I got a text from Posh asking for HP’s phone number, so she could invite him to her going away party, which is totally weird as she’s only met him once. And I said as much when I gave her his mobile number.
Her response, ‘He is a very intriguing individual. Must have him at my soiree.’
HarryPotter may be many things, but he most certainly is not intriguing. What the hell did he and Posh talk about?
I rang HP to tell him that he would be getting an invite from Posh, and if he decided to come to Dundee, he could crash on our sofa. (I totally regretted that the moment I said it. Fife in my bed and HP on my sofa bed. Too weird.) But I really didn’t think he would be up for Posh’s party anyway, as HarryPotter’s not always the sociable type. You know the guy – the one in the corner not talking to anyone he hasn’t already known for fifteen years. And since HP wouldn’t know anyone at Posh’s party – except for me, and kind of Posh – I didn’t think he’d want to come. I was wrong.
He said he’s totally up for a night in Dundee. Oh geeze, this is going to be fun. Fife on one side and HP on the other. And Fife is so Mr Chatty I’m sure he’ll spend the entire night talking to HP. I don’t know why, but that scenario, which I am sure will come to pass, scares the piss out of me.
Also while I was on the phone, I filled HarryPotter in on my continuing film rights and book sales saga. He’s totally psyched for me, and — like all you misguided bloggy woggy followers — he seems to have confidence in my nonexistent agenting abilities. God the pressure.
Right, so I’m still at work. Fife suggested that he and I go out for dinner tonight as he’s not in the mood to cook, so I’m waiting for him to pick me up. I have no idea where we’re going, but I’m starving.