On Humans and the Horrors.

I was walking through a shopping mall this morning and was startled to observe how ugly everybody was. They were, you know, they were. I’m not making it up. There were a few pretty young female specimens, but none of them was attractive. (Well, all except the girl from Latvia who was serving in Greggs bake shop. And, oddly enough, she wasn’t particularly pretty, just attractive. Aren’t humans interesting?)

I really need to get one of those little cameras that policemen wear on their jackets, then I could have some pictures to take back to my home planet when I finally make the trip. I might even publish a book.

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And here’s a funny thing…

I was listening to the old Beach Boys classic Caroline, No on YouTube a couple of weeks ago, and I entered a jokey comment to the effect that I’d always wanted a girlfriend called Caroline (because it’s a nice name) but had never had one. I finished with:

I don’t suppose there are any Carolines out there who like old men? No? Thought not.

It was a joke. I was in a silly mood. But then, about three nights ago, I got a reply:

My name’s Caroline, and I like old men.

Panic set in: ‘Oh my God! I have a stalker. I’ll bet she’s old and fat with a beard and greasy hair. She’ll want to ensconce herself into my life and my house, where she will sit in front of the fire, sweating and burping and making me cut her toenails. She must think I’m a lot older than I really am. I’m not ready for this yet. I still do twenty seven sit-ups every morning. Why don’t I keep my big mouth shut?’

Such thoughts – and more – really did run through my head. I made a polite reply, graced with a little pretended gratitude, and ran away. Call me coward. I don’t care. And it’s all true.