Posted on

CC Image courtesy of kcr@in on FlickrThe most precious – and arguably the most delusional – thing VP ever said to me was over dinner in a restaurant just off Trafalgar Square. It was our third date. He was asking me about my job and I was being vague, unwilling to reveal the mindlessness of my day-to-day employment to this dazzling Renaissance man. And that’s when he said it.

‘I imagine you’re well-liked at work.’

I resisted the urge to pull a face. ‘Er… I hope so.’


I went to a wedding the other day. In her speech the bride said of her husband, ‘He makes me be the best version of myself’.


Now, when I’m having a really shitty day at work and a colleague comes over to ask me a perfectly reasonable question and I want to snap and scowl, I remember VP’s words.


After dinner we crossed the river, walked west and sat on a bench kissing and sharing stories in the shadow of Big Ben.


I’ll never forget the nights we spent together but I’ll treasure more what he said to me as we sat across from one another, my hand in his, fingers interlacing.

CC Image courtesy of on Flickr

Related Posts:

Brilliant Cut

Keeping Time

Love Letter

At the end of the day

Back To The Future

Posted on

CC Image courtesy of 96dpi on FlickrI’m sitting on the train, bound for a New Year’s Eve party, and for some reason I’m reading old texts from VP. I say ‘for some reason’; it’s probably because I know that tonight VP is just 11 miles away. On finding this out I did something I’ve never done before: alone, at home, I cracked open a bottle of Martini and had a drink.

So I’m reading old texts from VP, from the top. I’ve got as far as the one where I’m telling him about an evening I spent with Perky who incidentally I’m en route to meet before going together to the aforementioned party. Perky’s been a saint recently, fielding endless messages from yours truly containing scintillating bulletins such as:

Tinder tells me VP is in London.

It’s a wonder she hasn’t blocked my number.

So I’m sitting there, reading, when something happens. Something I’ve been hoping for ever since a certain conversation took place in early October but which I didn’t really believe would ever happen.

VP’s messages, six months old, are before my eyes, when up pops… a new message. And suddenly we’re back there: back to holding my phone like it’s a piece of fine bone china, so that I don’t accidentally hit the message bubble, open the window, allow the message to show as ‘read’ before the ink is dry on the page. Back to staring at my phone with the most ridiculous grin on my face, wondering what it means, what to do next.

‘It makes me angry,’ Perky says, when I tell her. ‘He still hasn’t done anything.’

Tell me about it.

And when Karl comes on to me around 2am at the party, I cut my losses and tell him too. He knows about VP, whereas my neighbour – the main reason I don’t feel entirely comfortable making out with Karl in the hallway, or anywhere for that matter – is as yet undisclosed information.

‘You’re the ball of wool,’ Karl says.


Even without the four glasses of prosecco coursing through my veins, I don’t think I’d catch his drift.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re the ball of wool, and he’s the kitten in this scenario.’

I know he’s right.

‘How do I not be the ball of wool?’

‘You have to not care.’


Like that’s gonna happen.

CC Image courtesy of Alicakes* on Flickr

Related Posts:

Not Working

November Song

Precious Little

The Morning After

Something Or Nothing

Posted on

‘This – this evening ­– it means nothing.’CC Image courtesy of Jim Barter on Flickr

‘No I know.’

‘It’s just – we’ve spent a nice evening together, and that’s it. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘I know!’ I laugh. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not suddenly going to go all needy on you!’

I am however going to leave. Because, if I know anything, it’s that I want something which means something. I think I always knew, from the moment I left the office, bent my steps in the direction of the tube, emerged onto the unfamiliar pavement, wended my way through the streets of the City, past the cafe where VP and I had our first conversation about what it was we were doing – I always knew I was walking towards nothing. We would mark time over drinks, dance maybe, but ultimately he didn’t care – he didn’t care how my day had been, what I thought of my new job, my new flatmate. It was all just words, because you had to say something, do something, until the alcohol had entered your system, made you both feel sufficiently relaxed to cross that line.


Which brings us to here: a sofa, a shabby flat, a shabby scene really. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him well enough and I must have fancied him a bit, but I felt… interchangeable. We’re all interchangeable up to a point of course, but the difference with VP, for want of a better example (and there isn’t one), is that with him I never felt that way. And I knew, as VP sat across from me in the frankly hideous cafe of his choosing set back from the main thoroughfare of Liverpool Street, nursing a pint, telling me:

‘I like you, but I can’t be ’emotionally responsible’ for you right now.’

I knew it would never mean as much to him as it did to me. But I knew… I knew he would never say it meant nothing.

CC Image courtesy of sachman75 on Flickr

Related Posts:

Civilised Company

Like Lovers Do

The Final Act