There was a viewing before my grandfather’s funeral. I had ABSOLUTELY NO INTENTION of going. Then my brother, the ASS, told me that I wasn’t qualified to write about zombies if I’d never seen a dead body.
And, on reflection, I decided he made a valid point. So I did.
It was AWFUL. And I feel dirty for using my grandad as research (although, honestly, when you write, EVERYTHING is research. Secretly, I am storing up all of your tragedies for later appropriation. When I crashed my car, my first thought was, ‘YAY! Now I know how to write this!’). But on the upside, I made my brother come too, and I think it upset him even more than it upset me.
I am telling you this terrible story, internet, to warm you up. Because this next one is much, much worse.
Picture the scene: we’re at dinner. It’s a nice restaurant in Petone. My friends have gathered; wine has been taken. Scott and Clint are sitting next to each other, heads together, buried in their iPhones. They look like little boys comparing Matchbox cars.
“God,” I say, “MEN. Why don’t they just knit each other friendship bracelets already?”
Mark looks at me like I’m stupid. “I’m pretty sure they have an App for that.”
Neither guy looks up.
Beside me, Rach — darling of my heart and wife of iPhone #1 — is talking a mile a minute to Bec. Her own phone is sitting on the table between us.
Mark is looking at me. I’m looking at the phone. Rach and Scott are ignoring all of us.
I take the phone.
“Dear Scott,” I type, starting a new message. “Stop playing with your fucking phone…”
“Lame,” Mark says, swigging his drink.
“Fine.” I erase that. “Dear Scott, I would like you to…”
“Oh. My. GOD,” Shelley splutters, as I outline exactly what Rach might wish her husband to do to her on the table at a busy restaurant. I take my time composing the message: I want it to be perfect. I want it to be SO FILTHY that I can’t blog it. So filthy I can’t even say it out loud.
It’s the filthiest thing I’ve ever written. Possibly the filthiest thing ANYONE has ever written.
Beside me, Clint and Scott start to stir, like they might come out of their phone-coma and actually eat their food.
“Hurry up!” Shelley hisses at me.
Frantically, I jab at Rach’s phonebook…
You see where this story is going, right?
I composed a message on my friend’s phone, inviting the recipient to perform a number of highly illegal acts upon her person and intimating VIVIDLY the extent of her enthusiasm for them.
I did NOT send this message to her husband.
Somehow, and I still do not know exactly how, I sent this message to THEIR BABYSITTER.
Their SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD babysitter.
It ruined dinner. I nearly cried. If I’d sent it from Scott’s phone, the babysitter would have, without any doubt, called the police. I wouldn’t have blamed her.
It may still be too soon to be blogging this. It may ALWAYS be too soon to be blogging this.