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I show my mother a picture, in the hope that she will tell me to give up now/ that he looks like trouble.  Actually the first, because, well, he looks as lovely as he is in real life.

She considers the image.  ‘Well… I wouldn’t hold your breath.  He looks… chirpy, friendly and yes, really nice, so….’ 

‘Yeah.’  I take the laptop.  ‘He’s not as chirpy as he looks,’ I say quietly, as if that makes everything OK.

CC Image courtesy of florriebassingbourn on Flickr

Moments later my phone flashes up with a message.

‘OK then,’ I bring up a picture of the sender, ‘what about this guy?’

‘Oh God.’


My mother gives me that ‘do you really need to ask?’ look.

‘Trouble?’ I say.


It’s not Trouble, it’s Viable Prospect.  I consider the photo a moment.

‘But… why?!  I mean, I know you’re probably right, but….’

I start typing a reply.


It’s over a week before I hear back from Viable Prospect.  I don’t know if it’s my mother’s words, or what I said to Beatrice, or the growing feeling that he’s leading me a merry dance, but when he does finally reply, I leave it.

CC Image courtesy of Johan Larsson on Flickr

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