Dear God I’m behind on updating you. Forgive me my precious but what with the sun out last week and me being a sun addict it was hard to stay in and write. You understand right?

But last week the Olympic torch came to Chelsea. I had no idea not having a TV or any interest in anything vaguely patriotic but I did want to get some more chocolate so I reluctantly left my house. I chose to  wear a black and white all in one shorts ensemble. In my mind living in Chelsea means that I can wear whatever I like and get away with it without harassment. The 9 months that I lived in Tottenham in 2001 were not as free. You had to dress for safety. But Kings Road? I was good.

So as I get onto the Kings Road I notice all these kids crying because they didn’t get to see the torch? That was my first clue that something was amiss. Then there was additional police people. (how do I tell the difference between real popo and community support officers? I swear the police have cut down on the fitness programme and are getting a lot more portly these days. How can they catch criminals. But I digress)

So I’m walking looking at my toes in flip flops yearning for my weekly pedicure of yesteryear and wondering if I should squeeze an extra day out of the leftovers when I’m stopped in the street. The guy is young in a hoody, seriously on a day like that hot day and is doing something awfully perculiar with his lips. That LL Cool J has A LOT to answer for when he gets to pimp heaven. He has men all over the world chewing their lips in what they perceive to be a seductive manner. It’s not!

He comes back to where I’m standing looking perplexed and says

“So what can a guy like me do to get a girl like you’s number? [lip munch, lip munch, lip munch]

I laugh and try to walk away but he blocks me and engages in conversation. I blame the playsuit. I’m never approached on Kings Road. It’s my safe place.

Eventually I engage in conversation and learn the following facts. I’m nothing if not good at qualifying whether or not a man is number worthy.

He’s not from Chelsea. He’s from Clapham Junction. He gets points for not trying to dress this up by stating it’s south Chelsea or Battersea. I like the honesty.

He’s a handyman. He asks if I have any DIY I need doing. [lip munch, lip munch, leans back and lip munches again] I think about it and I DO still have the desk that needs putting up but can I risk it?

But no,  I would have to pay him back in sex. What if he’s a sweaty worker? He’s sweating now! His sweating excuse was that he was sweating over seeing me but to be honest I don’t know why he thought a hoody was acceptable in this heat. He’s clearly not one for basic chemistry or biology. Just saying! And a dark hoody at that? I digress again.

He has a Latin name but doesn’t speak French, Spanish or Italian. He did however count for me in a combination of all three. Bless

Oh he’s 31. I call him a baby and he leans back and does his lip munch. I now realise that the lean back move is for me to get a good view of the 6 pack under the white vest. Ah!

He missed the torch. Unlike me that’s why he was there! He was now following a bunch of strangers down Kings Road hoping to catch it. Yes clearly science wasn’t his strong suit. That torch was long gone!

Eventually I realise that I’m not going to get away from him without at least taking his number so I offer to do this. Nigistence is a bitch.

“Don’t take my number if you’re not going to call me you na!” [Leans back, lip munch]

“I’ll call” I lie as I take out my trusted battered blackberry. Don’t judge my precious. To be fair he had made me laugh. Who knows maybe I wasn’t lying. Besides the sun was out and I was feeling deliciously generous. Plus it has been 3 months of no sex.

Then he says it

“So what you’re on T mobile yeah?”

[scratch record]

What kind of nonsense is that? I tell him emphatically that I’m not on T mobile and what difference does it make.

“Don’t worry babes,” he says, I’ve got plenty of other sim cards with free minutes and texts.” Then he leans back and does a lip snarl that was quite frankly a little scary. I take his number then make random noises about being late. As we part ways he goes in for a hug and his hands travel south. Seriously? I tell him that’s not in the spirit of the Olympics and walk away deleting his number.

Why universe why? Cant’ you send me a respectful guy who isn’t conscience of mobile networks? I beg you do this for me and keep my Olympic dream of finding FuHu gold alive.

© Chelsea Black



Chelsea Black is a writer. Romantically seeking her Fubo (future boyfriend) she often gets distracted by misadventures. She is currently working on her second book, first baby (sperm to be confirmed) and first real career. Chocolate and cocktails are food groups