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Commas and Comas

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CC Image courtesy of YanivG on FlickrI’m skeptical about the doctor. He seems… quite serious. But then he does spend his days saving lives, not moving commas around like yours truly. I’d probably be serious if I worked in an intensive care unit.

Moreover he can punctuate with the best of ‘em, so there really is no good reason not to go on a date with the guy.

Beatrice has a weakness for doctors. She likes the fact they’re at ease with the human body which I think is a euphemism for they’re good in bed. I’m not convinced by her logic, in fact I’m prepared to bet your average intensive care doctor might be a bit too busy, y’know, providing intensive care to become Casanova in the bedroom. But I’m more than happy to be proved wrong.

CC Image courtesy of quinn.anya on Flickr

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The Language Of Love

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CC Image courtesy of chrisinplymouth on FlickrCatherine, about to leave, turns back. ‘Oh and… don’t fall in love with the new flatmate.’

‘Why, is he hot?’ I say. ‘Or is it just that he’s male and has two legs?’

‘Yeah… and he’s tall.’

Sounds hot. ‘I think I might get up.’


The bathroom door is open and a guy I don’t recognise is standing at the sink, washing his hands. He looks up, says something to me.

‘I err I’m afraid I don’t speak German.’

‘Oh you don’t live here?’

‘No, I’m a friend of Catherine’s.’


She looks up from her computer. ‘What is it?’

‘Yeah we might have a problem.’

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Tell Me

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CC Image courtesy of Eole on Flickr

‘Tell me’

You would say.

You said it there

On the white sofa

My favourite line


Tell me

Like an order




And I would put my thoughts in order ready to

Tell you.


‘Tell me’

I might be straddling you on the sofa

Or playing with the straw

Of the drink you bought me

Searching for the words

With which to

Tell you.


‘Tell me’

My favourite command

And you would listen


For a while.

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Back For Good

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CC Image courtesy of Ross_Angus on FlickrI don’t know if it’s because Lucy says she doesn’t think I’ve heard the last of him. Or because Attractive Witty Lawyer doesn’t rock my world and when Fred Astaire kisses me on the Overground I’m not really sure I’m feeling it. Or because I’m reading Love In The Time of Cholera which basically says it’s OK to devote your entire life to someone who might have forgotten you exist.

Or because I’m currently on a plane bound for a city which can’t help but make me think of him. He’s not there anymore – he’s back in London. He didn’t tell me; I read it on Facebook. For a week I was down in the dumps before picking myself up and… going to his place of work.

I’d been meaning to check out the dance classes for a while. And when I say a while I mean getting on for three years. And it just so happened that they took place every Saturday in the building where VP was working.

The chances of running into the guy were close to nil. I suppose… it will sound silly (and I do think Gabriel Garcia Márquez is partly to blame), I wanted to walk where he’d walked, go where he’d gone before me. Is that weird? Maybe, but at the same time I was dancing again and that could only be a good thing. He’d made me dance once before and now here I was again, dancing. And who knew where it would lead?

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CC Image courtesy of JulyYu on FlickrBeatrice once wrote me a profile for My Single Friend. It concluded: ‘And if you happen to be a ballroom dancer then so much the better!’ I’d long ago resigned myself to the fact that ballroom dancing in the garden – or anywhere – would remain a solo activity. And if by some miracle I ever brought a guy home to meet the parents he would assume the role of amused onlooker while I chasséed and lock-stepped my way around the lawn (he wouldn’t – he’d be forced to get involved and we’d end up laughing so much it hurt and made it impossible to keep dancing…).


So when, late one Saturday night, I get a generic Tinder message from Fred Astaire it gives me pause for thought.


I don’t know if you’ve ever tried ballroom. It’s one of the most incredible feelings in the world, being led around the floor by an experienced dancer. That might sound horribly chauvinistic – and it’s true that an incompetent lead is tantamount to torture – but with the right partner it’s a dream.


With Fred I cut to the chase in a ‘You’re a ballroom dancer?! Time and place and I’ll be there!’ kind of a way. Fortunately he finds it funny and suggests a date.


‘I’m not sure I fancy him,’ I say to Beatrice, in the run up to Friday. ‘But I think I’m right in saying I fancied all of the dance team at uni, so we’ll see.’

CC Image courtesy of on Flickr

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