“I’m free on Thursday but I’d like to see you before then,” the Captain’s message arrives – finally – eleven hours after my reply to his previous message. Phew. He hasn’t gone off me already.
A dull messaging discussion ensues in which it becomes clear that Thursday is indeed the earliest that we can meet – due to the imminent arrival of his mother from Germany. Mother doesn’t leave till Tuesday. Am not free Wednesday. For once I have Stuff-To-Do: have made a too many plans over the next week due to Operation happening on 21st and will be in a Bad Way for a bit after that. Anyway, is good that have things to do other than being available to see the Captain.
There is Pressure though. He messages: “Gosh you’re gorgeous: I love your hair”. It is, of course, a wig. He’s not very observant. And, of course, underneath my clothes I’m not gorgeous at all.
“It’s a lot of pressure,” I say to Lucy. We’re at the restaurant under the railway line – where I met the Captain the day before.
“Oh I don’t know,” she says. “He’s probably seen his colleagues all over the battlefield, blown to pieces. A couple of scars…that’s nothing.”
On the battlefield he’d be expecting missing limbs and so on though, I think. Or, as he calls it, the “operational theatre”: “I was in the operational theatre in Bosnia”, he told me on our date. He won’t be expecting missing body parts in a dating situation though. It’s different. He must be particularly unobservant anyway – most of the Bright Young Things realise that my “hair” is a wig. His eyesight must be failing with age: he is, after all, forty three.
Anyway: am just going to try:
1. Not to worry about any of this
2. To keep my clothes on so that he doesn’t experience the horror of my mutilated bits.
And there’s another projected date: a 6 ft 5 Swedish chap – yum. He’s 30 – so not really a Bright Young Thing but more my usual type, age-wise. Am meeting him next Thursday in the day. He’s a musician and banker – which sounds fun.
Have a nice weekend, everyone!