The long weekend of boy

8:35am Saturday 17th March
“Fark, fark, fark … move people! I’m running laaaate!”. It was all I could think as I ran through the rabbit warren of the London Underground, like I had a white hot poker up my arse.

8:40am
Passing Costa Coffee in a disheveled mess of blonde hair and pashmina scarf. THE rendezvous point for meeting the boy if I was running late (am I really that unpunctual that we have to make these plans?!). No boy. Thank the Lord! I will be able to meet him off the train.

8:45am
No sign of boy.

8:58am
Still no sign of boy.

Shite it’s cold. Only yesterday it was a pleasant 15 degrees soaked with sun. Today, it’s 3 degrees and overcast. Typical. Welcome to London, enjoy your stay.

9:00am
Switch seats after sleeping hobo gets up and moves off. I figure his seat is going to be much warmer than mine. It’s not. My arse is freezing.

9:10am
Another Gatwick Express train has arrived. That’s a total of three in the time I’ve been here.

Still no boy. Begin to wonder if there was a problem with the flight (his original flight was meant to fly into Heathrow at 6:30am but his flight plan was changed to a direct flight into Gatwick at 7:30am due to some storm on the East coast of the States). Then begin to panic that he has been refused entry to the great British nation because he was traveling on his diplomatic passport. A little naughty but not illegal.

9:20am
Stroll up to look at flight board in front of Gatwick Express ticket office. It only lists departing flights from Gatwick. Dammit!

9:25am
Another train arrives. No boy.

9:30am
Pull out my lugging big book out of lugging big bag (a Mary Poppin’s type carpet bag). I try to read a bit. I read the same sentence four times. I place lugging big book back in lugging big bag.

9:35am
Begin to clean nails. Another train has arrived. And then I see him. He hasn’t seen me. He’s striding up the concourse trailing his very grown up suitcase (he normally carries a duffle bag that is never essentially packed but rather a mish-mash of his travel items!). I can see, even from a distance, he has grown a beard. Umm, what’s that about? Then he spots me.

The rest of Saturday passes in a blur. A beautiful blur. A happy blur.

Saturday night we went to a ridiculously formal restaurant for a date. We had no idea what they were asking or offering us most of the time due to their thick European accents and use of big, fancy pants words! We could barely decipher the menu. And as for the cutlery … well, there was enough there to start our own military operation!

We settled on pink champagne for an aperitif. Grilled crab legs with olive oil and tomato dressing for starters. Whole lobster and a rather fancy beef fillet. The crab legs were to die for! I have never eaten crab legs in my life. They were magic. I could’ve eaten myself into a stupor with them. The lobster was served complete with a magic show (I kid you not!). And the beef was gorgeous. Only problem was that I could only eat four mouthfuls. Even that was a struggle. Rob ended up having to eat two meals – surf and turf - poor possum! Unfortunately I was not able to keep my four mouthfuls down. 29GBP for a bulimic episode sucks. After a latte and a few mouthfuls of chocolate fondant pudding, all was well with the world again.

We did plan on going for a stroll after dinner but it was titty cold. In a sheer stroke of genuis, I was only wearing a cocktail dress, sans stockings and stilettos; hence grand plans of strolling were aborted! I did have my black wool coat on but when only half your body is clothed, you’re hardly going to stay warm! Therefore, there was a brisk dash to the tube station with me repetitively stating the obvious … “Geez, it’s cold”, “It’s really, really cold”, “I’m so frigging cold!”. Just how many ways can you possibly say the same thing, I ask?!

Rob loves pictures of me when I'm laughing! And although this picture is out of focus you can still see that I no longer have a double chin and you can see my collar bones! I love collar bones!

Sunday was essentially a day dedicated to rugby. We jumped a train to Reading and ended up sitting next to a rather peculiar couple (“Asking him if it’s snowing”). Rob had got us tickets to see London Wasps vs London Irish in a big St Patty’s day (or day after!) match. The weather was on the crisp side when we left home but by the time we got to Reading it started sleeting, raining and blowing a gale. I was not a happy camper. At all. I’m sure Rob would rather have had his balls clamped than contend with my stroppy, so not happy countenance. But once we were in the stadium, the wind was almost non-existent and we were mostly under the stadium cover. The seats we had were fantastic. Rob drank Guinness and a little more Guinness.

And as quickly as it started, the weekend was over. Sigh.