Had an argument with Benedict Cumbersome today. It wasn’t that fair an argument really, because he was immortalised on a poster and I was held captive on the Victoria line but that didn’t stop me going all gung-ho. Fortunately I didn’t vocalise my wrath per se, so no one managed to stir from their morning umming-and-aahing about whether or not to throw themselves in front of the next train. BC just looked at me, in that way he has, all sort of superior and yes-I-look-like-an-alien-and-yes-I’ll-give-you-an-orgasm-that’ll-blow-your-toes-to-Timbuktu intensity.

I said, BC, I’m having none of it. Don’t try to smarm your way out of this, sunshine. You’ve just gone and made it, haven’t you? And now life’s all la-di-da, with Weinstein on speed dial and martinis at the Marmont. You no longer have to stand here getting a sweaty lesson in anatomy half a mile underground because you’re so close to the forty year old accountant in front of you that you’ve managed to massage his small intestine, while the physiotherapist to the right of you has just punctured your left lung with their elbow as you try with all your might not to engage in a snog-a-thon with the granny to the right with raisins in her teeth. Not to mention the fact that a banker’s briefcase has been wedged up your vagina ever since Stockwell, and it’s ever so slightly turning you on, and is that wrong, even here amid this savage Hogarth tableau known as public transport? But even that wouldn’t bother you, would it BC, because you don’t have a vagina and even if you did it would be nowhere near here, getting flayed by office chattels? Or maybe you do? Maybe you do have a vagina, or happy to tuck at least, and maybe that’s why you’re doing so well – you’re flexible, and you can fashion a fanny for Hollywood’s highest bidder?

BC doesn’t really have anything to say to this and so we just have a bit of a stare off. He looks mostly superior, surprise surprise, and I just look on, mostly vexed. I wonder what he’s doing right now…purring over a new script, perhaps, or his bank account… Poor BC, just having to sit and take it as my brain swirls with scorn. I like you, BC, I like you a lot. You’re a v v good actor. I’ve even seen your willy on stage as Frankenstein’s monster – all of you, not just your willy, though that could be an interesting take? – and I must applaud you as it was a very worthy production and a very worthy willy. But now I’m thinking about your willy, BC, and this banker’s briefcase is still wedged up my vagina… Suffice to say all is forgiven and I’m sorry for being so mean.

All my love,

The (v) Flustered Feminist
x

NB, (“very”) not (“vegan”). Don’t put that beside my name now like a restaurant menu that’s had its balls removed