The Grudge

Mark was a very dutch Dutchman.

He sat opposite me in that formica'd classroom and, during the drilling of reflexive verbs (iCallate! -Huh?) I noticed his sandy hair and Sex-on-the-Beach eyes. His bronzed skin confused me: surely someone who lived in those northern climes reamed with smoked hams and fusty taches would be paler, whiter, a bit more Anglo-Saxon?

Most of the rest of the girls in the Spanish class were in love with him. He looked like a hot tennis player, had a hearty, yet flirty, sense of humour, and a nice bottom to boot. Didn't matter that he was as dull as a party thrown by Puritans, all blank faces and miss-the-boats. He was the Elementary 1 tio.

One day Carmen asked us draw a picture of someone in the class, but as a child, and then describe it using our recent vocabulary. This game is a fine art; obviously you want to win but must be diplomatic. No:

"Como se dice,

She kinda has a cuntface, if you know what I mean, and looks like a dyke.?"

Mark picked me and described me. People guessed. Noah from Sweden won. Hurrah. End of story. Great.

But Mark wasn't finished.

Hey, Sarah, would you like to um, see, your, um, pik-chur, like, you know?

For sure, Mark. For sure.

Top marks for trying buddy but you're shit. I looked like I had a lollipop for a head and was sucking on something vaguely familiar, but faintly sinister at the same time.

Ya, I bet when you were a little girl, you like lollipops, no?


To my paranoid self that was tantamount to calling me The Michelin Woman's chubbier sister (but with a good sense of humour):

He thinks I spent my childhood ingesting boiled sweets and lard, he must think I'm enormous now!! Oh! My! God! D-I-E-T!

On reflection, I may have overreacted, but I haven't forgiven him since.