Like Martin Luther King, I had a dream. Unfortunately, it wasn't one about equal rights or a brighter future. It was about my sordid affair.
Picture the scene. It's Valnetine's day. I am supposed to be at work, but because James and I couldn't possibly spend the evening together, we are having a midday brunch and sex-fest at a local hotel. For some reason, we have decided to bring the two big breakfasts up to our room and, rather like that scene in 9 and a Half Weeks, are proceeding to feed each other.
Except this isn't 9 and a Half Weeks, and after 5 minutes, our room looks like a ram-raided greasy spoon - chunks of sausage and streaks of bacon lie strewn across the bed. One of my bra cups is filled with tomato sauce, the other with mustard, making me look like some futuristic condiment dispenser. James has three hashbrowns in his y-fronts.
At this point, my phone rings. It is Hubby, who is parked outside my work building across town.
'Happy Valentine's Day love. Just thought I'd come and surprise you. I'm at your office, but I can't seem to park. Do I need a permit?'
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
'Ermmm, hiiii love. I'm actually just on my lunch break at the moment...'
'At 11 in the morning?'
'Yes, well. You know me. Gobble gobble gobble'.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.
'Okay...well. Do I need a permit or can I just park here?'
My mind is racing with excuses and possible explanations for my absence. I need something that will occupy him - at least for the time it take me to get in my car and drive to meet him...
'Yesss, yes, you do. It's actually quite a complex procedure though. Maybe just park in the NCP around the corner? Then I can meet you in Starbucks and we can have a coffee or something...'
'Okay, that sounds great'.
James, flustered by the phone call, just keeps nodding and before we can discuss who's paying the bill my suit is on and I'm out the door and in my car. It's 10 minutes to the Starbucks I mentioned, but Hubby is terrible at finding his way around. I pray for isolated traffic accidents, for street-stalking Evangelists. Anything that could prevent hubby from reaching Starbucks before I do.
Thankfully, when I tumble through the door of the cafe, my spouse is nowhere to be seen, so I grab a seat. Punters stare wildly at me as I collapse into a sofa and frantically fix my suit.
After about 5 minutes, I hear the door go, and a familiar voice say my name. Standing up, I turn around and am greeted by the shocked, open-mouthed expression of Hubby. He is staring at my face, scanning every inch, eyes frowning in repulsion. Turning to face the mirror on the wall behind, I see why. My entire face is covered in egg yolk, from chin to forehead, lumps drips slowly off my nose like a jaundice zombie.
I literally have EGG ON MY FACE.
No prizes for guessing what this one means, folks. Pre-Valentine's Day anxiety? Not me.
Seriously though. My subconscious can fuck off. I am going to have my cake AND eat it. And no breakfast-themed nightmare is going to stop me.
But it might make me a bit more careful. Yikes.