Being alone is never as painful as when you have to dine on your own but men are men and men must eat. Steak. And I am not suicidal, so I refuse to have dinner in my hotel room. There is something fundamentally wrong about a person sitting down to have dinner by his lonesome self. It must have been how leppers felt in biblical times. Outcasts, sitting on a dump, scratching their open, puss-filled wounds. Shit, that is disgusting and do you mind, I’m trying to eat over here…As a business traveller I am quite accustomed to this form of social torture and more so because I never dine alone. I always have company.
Let’s call her Hilda. But her name changes often. I must admit she’s not always the best company. She has more mood swings than Kanye on a good day. There are even times when she appears at the table and says absolutely nothing, like she’s not even there. Those nights are the worst. Trying to make conversation with someone who couldn’t be bothered. Unlike every other first blind date in the world, ever.
Did I mention that Hilda, if that is even her real name, is a Hippopotamus? Go figure. I’ll be the guy who conjures an imaginary date the size of a small country, when I posses the power to consider something cute, like a bunny. But bunnies are bitches. Just like cats. All cute and shit but extorting extreme maintenance from any guy who dares to invite them for dinner. You have to buy them drinks throughout the evening, they only eat salad and once they’re drunk, well, let’s just say you never want to see a drunk bunny. They normally end up on another table, flashing their boobs. Or their ears. They are feisty little things.
Hilda the Hippo is more suited for my calm demure. (Why do I hear the Wife laughing?) With Hilda I don’t have to compete for attention, because she’s a frigging hippo, for goodness sake. Even I can keep a hippo interested for a couple of hours. That is if she didnt get too much sun. Too much sun is bad for hippos. They get all cranky and PMS-like, which is why she hates Dubai.
Tonight she took the concept of casual dress too far. She’s wearing that damn neon green tutu again. I hate that tutu, but she reckons it’s slimming. And cool. But not cool in the way my kids would use the word, cool in like not-hot. Which is also an excellent description of what she looks like tonight. And she decided to go topless. Fortunately a hippo’s tits are way down their body so maybe no-one will notice. I said tits. *insert giggle* I’m actually embarrassed to be seen in public with her but company is company, right?
At least she is not touching my arm in a weak attempt to solicit unwarranted sex. Like some special froces guy I met two nights ago. Besides I’m not that type of guy. With that I mean three things. I’m not gay, I think bestiality is sick and I love my wife. Hilda is just company. A platonic friendship created out of necessity. Or insanity. Helping me though another night of dining on my own.
Hilda laughs at my jokes. All of them. Even the lame ones. Not that I ever have lame ones. But that is stating the obvious. The problem is that she sounds like a horny hiena when she laughs. Everybody is uncomfortable when she cracks up. Even rats go into hiding. Which is why I refrain from being funny.
Maybe we’ll hit the dancefloor later. What am I saying? We definitely won’t. I don’t think any standard issue dancefloor can support the weight of a dancing hippo. And hippos can’t dance. Think of your oldest, obese aunt, after one too many tequilas, trying to get jiggy with it, at your cousin’s wedding. Get the picture? I’m sorry if you did. A dancing hippo destroys any concept you might have had of the word ‘graceful’.
Maybe I’ll just leave her at the table and go to bed. She’s used to that.
Thanks Hilda. It was fun.