Welcome to the jungle

chester-cheetahI have never really been in a jungle. Not a real one where you can get attacked by an anaconda or chewed by a crocodile with a penchant for wilful writers.

While this statement of fact is correct, over the past week I have realised this might not be entirely true from a metaphorical point of view. That’s because the city I live in – any big city for that matter – can be jungle enough for anyone. In a city, nasty creatures can lurk behind every corner ready to pounce upon you if your eyes aren’t open and your wits finely-tuned.

The original title of this blog was Welcome to Loserville, but I thought that sounded a tad harsh and I must admit that even though I was stood up most brutally a week ago, within a few days all I felt was lucky to have dodged what was obviously a venomous reptile masquerading as a panda.

You see in some jungles, there are sloths, cheetahs and hyenas. In the city, those three creatures can actually be found in one single person who is also handily a chameleon known to impersonate a unicorn or at the very least something non-offensive like a llama.

But every animal has the ability to attack. I was once head-butted by a sheep so I know this maxim to be true. It’s just that we often get lulled, albeit briefly, into a false sense of security by their colourful feathers, their shiny coats, or their apparent eagerness to please. I have learned – once again it seems – that these are merely the standard guises one adopts when trying to pull the wool over someone’s eyes.

The funniest thing about the whole sad and sorry episode was that the charade that took place was completely and utterly unnecessary. If all that the hybrid creature of woe mentioned above wanted to do was get into my knickers, well, no one normally needs to put in that much effort nor adopt so many different disguises in what was obviously just an elaborate sexual subterfuge.

I have learned again that there is nothing quite like that moment when dreaded realisation smacks you right between the eye-balls. And so it was that I sat here last Sunday waiting for Beelzebub to show for a date that he had organised. It never crossed my mind that he wouldn’t turn up.  But as the minutes ticked further and further past the allotted hour, I muttered: “What the?” to a silence that was deafening.

But there would be no explanation for me. Not for nearly 24 hours. And when it came – via text – it was the most lame-arsed bullshit I had ever read in my life. A hairy-nosed wombat could have crafted something more intelligent.

I showed one of my mates the contents of the “apology” which he helpfully interpreted as a bald-faced lie to hide the fact that the devil-incarnate mentioned above was off shagging someone else when he was supposed to be shagging me. My friend also said: “Darling, if you’re going to be stood up by a musician, make sure it’s a famous one not one who’s only regular gig is down at the RSL”. I admitted he had a very good point.

My reply to the formerly bewitching, bat out of hell mentioned above was succinct and may well have included references to what is usual practice amongst decent human beings as well as a thank you for the excellent blog material and then I said goodbye. I deleted everything, including after this blog, him from my brain.

So it seems that even after all these years living in the jungle I still haven’t quite worked out how to successfully survive here, let alone how to recognise a poisonous soul from a harmless one.  The whole saga, however, did remind me that a leopard has many devilish spots; it always pays to be on your guard, especially in the beginning; and to never again fall for weapons of mass-delusion.

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