Watch Yourself.

I shouldn't be let loose in public alone. I just shouldn't.



It is a notion that occurred to me when I was at the bank last week. The nice chap looking after me- the obligatory, just-out-of-school, very-bad-skinned, Jesus-why-don't-you-cut-your-nails-for-crying-out-loud new boy with a bad haircut- had just offered me a credit card.



Knowing he could see my balance on his screen I laughed at him. Out loud. He stared at me. It dawned on me that he wasn't joking. "I can't have a credit card," I told him. "I have no self control".



"Ah, yes madam," he countered, "But you see with the offer we have today you have 56 days interest free to pay back what you borrow".



"Ah, yes," I said back to him, "But you see, I won't pay it back. I'll buy a plane ticket somewhere, draw the rest out as cash, and deal with any consequences later. Or never."



The chap narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm just being honest," I explained. "I have no self-control, and that is the first step toward dealing with it. I never have had self-control. I have no inner superego to calm my ID. Boys, chocolate, money... boys... urm, boys again... Can't do it. Can't say no. But I'll say it to you. No".



The chap opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Then he re-opened it, took a breath, furrowed his brow and finally said, "That is quite intense".



"I know," I told him. "Can I go now?"



I don't know what it is about me that means I am unable to control my inner desires. Literally, as I type this I am waiting for Pizza Hut to deliver a stuffed-crust Margarita that I have justified to myself because I'll read The Guardian cover-to-cover whilst I eat it and only drink fizzy water instead of a Coke. Plus, I have a really bad cold. So bad that I've been one of those people that breathes out of their mouth all week. If I cooked for myself I'd only breathe all over what I made and then re-infect myself, most probably causing death or at the very least mutilation, and I leave for my summer job in two days. I need to be mutilation-free.



Further suspicions of general unsuitability to be out-of-doors unsupervised came with a trip to the doctor. Look, there is no polite way to say this, but it was a check-up after my coil got fitted. Long story short is I WANT SEX BUT I DON'T WANT A BABY. You see? What kind of person blogs that? It is because I am home alone. There isn't anybody to watch me.



"Have you had sex since we put in it?" the doctor asked me. I hesitated.



"Yes," I answered. She wasn't going to tell my mother, was she? I didn't dare say anything else as she had her fist in my hee-haw. The upper hand, so to speak.



"And will your partner be going to Italy with you this summer?" she asked, referring to my summer job.



I peered over my knees at her. "I... I don't have a partner. That is sort of the point of what we're doing here," I said, motioning with my head to the job at hand. I saw what I was saying dawn on her.



"Oooooh! You're a slut! You sleep around! Sorry, I see!" she said.



Well, actually, she didn't say anything. But she didn't have to. We carried on in awkward silence whilst I pathetically suffered her judgement.



As I got up to leave the doctor said, "Maybe you'd like some of these for your trip," and she filled a carrier bag with Durex. I was too embarrassed to say anything. "Plenty of fun in there," she said, and winked.



I was absolutely mortified. She must have given me about 200 condoms. 200! I don't know whether to feel disheartened at her impression of me or enthused that somebody could have that much faith in my pulling prowess. 200! I might not have self control but I most certainly do not need enough rubber to keep a tyre factory in business until the day I have enough inner strength to turn down a family sized bag of Giant Cadbury's Buttons i.e. it'll never, ever, happen.



I sort of feel like I've been given some sort of secret mission now, and my prescription will self-destruct after reading. Now I know I cannot be let out in public unaccompanied. At least not until you've locked up your husbands, sons and dogs, anyway.



Doctor's orders.