Across Continents

Ken's Blog

Journalistic desires

March 9th, 2011

My recent piece – "Someone’s daughter" – about a woman I’d joined for a sociable coffee – has provoked some interesting responses. Intriguing stuff. Curious about why we’d met. What happened next. Presumption that the person I’d described was offering services of an adult nature.

Truth is I can’t say for sure what services she actually offers. The advertisement in the local paper implies those of a sexual nature. And its placement in the Adult Services section strengthens this inference. All perfect legal. Perhaps all she provides is a listening ear. Or a shoulder to cry on. Couldn’t say. Didn’t ask.

Actually, I don’t want to know. Never did. Not being prudish. Or moralistic. Instead, only ever interested in meeting the real person – someone’s daughter – rather than an object of carnal desire. Learning more about who she really was. I’d suggested a coffee for this reason alone. Careful not to cloud the issue by letting slip I’d uncovered her alter ego. Afterwards, as I’d always intended, going our separate ways.

And how was I first introduced to her? The real person. The one you might bump into as easily as I had. Quite unaware of her supposed profession. Which is my point. Challenging pre-conceived ideas. Prejudices. Presumptions as to the sort of person who offers services of an adult nature. And as to how I first met her? In very respectable circumstances. A shared interest. Alas, to be more specific might risk compromising her identity.



Someone’s daughter

March 7th, 2011

I’d suggested a sociable coffee. Invited her to choose a suitable place to enjoy a beverage. Where she’d feel comfortable. Safe. Under the circumstances possible I was being unduly protective. After all, just wanted to chat. With someone I’d met on my travels. Who’d struck me as a really quite interesting individual. A person. Found her warm, intelligent, engaging and generous.

A few brief interruptions to the flow of conversation. Couple of texts. The odd phone call. Work, she explained. Apologetically. Quite understood, I said. And I did. Probably rather more than she imagined. For, however plausible her account of what she did, couldn’t quite get past the fact that her mobile number was an exact match for one I’d found in the Classified Ads section of the local paper. Accompanying text tallied up pretty well.

A discovery the product of a suspicious mind and a little curiosity. Something she’d said earlier that just hadn’t stacked up. Checks and balances on the road. Instinctive. Not that I’d mentioned any of this. After all, wanted to meet the real person. Someone’s daughter.


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