Time to dip into the vault and pull out and oldie but goldie that highlights what happens when stalking goes bad.
After my other significant relationship bombed when I was 24 I saw a charming chappie at a bar one night and rather took a shine to him. So after chucking back a few white wine spritzers (hey it was the nineties ladies!) I started to chat him up, he seemed quite taken aback that I was even interested (he had self-esteem issues). I gave him my number before disappearing into the night hopefully in a mysterious and alluring fashion.
He called up the next day and in between asking me out for dinner again stated that he was surprised that I’d noticed him. He was a good looking chap so I thought he was being facetious. So off we went for a rather ho hum dinner at a swanky bistro. He looked nice but when he opened his mouth he said the strangest things. For starters he told me with a knowing wink that his mother had told him he would know for sure when he met the love of his life. Then he told me that he insisted his wife would stay at home, not work and bring up the kids. Again he engaged me in a meaningful stare. Long story short I didn’t call back after the date. I told him I didn’t think it would work for us chalk and cheese etc. He needed a nice girl not me.
And that’s how my own personal fan club of one started. To begin with he would follow me and my friends round town and deliberately walk slowly past the cafe window where we were sitting, then he got into the habit of turning up at my work demanding to see me and then following me home in his car. Naturally I was spooked. But the best was yet to come.
One night lying in bed I heard a sound outside my bedroom window and then a crash and a moan. I sent my Mum’s partner downstairs to look and it turns out in an attempt to get to my bedroom he’d climbed up the kitchen extension but had stupidly used a wheelie bin to stand on and of course it rolled away. He fell and broke his ankle. My Mum wanted me to go out and comfort him until the ambulance arrived but I was adamant I was not going to encourage him. Cold hearted bitch that I am!
Eventually though my niceness did get the better of me and I called and arranged to pop round and see him and take him a conciliatory box of chocolates, I turned up and walked into his kitchen and despite hobbling around with his foot in a cast he’d cooked us a full blown three course dinner with single red rose – would I stay? Hell no!
The final straw came when he was back on his feet again and he got wind that I was moving to London, he turned up at my doorstep with flowers and a card. I talked to him on the doorstep and he begged me to stay tears running down his face, “I don’t even know you!” I said. It was clear I wasn’t getting through so I shoved the flowers back at him, tore up the card and threw it on the floor. It’s the only time in my life I have ever been really, really mean to someone but I was convinced this guy was going to end up hurting me if I didn’t drive the message home forcefully.
Luckily it worked and I didn’t see him again lurking on corners or creeping round the back of my house, but I do always wonder if he found his little wife and is living somewhere happily ever after. I’m just glad I painted myself out of that little cameo.