Bad Traffic*

“Hello,” I say answering the flat phone last night.

“Hello my lovely,” Seb says.  “I’ve made it back to my Mum’s house so…”

“Oh good,” I say, chopping some broccoli for The Omelette and sweeping it into the frying pan.  “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Wonderful,” Seb says.  “Such beautiful scenery.  It was magical.”

He’s adorable.  “What did you do for food?” I say, chopping up a courgette.

“We went to pubs for lunch and in the evenings we cooked at home,” Seb says.  “My lovely, is it OK if I come to see you on Friday?  You see: I’ve got exams when I get back on Monday and I’d rather spend three days working now so I can relax with you later in the week and…”

“Of course,” I say.  “That’s fine.  I’m seeing my surgeon on Friday late afternoon, so if you drive straight to the parentals you can be with Dad and the fluffy monster whilst I’m at the hospital with Mum.  Mum’s invited us for dinner.”

“Great – I’ll aim to arrive at your parentals by dinner time,” Seb says.

“These appointments do drag on,” I say.  “And sometimes horrible things happen and I get upset.  The fluffy monster will be pleased to see you.”

“See you on Friday my lovely,” Seb says.  “We can see the Marlon Brando film on Saturday, although there’s also the final of the rugby so…”

“I’ll leave the arrangements to you,” I say.

Hope he does manage to get some work done by Friday.  At least will see him then.

Am writing this from my bus.  The journey has taken about ninety minutes so far.

“These things are sent to try us,” Dad says when I call to inform him of the trauma of this morning’s journey.  

The attached photo is an Aston Martin DB9 who was parked near my office yesterday.

Happy Tuesday everyone!
*2008.  By Simon Lewis.  Detective novel.

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