I spent most of the day napping on the sofa. I was worried that if I went to bed I’d miss HarryPotter when he woke up. Around 5 o’clock he stumbled out of his room. Bathrobe half open, red boxer shorts and a white t-shirt peeking through, he was wearing one sock, and the left side of his hair in a tangled bed of knots. As he put on the kettle, I cornered him in the kitchen. He was groggy, which would be to my advantage; it’s more difficult to reject someone if you’re not quite sure what’s going on.
I sat down at the kitchen table; he asked if I also wanted a cuppa; I said ‘yes’ and asked him to join me for a chat. He pulled up a chair. I opened my mouth, nothing came out. I’d completely forgotten my speech. I was so tired. I was so dead nervous. He scratched his head and spoke, ‘Fancy hitting the clubs tonight?’
‘Uh. Sure,’ was all I could say.
Roger had texted HarryPotter. He’d met a girl out last night and wanted to see her again tonight. She’d be at the Shed – a club near my old flat – but Roger didn’t want to go on his own, so HarryPotter and I have been recruited as wing people. Fun fun.
HarryPotter got up, and said to wake him up in a few hours; Roger will be here around 9ish. We’re to get our booze coat on at the flat before going out.
So, plans of ‘the talk’ have been twarted. It’s on to Plan B: ‘Get smashed off my face, jump his bones, and hope for the best.’ (Plan B did come in second place in the poll at 28.57% after all.)
Well, that’s me off to bathe, shave the bits, lotion, smooth, sprits, perfume, nails, hair, make-up. And do I have any cute and sexy clothes that are clean? What about sexy clean undies? Maybe I’ve got time to do a wash. Now, I’m even more nervous. If I’m going to get sloshed and throw myself at him, I need to look as good as I can.
Oh and by the way…
…19 days to go. Clock sure is ticking.