Separate Tables

No word from the Captain. Spent a bit of time on Tinder making some new matches and nothing from any of them either.

It’s not all doom and gloom though: the Central Willy Database is recovered! Found the bit of Facebook called Synced Photos and there are all my willies! Also, there are all my photos of Seb with dogs, cats and kittens that are not for public consumption. Phew. Was upset about losing my photos of my darling boy.

“I’ve found your phone numbers,” Dad says.
“How?” I say, looking up from the newspaper.
“By logging into your old iCloud address on my computer,” Dad says.
“Is there a Captain X on there?” I say.
“No, I’m afraid not, no-one by that name,” Dad says. “Come and have a look at the list.”
Picking up the furry monster, I follow Dad into his office.
“There are a hundred and twenty eight people on the list,” Dad says, showing me the screen. It’s an old list: no new Tinder contacts. Putting the furry monster down on the marble floor, where he finds a ribbon to kill, I start adding contacts to my phone by hand. It’s lucky that I’m ill and don’t have anything to do, I think, as I add all the contacts into my phone. After about an hour, they’re all in my new phone. No-one of any use for dating purposes though.

Tonight we’re going to attempt to go out to dinner, the three of us, like a normal family. Am feeling a bit anxious about leaving the house, at night, in the cold and dark. It will be a break from cooking for Mum though. Will try the big softie in my bra. Also have to wash hair, clean lenses and find dress, tights and boots to wear.

Tummy has not recovered from the effects of the opiates though: am doing a bit of rabbit poo sometimes but things are not good in there and have abdominal pains as well as arm pains and chest pain, despite taking my sodium docusate. So I look even fatter than I am. Never mind, it will be good to get out of the house, hopefully.
“You’re not taking that thing out to dinner,” Dad says, looking up from the Financial Times. He’s referring to my new gold phone. “We’re going to make conversation.”
“Surely you’ve heard all my chat by now?” I say, pulling the furry blanket around me for warmth. The thermostat in this house, like the volume nob in Spinal Tap, goes up to 11. The furry monster is stretched out along his sofa: a huge orange fluffy sausage.
“We’re going to talk to each other at dinner, like a normal family,” Dad says.

Right, had better start beautifying myself. It could take a while…

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