Monday, 23 August 2010

This Thursday

So after a lot of shifting, scheduling, re-scheduling, pencilling in, crossing out, and then pencilling in again...we're there. Doc and I are meeting this Thursday. Texting has ramped up in anticipation. I have sent 3 today already. What a hussy.

I looked upon my marital underwear draw this morning with barely-masked distaint. Hubby's undies were bundled up against mine in this orgy of muted colours, bobbly cotton and knock-off Calvin Klein. All my pants are that particular shade of grey. The shade that says "I once was white and clean, but my careless owners accidentally put me in on a hot wash with some jeans and now I'm ugly."

I keep my sexy undies in a little box on the top shelf of my wardrobe. Hubby has seen a few pieces, but even the French Maid ensemble I bought last year coulnd't seem to rouse him from his traditional "you get 5 minutes but only in missionary and afterwards I'm going to sleep" stance. I picked it up this morning to find a family of spiders had nested in the bib. Apt.

This evening I'm off to Ann Summers to add to my collection. My current crush...!letc~ev!45905||et!letc~ev!10210||et!letc~ev!45913||_40151_-1_45905_71642_10001_

Obviously I won't look like that. But hell, I'm not doing to badly, if I do say myself. They haven't hit ground zero yet anyway.

T Minus 3 days.

Thursday, 12 August 2010


It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last bit of the July accounts and then I'm done.

It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last bit of the July accounts and then I'm done.

It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last maybe I should text the Doctor and see what he's doing? I wonder what he's doing right now. I bet he looks hot in his coat. Maybe it would be clinical with him? He has to look at naked women as part of his

It is half past 4 on a Thursday after then again maybe that will make him more appreciative of the times when he doesn't have to don latex glovers

It is half past I really hope he's not tempted to don latex gloves

It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last bit of the July accounts and then I'm going to text him and see what he's doing.

Friday, 6 August 2010

That word.

Is there such thing as an enjoyable tragedy?

Since my meeting with The Doctor, texts full of tension and yearning have been passing between us. He wants to see me again, as soon as he can. He is switching his schedule. Trying to slot me into his already-brimming life. I am sat at my desk unable to concentrate on anything except the familiar ache in my chest.

New love, in all it's forms, is truly addictive. But I think perhaps the promise of love is more addictive still. After all, post-exposition, the object of your affection becomes tangible. A living, breathing, burping person. But before, oh before! They are the white wall onto which you project all your hopes and desires for what love can and might be.

I used to avoid using that word when talking about my lovers. Treat it like a weight, rather than a release. But the truth is, when you are crushing, when you are infatuated with someone to whatever degree, that is love. A seed, maybe. A speck. But still it comes from the same giddy place.

The promise of The Doctor is kicking inside me. Waiting for the day when I can sit smugly at my desk and bang out on these keys "I fucked him! It is done, and I am happy!". But there is an exquisite kind of happiness in this torturous limbo. Perhaps because I know that, however long it takes, this feels like a sure thing.

And as we know, sure things are hard to find.

Monday, 2 August 2010

Date with the Doctor.

The good news:

The doctor exceeded my expectations 10-fold. Physically; just right. Tall. Good looking in a way that doesn't invoke my inferiority complex. Nice smelling. A shadow of stubble (not too boyish, not too Dumbledore).

Emotionally; articulate, open, very self-aware. Comfortable talking about his family, but not desperate to pour over the misery of it all. Acknowledged that what we were doing would be considered wrong by most reasonable people, but agreed that he would have it no other way. Refreshingly free of the need to assert is masculinity.

Conversationally; I was bowled over by the passing of time. We sat down. We started talking about Wolf Hall. Then suddenly it was 10.30pm, he had to leave, and I was fumbling through my phone for a cab number. A dry sense of humour. A vast well of knowledge when it comes to literature. And very happy to let me gush and rant and debate about innumerable topics, without impatiently stepping on the ends of my (increasingly slurred) sentences.

The bad news:

He lives in fucking Manchester. Fuck.