Confessions of a part-time girl

I shouldn't have worried
2:31 p.m. -- 2009-01-12

As a follow-up to my entry about my �double life� as a critic of the Cult of $ci�nto�og�...

I was wrong to have worried about what Victoria might think. One weekend, after she�d been overseas and I�d been to [a UK city] for a protest, we finally had some time together, meeting only in bed. It was late Sunday evening, and - as sometimes happens - our weekend together was virtually non-existent.

Still, we had a nice cuddle, and she told me all about her European trip. Then I took a deep breath and told her about the protest I�d been on.

She was surprised that her normally sardonic, apolitical husband had cared enough about something to go on a protest march. She asked me a few questions, and I think I answered them satisfactorily. The biggest problem wasn�t coming up with evidence about the Cult�s nastiness, but choosing exactly which examples to use without sounding like I was spouting the script for a TV drama. (Hu88ard is a bizarre figure, like a comic-book supervillain in some ways. The hypnotist... the bigamist... the fraudster... the racist... the drug-addict cult leader. Where to begin?) I began with a brief recounting of the life and death of Lisa Mcpherson. I also described �auditing�, whereby parishioners are hooked up to the Electrop$�chometer (a kind of lie detector), and asked about talk about things in their past that have upset them. A great way to obtain blackmail material who might someday wish to leave the Cult.

�So,� I said, �I wanted to do something about it.�

As long as I continue to exercise care in remaining anonymous, my dear wife has no problem with this at all. She might think it�s a bit strange that I feel the need to dress up as a pirate, a Santa or whatever, and go and yell abuse at a building... but the important thing is that she�s not objecting to it, despite our sometimes limited time together.

I should have known she�d be OK about it... but I was worried. If, by contrast, I�d told my parents about the dirty tricks played by a sinister organisation that stalks its critics, I�m sure they would say �Don�t have anything to do with it, then.� Whether that�s a generational thing or a lack of moral fibre on their part, I have no idea. But... meh.

Victoria won�t be buying a mask and joining me on a protest. She�d rather go shopping or something... but that�s fine. I didn�t tell her because I wanted to recruit her. I told her because I was tying myself in knots, making sure I didn�t leave anything �incriminating� in the print queue, or lying around in the house. Most importantly, I had found it necessary to lie to her, to conceal where I was going, and why. That didn�t feel good, even if I was doing it to protect her - to save her from worrying that we might someday find ourselves being �fair gamed� by the Cult.

But she�s cool. Nerves of steel, that one. Too bad she isn�t a secret agent.

As you may know, dear reader, I go to great lengths in order to avoid being identified by the Cult. The funny thing is, you can always be relied upon to fuck up, just when you least expect it...

I was driving home from work one night, a few months ago, and I got a puncture. No problem, of course... just a simple matter of emptying the boot (trunk) to get at the jack and the spare wheel, and then a quick change-over. This was slightly complicated by the fact that the stretch of road I was on was completely dark, and also that I was wearing my best suit. Still, I got on with the job, and swapped the wheel without too much fuss.

(Just because I�m a Tinkerbell, doesn�t mean I�m a fairy.)

The next day, I went in search of a new tyre, and the people in the tyre bay invited me to sit in the customer waiting room. Normally, I�d stay around and make sure things were being done properly, but I had some work to catch up on so I got the laptop out and worked for a quarter of an hour. Meanwhile, the knuckle-draggers in the tyre bay replaced my tyre, and swapped the wheels back. They actually did a very neat job of squaring everything away.

It wasn�t until after I�d paid and left that I remembered the anti-$ci�nto�og� material that had been in the boot, normally concealed beneath the false �floor� that provides access to the spare. Including a big placard.

It�s funny how easily you can slip up. I very much doubt that news of my �double life� will get back to the $ci�nto�ogists via that route. In fact, I�m not entirely sure my tyre-changing friend could read and chew gum at the same time. �You can�t get thicker than a Quickfit fitter...�

Still, I must be more careful, from now on.

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