By Tuesday morning my rusty dagger has become such a big part of me that I can't picture leaving the house without it. I don't completely depend on it, I'm much stronger than that, but there's a sense of security, strength, tranquility that comes from knowing that it's always there, just a few inches away from my hand, for those frequent moments that I need to feel its sharpness against my pale white skin, its brutal edge brushing against my fingers.
When I discuss this with ___, who completely understands my rational fears, I decide I need to get some more knives. This is not the time to be frivolous with my safety, it doesn't feel right to continue taking chances like this: unarmed, naked, unprotected.
I start researching knife shops near work online, realising this would make an ideal lunchtime destination, but it quickly becomes apparent that it’s not easy to find a dagger outlet in my part of central London. Blinded with desire and unable to concentrate on anything else, I ring up Scott and ask how he got hold of my existing knife, the knife that’s quickly become my most treasured possession.
Scott disappointingly informs me that his granddad (who was in the Navy) brought it from India in the 1960s as a present for Scott’s Mother, so it might be rare to find something similar around here. Quickly disregarding my concerns about anyone bringing a 25cm dagger as a present for a little girl (it was the 1960s after all) and unable to come up with more practical solutions, I zone out and start thinking of the moment I find this blade shop and walk in to make my purchase.
It’s a weekday lunchtime. It’s not Friday though, I can’t go on a dress-down Friday: I need to be smartly dressed, perhaps wearing a suit or something very officy anyway. If they have anything special in a back room or behind the counter I want me to look like I deserve to see it and have the means to buy it. I walk in, starting to sweat – with anticipation; not nerves – and with a steady voice I
On Wednesday at the gym, I’m in the changing room sucking my stomach in in the mirror, when Aussie Guy comes in and starts getting changed, leaving his gym card on a bench – face up so I can read his name.
Aussie Guy is a straight gym character, who I’ve been seeing most days over the last year or so, and it’s not like he’s amazingly sexy or anything (I suppose he’s alright; I mean girls would probably fancy him – we know what their standards are like), but I like him a lot. I like him because he’s nice, friendly, he always shares weights, he asks if you’re done, etc. If I were able to distinguish positivity, I might even say I get a positive vibe from him.
So anyway, I grab this opportunity and lean over the bench to untie and tie my shoelaces back up and I see his name. And his name is ___ ___. Later at home, I look him up on facebook, and as there are no results (it’s a very unusual combination of names so there is no one there), I decide to google him. And via the medium of googling him I find a news story about somebody with this name – who is also Australian according to the article – and was prosecuted for sexually attacking a girl two years ago. I take this as a good sign and a positive reinforcement of my faultless instinct about people, because let’s face it, what’s cool about somebody who’s not a rapist / homicidal maniac / drug addict / serious fuck up.
Finally, on my personal facebook update, I have now started a fanpage on there for London Preppy. Quite a few people suggested that this was a better idea than having a normal profile. So, sorry I have to ask you to do things again, but if you’re on facebook, please do a search for London Preppy and become a fan of the fanpage. I’ll be deleting the existing normal facebook profile (which has around 100 friends) soon. Sorry for the trouble and thanks.