“I know what you should be for Hallowe’en,” the Tinder message flashes across my screen. It’s from a 35 year old “half-French sports enthusiast. Lover of fun things. Also, I’m taller than you, even if you’re a Tinderella size queen.” He looks pleasant enough: green eyes, light brown hair, very white teeth.
“Go on…” I write back. Hopefully he’s not about to write “a man” or “a pumpkin.”
“Mine ;)” he replies.
Ah, good answer!
“Can meet over the weekend,” I write, and then turn my phone off and settle down for my afternoon nap.
Switching my phone on at 4pm, I open my Tinder and there’s a message from him:
“Tomorrow night is perfect. Send me your number so we can iron out the details.”
He sent his message at 1.17pm, so I’m replying two and a half hours later, but that’s OK. As far as he knows I’ve been busy-at-work rather than sleeping all afternoon.
This is good, to have a date to look forward to. It ought to be fun being out on Hallowe’en with witches and pumpkins and skeletons and so on wandering around. Maybe will wear my bat tights…
Went outside to look for the fluffy monster at 4.15pm or so and he was resting under a table. Scooped him up and bundled him inside. At 4.57pm it’s almost dark outside. Am very pleased that he is safe in the house: stretched out on top of the piano, dozing…