“I’m exhausted from the gym, my lovely,” Seb says when he calls at 8.30pm last night.
“What did you do there,” I say, sipping my hot chocolate. Apart from turning up at a time when it’s open at last, so well done for that.
“Well, I started at my toes and worked up,” Seb says. “Did some running and cycling and all different weights. Have to keep up with the young chaps at the boxing club – I’m so unfit and…”
“I’m sure you’ll get your fitness back in no time,” I say.
“Yes, I mean unfit-for-me,” Seb says. “Not unfit compared with the average person. But I used to play rugby and swim and then of course there were those three years in the monastery. So I’m determined to get back in shape or…”
“Good plan, my darling,” I say.
“Just after these chips that I’ve bought from the best fish and chip shop I’ve ever been to,” Seb says. “And I’ve made some tzatziki to dip them into: you know how I love tzatziki my lovely.”
“Ah yes,” I say. Must hurry up with getting-self-back-in-shape, I think. Must lose a stone and push self with own exercise regime. Seb is the most gorgeous person in the world as it is: he’s 6 foot 3 with big shoulders and his face is perfect and he puts muscle on easily. And he isn’t even fat. Obviously.
“I cant wait to see you,” Seb says.
“Can’t wait to see you, my darling,” I say.
As I sit on the top deck of my bus this morning, I notice with sadness that the garage has closed. You can see it in the attached photo. It’s probably going to be demolished and turned into flats like everything else, I think. That garage, with its clock, has been there all my life. When we were little, my brother used to think that the clock was Big Ben, it seemed so huge to him. It has always been a landmark on our car journeys – the place where we leave the suburbs and head into the big city. Maybe any new development will keep the clock. Hope so. It must be a local landmark after all these years.
Happy Tuesday everyone!
*1955. By Agatha Christie. Hercule Poirot detective novel.