The title of today’s blog, when read by any of my floozie friends, will have caused an expression which is a gruesome cross between recognition, frustration and ruefulness to dance across their faces. This is the expression one wears when the word ‘ARGH!’ is forcing itself from between your gritted teeth.
The sentence itself seems innocuous enough, I’m sure – particularly to any gentleman reader. After all, you don’t want to book the wrong type of lady, do you? You don’t want to open the door to your hotel room expecting Belle De Jour to be standing there gazing seductively at you; only to discover you’ve inadvertently made an arrangement to bonk Ann Widdecombe’s ugly sister.
However, when I answer my batphone and that question is asked of me, I respond with ‘May I ask where you got my number?’. And, nine times out of ten the answer is ‘Off the Internet’.
Oh, really? The Internet, huh?
That would be THE Internet, yes? The one and only World Wide Web. The Big ‘Un. I mean, I’m not mistaken in the belief that the Internet is..well, THE Internet? Not one of many?
So then, this Internet you got my number from – it’s the self-same internet that you could view my website on? The website which I spent quite a large lump of time creating, updating, tweaking? The website, in fact, where I placed all the relevant details?
Mind you, it gets worse. Several detail-hunting chaps, when asked ‘Where did you find my number’ have replied… wait for it…. ‘on your website’.