Free Virtual Strangers by Lynne Barrett-Lee

which sat rather well with my ‘unstructured’ flower fairy tag.) ‘And,’ I finished, ‘ I’m certainly not anal.’
    He laughed (Cheek!) as he reached for the dishwasher powder. ‘You bloody are.’
    ‘Don’t swear,’ I snapped back, quick as you like. ‘Ben might be around.’
    ‘Oh, and of course he wouldn’t know any swear words, would he? And I must say I take offence at ‘footling’. I don’t footle.’
    ‘If I do a ‘persona bit’ then you bloody footle. And that teaspoon’s gone through the mesh. Get it out, please, before you switch it on, or the spinner won’t work.’
    Sunday evening.
    Nothing sorted. No progress. Have failed to finish with Phil. Have failed to communicate with Phil in any sense. In fact, I’ve been having conversations with Phil that are so banal that I am almost convinced that I’ve been married to him for twenty years and have simply neglected to remember. And I am considered anal. I am most definitely not anal. Phil is the anal one, as he is so concerned about food debris soiling skin/hair/clothes etc., that he cannot bring himself to execute the risky manoeuvre involved in loading cutlery in the drainer basket tines/blades up. Hah. Anal in the extreme . Whereas my own stance is based purely on the practical consideration of the inefficiency and irritation involved in retrieving still-dirty cutlery. I’m concerned however re. the ‘wild child’ tag. Though uplifting on the face of it, the ‘persona’ angle is rather disquieting. Do not wish to be considered a poser among my friends. Will henceforth have to keep quiet about my Everest ambition, or I will appear pretentious.
    It’s clearer still that I am definitely stringing out the Phil/ending it debacle through a subconscious terror of total existential aloneness. Plus (if I’m honest) practical aloneness in social function situations. I cannot take a virtual stranger to the Dog and Trouserleg. But now I do have Dad to take out with me. So I must end it. (But must pay for the dry cleaning of Phil’s trousers first.)
    4 am
    Wake suddenly and re-run old emails in brain. God. Who the hell is griffith? I just don’t know anyone by that name. Except...except...think, Simpson. Think!
    4.22.
    Ratted! That’s it! Yes! Ratted!
    Monday. Decisive. Before work ( after strenuous attention to hair/bow alignment , as extent of carpet/upholstery cleaning at Cherry Ditchling is sure to become known any day. Do not wish to antagonise Davina further.)
    [email protected]
    Right, griffith. Moment of truth time, or else. I now realise that you were at Rose and Matt’s leaving party, and do not intend to rest until I have deduced your identity. Am going to phone cymserve as soon as I log off. If I tell them you’re stalking my modem with improper suggestions, I’m sure they’ll supply the information I need.
    Charlotte Simpson.
    cc. cymserve.co.uk
    Hah! cc. a nice touch. That should do the trick!
    Dinner time . Stressed.
    Turfed Ben off computer at 7 pm sharp with the promise of a quality-time, activity based weekend next week. (But still held out over decision regarding his desired encroachment into low-life activities with his brother in London.)
    Bing! went computer. You have post! Imagining myself as a cute yet feisty Meg Ryan character (except hair too dark, too curly, too long, too split-endy, plus not mega-buck movie star, plus doesn’t everyone like to think they’re bloody Meg Ryan?, plus oops! must anyway refrain from adopting personas) I cyber-walked to my mail room and retrieved the latest email.
    [email protected]
    Dear Charlotte Simpson (if we must),
    Though the idea of stalking your modem with improper suggestions has definite appeal (despite boils/stoop/pizza caveat), I am beginning to feel rather embarrassed about this whole business. Please believe me when I say that all your secrets are safe with me, and that I think it really would be best if we left it at that. Hope you make Everest. And get