Kate Loss

This morning I was approached in the actual street near Archway tube by some random look-at-me-I’m-so-urban-innit bloke, who informed me that my boots were amazing, man (‘thanks’ nice of him to notice). He then asked me where they were from (‘Chloe’ check me out) said he worked in fashion or something (really? Not loving those tracky bees, dude), and asked me what my name was (‘Kate’ this is a bit weird), what I did for a living (‘writer’ where are we going with this?), who for (‘XXX magazine’ shit is he going to start stalking me, shouldn’t have said that) and whether I lived nearby (‘er, sort of’ see how I learned from my previous answer, but there’s still a chance he’s going to track me down and rape me in my sleep).

Unfortunately, he was walking in the same direction as me so I couldn’t get rid of him, so the conversation continued.

He asked me what I was listening to on my iPod (‘*pause* Jamiroquai’ why am I still talking to this man and more to the point why am I suddenly worried that he might not think Jamiroquai is cool?) and then, finally, asked me for my phone number (‘I’m not giving you my number, sorry’ go AWAY, freakoid). He then asked how, if I didn’t give him my number, he was going to contact me? (‘Sorry, I don’t give out my number to random men on the street’ err, that’s the whole point, rapeboy).  Finally, I implied that my gangster husband might kill him on sight if he ever laid eyes on him (‘um, I don’t think the husband would be best pleased, um’), and he left me to enter the tube station alone.

Conclusion: The Boots are little hussies and must be kept in check.