Me: <*Airy, dismissive* Well, it’s hardly surprising. How dare you draw attention to my age in that impertinent and unnecessary fashion? Oh, oh, look at me, I’m so young and you’re so old.>
Roxster: <Oh, oh, look at me, I’m all pleased with myself because I won the ‘see who can keep the texting silence going longest’ competition.>
I laughed. I was indeed pleased with myself. There was such a rush of joy and relief that we were back with that secure feeling of knowing someone cares, and understands your sense of humour, and it wasn’t all cold and empty and over, we were still there.
But then at the same time there was a dark, lurking fear of getting back into it.
<Jonesey?>
<Yes, Roxster?>
I waited. Texting ping.
<But I do still think you’re really old.>
THAT’S DISGUSTING!! That’s absolutely against the rules of . . . of . . . Feel like ringing the police! Surely there should be some sort of DATING OMBUDSMAN who legislates against this sort of thing!
Another texting ping. Stared at the phone as if it was a creature in a space movie. I didn’t know what it was going to do next. It might suddenly rear up into a monster, or turn into a gentle little bunny. I opened it.
<Joke, Jonesey. Joke. *Hides*>
Looked eerily from side to side. Another texting ping.
<I have been thinking about the curry/chicken pie night, with some regret, for 3 weeks, 6 days and 15 hours, which if you check in Old Moore’s Almanac could technically be described as a calendar month. I was completely confused. And plastered. Please forgive me. You are younger-looking and younger-behaved than any woman I have ever met (including my niece who is 3). I miss you.>
What was he saying? Was he saying he’d rethought the whole thing and wanted to be with me? But did I want to be with him?
<Jonesey?>
<Yes, Roxster?>
<Will you at least have lunch with me?>
Roxster: <Or dinner?>
And again: <Or preferably lunch and dinner?>
Suddenly had flashbacks to all the delicious dinners and aftermaths we had enjoyed and had to stop self texting back: <And breakfast?>
Maybe Tom was right. Maybe Roxster wasn’t just dismissing me as a sad old bag. Texted: <Please be quiet. I am looking out of the window for passing dot-com billionaires wearing walking boots.>
<I am going to come over and fight them.>
<Would I need to be at the lunch or dinner or would it just mainly be the food?>
<We could meet without food if you like.>
This was UNHEARD OF. He must be really, really serious. I needed time to digest this.
Another texting ping.
<If you need time to digest this, if you’ll pardon the pun, I’ll wait.>
And another.
<Maybe just a packet of crisps?>
Was going to text: <Cheese and onion?> but maybe that suggested I thought he was being cheesy and there were onions hidden amongst the nice stuff.
So, again, I just texted what was true.
<I’d like that. As long as you promise not to fart.>
REKINDLING
Thursday 11 July 2013
Days of continuous sunshine 11, raindrops fallen on head 0 (unbelievable).
2 p.m. Is boiling hot. Still! No one can believe their luck. Everyone is out in the streets, bunking off work, drinking, wild for sex and complaining that it is too hot.