Thursday. Due to being tired and emotional following another night of hot sex and snoring with MLP, we get into a heavy textual discussion about our future - this after only two weeks! There are some very strong emotions going down on both sides but I need to pay attention to my own writing as in:
By all means have your legs in the air, but for God’s sake keep your feet on the ground.
'If I was halfway sensible' I text him, 'I would end it now before I get hurt. I like you a little too much for my own good. Sorry but I know exactly where this is headed…X x'
'No worrys babe' he replies. 'We need to get things clear about us. Also I do have feelings for you. I just don’t know how to word them. I know we cant be together forever and this sadens me a great deal, it sounds weird but it feels astho we have broken up already but theres no ending to us.'
I don’t quite understand this but something tells me he’s going slightly off the boil. From past conversations, I know he eventually wants to get married and have children (and so he should, but obviously not with me!).
I suppose the 33-year age gap should be a minor consideration, although not, funnily enough, when we’re horizontal. Or in the bath lapping champagne off each other’s clavicles. Or sharing chocolate-covered strawberries in a certain French position with Ravel’s Bolero blaring on the iPod.
I vow not to get too heavy and to try to enjoy it for what it is with which he agrees ‘holehartedly’.
Wednesday. MLP takes me to the Emirates Stadium to see Arsenal playing Spurs. He confesses to having spent £70 on each ticket (for which we could have gone to see La Traviata at Covent Garden – albeit in the crap seats) but I don’t tell him this. It is a significant occasion for both of us - him introducing me into his domain.
We set off in the tube but there are delays and some stations are closed, so we get out at Paddington and cab it the rest of the way which I pay for. He sits in the taxi with his head in his hands certain we’re going to be late and miss the kick-off. I stroke his thigh and rub his back cajoling and consoling him as if we are on the way to a hospital where his beloved mother has just been taken following a fatal car crash. We arrive in the nick of time and I tell him not feel stilted because I’m there and to behave exactly as he would normally.
He does - yelling, swearing, chanting, abusing and picking me up and hurling me around every time Arsenal score. His behaviour is that of a drunken football hooligan who gets arrested on his way to Eindhoven... and I love it. I downgrade my persona, accent and demeanour, even taking a couple of sips of his yukky lager at half time to show him how well I fit in this milieu.
The Gooners win 3-1 but we can’t get transport out of there and have to walk for about two miles. On the way, we stop off at an antique shop which happens to be open, where he puts a £5 deposit down on a 1930s serving tray which I really like. We then manage to hail a cab back to mine, again which I pay for. I don’t care. I just can’t wait to get him home. He’s staying over, so tonight I’m Ladette Barbie and he, the little darling, is Lager Lout Ken.
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