“You like Magnus Carlsen, nice!” The Tinder message flashes across my screen. It’s from a new Bright Young Thing, age 31, so not even very young. He’s got brown hair and blue eyes. Good cheekbones.
“I do,” I reply.
“The red dress in your picture is very nice. Do you play chess?” He says.
Ah. Dad plays chess and of course it was he who alerted me to the tasty 24 year old Norwegian World Champion (and model) Magnus Carlsen.
“No, I don’t,” I say. “Do you?” If this chap is looking for someone to play chess with, it’s better to disappoint him now.
“Yes, I do,” he says. “I work in finance in the city. What do you do?”
“I Write Stuff,” I say.
Wonder if he is Norwegian or if his interest in Magnus Carlsen is from a purely chess-playing point of view. Is nice to have a new Bright Young Thing anyway. Haven’t heard from the Twitcher since Tuesday. Maybe he has died from too-much-work.
“Let’s have a look then,” my plastic surgeon says. We’re at the hospital, again.
Going behind the curtain, I take my cycling top off and pull down my secret support vest.
“That’s healing up nicely,” he says. “I’ll just change the tape on there. Very good.”
“Aren’t you going to put some more fluid into my expander?” I say.
“Not yet.” He shakes his head. “We have to let it heal a bit more first. I’ll see you when I’m back in January.”
“But that’s ages!” I say, disappointed. This expander business drags on and on…