We return home and he pulls up alongside the other cars.
“Wouldn’t you like to come up?” I bleat, disappointment pouring from every pore.
"Of course" he replies, "but I didn’t want to appear presumptuous..." Bless.
I put on some sweet music, Madeleine Peyroux since you ask, light the fire and some scented candles and we settle down on the sofa. About three hours later, having resisted as much as I possibly can, and slightly against my better judgement, I lead him to my lair where we make unexpectedly slow, sweet love. The date ends at 5.45 a.m. when he leaves me splashed across my wrecked bed with a blissed out smile on my sleepy face.
Monday. MLP texts to thank me for a most romantic and wonderful night. Colour me tired but happy.
Tuesday. The arrogant Rugby Player I met a few weeks ago on a dating website keeps texting me that when we eventually meet he’s ‘gonna rock my world’. Yeah… well… wha’ever... My world is currently being rocked by another, thank you very much. He wants to take me away for a long weekend to a Country House Hotel. Says he knows somewhere with roaming peacocks and awesome rooms. I tell him I prefer awesome peacocks and roaming rooms. He calls me a ‘smart arse - the cockiest woman I know’. I thank him for the compliment.
This obviously winds him up so he continues with his textual advances which include wanting to buy me ‘a closetful of expensive cocktail dresses’ (the word ‘cock’ in one form or another features heavily in his dialogue). He also wants to shower me, and shower with me, dressed in Agent Provocateur lingerie (him or me?)
I’m unsure how this overpriced gossamer tutt would hold up in my power shower, but that’s never going to happen anyway, however much he wills it. It involves too much exposed flesh and undignified postures whilst trying to appear seductive and not getting my hair wet. Or slipping over and breaking my hip.
Long, slow, candlelit, champagne bubble baths I can cope with…