.
Scat: My hands are nice. I’ll give you that.
Morag: Thank you.
Scat: I’ve always thought that if Jesus was real, He’d have hands pretty much like mine.
Scat: Shall I tell you what I like about you?
Morag: OK then.
Scat: I like the way the skin on the inner walls of your thighs is like the smoothest, softest thing in the universe. Like warm mercury wrapped in the skin from angels’ wings.
Scat: Like the skin on the rice pudding of the gods.
OK, I like the dark curls on the nape of your neck, I like how your skin tingles when I kiss you there.
I love the small of your back and the swell of your hips and the rise and fall of your belly when you sleep.
I love your breasts, and I love your hair, and I love your eyes and your lips and your sharp ways.
Morag: You’ve been watching me sleep?
What sharp ways?
Scat: A bit.
Morag: You mean my tongue?
Scat: Yes. I love the sharpness of your tongue.
Even if it hurts.
Maybe even because it hurts. I’m weird like that.
Morag: You’re using the L-word a lot.
Scat: No biggie. I love cats and baked potatoes and Chai Steamers too.
Morag: You didn’t know what a Chai Steamer was till last week.
Scat: I know! I’ve so much to thank you for.
Morag: You’re funny.
You make me laugh.
Scat: What am I, a clown? I’m here to amuse you?
Morag: No, you know, the way you tell the story and everything.
Are you sure we should be chatting so much, what with us just being fuck buddies and all?
Morag: I don’t think there are any rules, are there?
Stan: I guess not.
Or at least if there are I don’t know them.
Morag: Me neither.
Are you coming down this weekend then?
Stan: Try and stop me.
Morag: I don’t want to stop you.
I want your hands in my muff.
There is no emoticon for what I’m feeling right now.
I can’t believe my luck.
Morag: Believe it.
Friday, 3 October 2008
Seven weeks ago…