Thanks! I reply once I've reached Edinburgh and come out of my meeting. Warm and sunny up here. What you up to? X (roughly translated as WHEN AM I GOING TO SEE YOU?)
He replies that he’s painting a ‘poxy ceiling in someone’s house’, and then I get: What you doing tonight? Missing you! Xx
My joy knows no bounds and I reply, as accommodating as The Hilton Hotel Group:
Not back til 11 p.m. but would love to c u if you don’t mind so late.
To add braces to the belt, I PS: U busy all wknd? (roughly translated as WHEN AM I GOING TO SEE YOU?)
Why did I do that? I didn't need to do that...
In reply I receive Nothing. Nada. Rien. Zilch. Bubkes. So I’m back to Square One but instead of being heartsick, I am now thoroughly pissed off. With myself, with him, with everyone who dares breathe in my general direction, but pissed off somehow feels better than heartsick and the anger propels me through the day.
On the Easybus back to Baker Street, I finally get a reply.
Hi hun, how was your day? Hope it went well. What time was you planning to get home? X
His reply only took 6½ hours. Why did I worry? I get in my car to drive home and I bite the bullet and phone him. He’s just come out the shower and is getting dressed. I mistakenly assume this is because he will be over shortly.
I’m grubby, tired and I need waxing but he is, of course, more than welcome. Instead of confirming that he is about to fly to me on the wings of love however, he tells me he’s hurt his foot playing football and is therefore off to play snooker 'with the lads'.
I am so livid I end the call, and fling my mobile phone over my left shoulder in disgust. I then unhook my seatbelt to grapple around frantically for it and when my eyes return to the road, I am about to be totalled by a dirty great meat truck hurtling down the hill towards me in the pouring rain. He may be worth something, but he’s certainly not worth dying for.
I get home in a filthy temper, light a cigarette and walk into the bedroom with it. What on earth am I doing? Not only am I smoking, I'm smoking in my bedroom!! I make up my mind enough is enough and I have to end this fucking farce once and for all. My thumb sets about pounding the keys.
Do not wank me around. I threaten. I’m not some 22-yr old you can fuck about with. You’re winding me up! You said you missed me so I invited you over and then you tell me you’d rather see ‘the lads’. Is this fair? You’ve really upset me and I didn't need that.
Well that was the final version. The first four were unprintable and definitely would have alienated him forever what with me wanting to plunge my fist down his throat and drag his bollocks up through his oesophagus.
Once I've got that off my chest, I actually feet better. Relieved, released, free – of him, of the aggravation of trying to maintain an impossible relationship, of everything to do with involvement with the opposite sex from this day forth now until forever.
I wait for the reply with my mouth set in a grim line shouting 'Coward!' intermittently at my mobile phone. I realise I am starving. I take an egg out the fridge to scramble and a text comes in. It’s loading….it’s a long one…please G-d let it be from him!
It’s not becoz Id rather be with the lads. The lads don’t get togther very offen and my foot is not to good either. Im really sorry for upsetting you. It’s the very last thing in this world I ever want to do. Im very very attached to u and you mean a hec of alot to me. I just think im not sure if we are full time or part time lovers. I dont want to u to think 'this boys to much' and get on your nerves! Xx
And suddenly we’re Romeo and Juliet again. Abelard and Eloise. Tristan and Isolde. Kermit and Miss Piggy.
And then there’s a PS. Please alow me make it up to you? Xx