By Friday afternoon I was completely exhausted, having gone at got my teeth cleaned and spat in the hygienists face-a mistake I assure you, and then gone home to attempt to look impressive as I possibly could: I finally got to Liverpool Street Station to witness my Lover chomping down a McDonalds burger before he met me. Charming. No romantic candlelit dinner for me, then. But at least he’d turned up.
It was wonderful to see him, which meant for the first hour I was completely tongue-tied: obviously in great awe of his expanding Buddha stomach, balding head and his annoying habit of excessive name-dropping.  The evening got off to a slow start but after a few Caipirinhas conversation became easier and we slipped back into our usual banter. I remember sitting on a bar stool in a crowded pub feeling distinctly tingly and overwhelmed with the need to wrap my whole body around him and just stay there until last orders. It was a lovely evening, but for the most part felt like a first date, so long had we gone without seeing each other. His family are away for the summer and he wants to see me as much as he possibly can during the end of July and August, which is lovely but then what happens in September? I don’t know how long I can do this- nothing will ever change and never will there be a beneficial outcome. It’s pretty much just me impatiently pushing my self-destruct button.

The next day was spent snuggling in my armchair and demolishing a whole chicken carcass (when you don’t eat carbs the binges are epic) and watching Spaced. In short, my afternoon was heaven. That was until The Musician rang and demanded that I see him that night, because “You really want to” which was news to me. After ten minutes of refusing I was heartily sick of the whole situation and said maybe, I was seeing Mancini Girl and Chuckle and if I wasn’t too late out I would consider returning to his. I then hung up and buried my phone so far down the couch that when I went to retrieve it an hour later I had a manicure accident.

The night with Mancini and Chuckle was utterly lovely as always. A trip to annex3 (interesting décor, fabulous cocktails- Little Portland Street) early in the evening caused a mishap with Mancini’s brand new white dress and a strawberry bilini but which happily resulted in all our drinks free of charge and Mancini’s dress being resuscitated by a brilliant barman and some Arial. We then headed onto Freedom (tacky, fun- Wardour Street) for wine and a discussion on the futility of negative body issues.
After that I don’t really know what happened- I wasn’t drunk or feeling whimsical or lonely, but at 11.40 I went over to The Musicians. It must surely have been a deep, subconscious need for a shag more than anything else but I realised halfway in the cab that there was nowhere I’d rather be at that moment other than shacked up in his bed, not necessarily doing anything other than watching Curb Your Enthusiasm, but just being with him. Scary.    

Incidentally, the sex was great. God damn it.