My second deal closed as a pick-up artist.

I just got this email from the docci Brits:

“Please could you find out about the Bulgarian prostitution traffickers – they sound really interesting and I know the Director will like it (that is if there is truth to it - I heard about it from a reporter who seems in the know with these sorts of things), but is there any chance you could just do some asking around? Will this put you in danger? Also, regarding trafficking of children, I think that we should definitely explore this. Let’s find out about how it works, who’s responsible, prices, who are the customers etc.”

Yes darling, what a fabulous idea. I’ll do a whip round the crack houses and speak to those odd chaps who run the pedophile rings and, who knows, we can meet on the porch for sundowners in a few days to discuss things while the natives bring us G’n’Ts.

Are they fucking mad! This isn’t a grocery list that you can just check off – yep got the Bulgarians, children leave in blue drums from jetty No. 5 in Durban – ETA 2.30am in Dar es Salaam. And if I’m not bloody careful I will be injected with an odd chemical and be walking the streets of Sofia the following day whispering, “South African sex, only 50 Levs” in halting Bulgarian while nursing a large bump on the side of my head and wondering whether ‘flying Pete’ would like my micro-skirt.

Another message from ‘Flying Pete’. This sounds promising. But now he wants more pictures and wants to know when the one I sent him was taken. Yes I know the one I sent him is a glamorous picture and yes I can look that good, sometimes. But give me a break, I’m not going to go paging through all my photo albums for other pictures, I’ve already done that, and there were no other photos I wanted to send.  Maybe I should tell him it was recent but that I photo shopped out the scarring I got from my house fire last year just to test his moral stature. What other pictures does he want? This is getting sexist. Maybe one of me bending over in tight jeans to pick up DIY tools, or maybe holding La Senza lingerie against my just-showered body. He is dreaming, unless he can be happy with group shots and the odd picture of the retreading job that those nice men at the garage did on my wheelchair. I reply "no, you’re just going to have to take a chance". So he sends me his mobile number and I send him mine.