A Long Christmas Date

Well, The Man is here. And all seems to be well.

Unfortunately, however, The Date has not yet happened. We started snogging as soon as we saw each other and then it all sort of went wrong. By last night he was washing his underpants in my sink with soap stolen from a hotel. I was nagging him to hurry up because we had to go and meet some friends of mine for dinner. Then I helped myself to a piece of fruit from the shopping we had DONE TOGETHER earlier (oh god) and belched without the slightest trace of self-consciousness.

Oh dear.

This is not how it was meant to be! We were meant to be going on a date that had a beginning, a middle and an end! I wanted  the beginning to involve pant-loading fear; the middle to involve pathetic teenage flirting and the end to involve heavy pashing on a street corner. Instead, day one involved a two hour snogathon in my apartment followed by an hour on a boat on the lakes at Palermo; I sweated like a horse trying to navigate around while he slept soundly in the bottom of the boat after five weeks’ sleep deprivation. We went out for dinner and he fell asleep about twenty times before I took him home and put him to bed. Then I sat staring at this man passed out unconscious in my boudoir and wondered what the chuff was going on.

At present our date is scheduled for Tuesday 28th so it looks like I shall be spending Christmas Day with him and his distant Arge family before we have so much as swapped numbers.

I suspect the woman who wrote The Rules would garrotte me to death with a blunt fork if she discovered that a self-styled Rules Girl was behaving in such a preposterous manner.

It’s hard. These are not normal circumstances. I am leaving BA with my rucksack to commence four months of travelling/ethnic beads/shit pasta-based meals eaten in dirty hostels in less than a month. He only really came back to see what happened with me so has nowhere to stay. I have a flat. A double bed.We like each other.

But still. Nothing destroys romance more quickly than too much, too soon.  So I’m going to have to come up with a plan. I’ll keep you posted. Feel free to advise.

In the meantime, I would like to shout HAPPY YULE LOG to you all! Here is a picture of my home-made Christmas tree for your viewing pleasure.

I stole a branch off a dying tree in the street and put together this little bad boy. I rather like it and best of all I have FOUR parcels underneath. Receiving mail when you’re living abroad is just about the most exciting thing that could possibly happen. My whoops when said parcels arrived sent my housemate fleeing in confusion. I think she is alarmed by my capacity for noise.

In all honesty though I don’t believe it’s Christmas. Christmas is not celebrated in 35 degree heat. It does not involve BBQs and ice cold beers. It certainly does not involve romances with handsome, funny, kind and attractive men who I have to physically remove from my apartment because they are so keen to spend time with me. This is a distinctly odd yuletide for Lucy Robinson.


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