Then I really do start to feel guilty. I have no idea what MLP is up to tonight, but whatever it is, I doubt he’s snogging a stranger. I have a feeling the Eurotrash story won’t end here, and if MLP spends one more afternoon snoring on my sofa, or failing to call when I expect him to, the pomegranate/belly button merger could take place sooner rather than later. Eurotrash walks me to my car and offers to follow me home. I manage to decline.
Friday. A quiet, rather slow day, brightly perked up in the evening by a jovial, chatty phone call from MLP confirming our arrangements for Sunday lunch.
Saturday. I wake up early and see that I have ten unread messages on www.toyboywarehouse.com. The feisty, kickass older woman has stuck two fingers up at society and has leaned over into the playpen and picked herself up some boy toys. The boys in question are mostly just looking to fulfil their Yummy Mummy fantasies but one of my correspondees intrigues me. He is so funny, he makes me laugh out loud which is very seductive, so I send him a private photo and wait to see what comes back.
‘.... when I was reading your profile I found myself moving closer and closer to the screen....until I fell off my seat and twated my head…so now, thanks to you, I have a bulge in my trousers and a lump on my head! I demand you rub it better ;) Yours is more than just a photo, it's a beam of radiant light snapshotting the possible sensuality and intelligence of a beautiful woman.’
‘If you think that pic is hot’ I reply, ‘you ought to see the ones I didn’t send ...give me your private email and I'll make you bang more than your head!’
Saturday is family day and my granddaughter’s 9th birthday with a pottery painting party at The Clay Café in Hendon. In the evening I eat out with my friend, Frannie, then go and see the excellent French film Orchestra Seats which features a still youthful, elegant older lady who’s living in a retirement home.
‘What’s she doing there?’ I whisper to Frannie. ‘She’s not much older than us!’
‘She’s not…’ Frannie replies, ‘…but at least she’s growing old gracefully!’ Oh how we laugh…
The whole day passes without any message from MLP but I’m cool as he’ll be round at 1.30 p.m. tomorrow for his long-promised Sunday lunch. When I get home I prepare the chicken and the vegetables for the next day and watch War of the Roses in bed.
Sunday bloody Sunday. I awake inordinately twitchy convinced that today’s the day MLP and I are going to fall out. I don’t know why but my instinct tells me all is not well. I also know I should not have allowed myself to become so attached to this boy. You’d have thought I’d have understood about damage limitation by now, what with my past experiences ‘n all. I have allowed him to inveigle his way into my head and my heart where he has become firmly stuck. This is a very bad place for him to be as the prognosis can only be fatal…
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