wish Johnny wouldn’t keep referring to that business behind the Science block, though. I still can’t remember what it was, but he says that he had to take his watch off because it was getting in the way. God knows what he means, but I bet it’ll turn out to be even more embarrassing than my toes, if I can ever find the diary where I wrote it down.
Bugger – I’d nearly forgotten about those bloody toes. What’s the point in flirting with someone when you’d have to keep everything covered if you ever met up and took things further? I bet that’s why people stay married – to avoid the horror of having to disrobe in front of someone who isn’t inured to disintegration via familiarity …
Now I’m even more suspicious of Max’s half-hearted attempts to get fit.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE
This morning’s postal delivery is interesting, I don’t think. Fifty-five letters and twelve campaign postcards: save trees and/or whales; bring back imperial measures; ban fireworks; introduce a bank holiday for St George’s Day; make cycle helmets compulsory; don’t make cycle helmets compulsory; and sign the declaration in support of religious broadcasting. There is also a parcel containing five one-litre bottles of urine, beautifully packaged, but with no return address.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE (EVENING)
Success! Finally found my fifth-form diary. I’m going to read it in bed as I haven’t had time until now.
Johnny Hunter’s name is scrawled on the front: ‘Johnny Luvs Molly 4 Eva’. Spelling obviously wasn’t a priority at the time.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE (LATE EVENING)
Oh God, now I definitely know who Johnny Hunter is. And what he’s talking about.
TUESDAY, 8 JUNE
This morning’s post is even less enthralling than yesterday’s – as if to rub in how boring my life is, now that I’m no longer fifteen and getting up to God knows what behind the Science block – although The Boss does have a new batch of death threats, written in bright red ink, for a change.
I’m inclined to ignore them as, apart from the distinctive colour, they’re not much different to those he gets all the time. (Greg denies any involvement on this occasion, and claims not to own a colour printer, anyway.) So I’m just about to throw the letters into the bin, when someone from Special Branch phones to say that they’ve infiltrated a group of animal-rights extremists and think that we should step up our precautions against attack.
The officer wants to know what our security arrangements are and, when I tell him we don’t have any, he suggests we get some, preferably yesterday. He sound even less impressed when I tell him that The Boss doesn’t agree with security arrangements as they are a ‘threat to democracy’.
‘Doesn’t Mr Sinclair realise that, while he is protected for most of the week by the security at the House of Commons, you and your colleague are totally vulnerable?’ he says, in the sort of voice that you’d get if you crossed Alan Rickman with Barry White.
He sounds so sexy that I resist the temptation to sarcasm, and somehow avoid saying, ‘Gosh, officer, we hadn’t thought of that !’ Instead I surprise myself by flirting a bit – the mutilated-dog-tails woman must have been contagious – and I end up confiding that The Boss isn’t the easiest person to manage sometimes.
It’s a good job the officer can’t actually see what I look like, otherwise I’m sure he wouldn’t then have offered to carry out a security inspection, and to tell The Boss what needs to be put in place to protect me and Greg.
‘I’ll come and see you later this afternoon, if you like?’ he says, which would be very good news if I didn’t have to leave work early for my appointment with the gynaecologist – though I don’t tell him that, of course. A woman must protect what remains of her dignity, after all.
On that note, I have insisted that Max comes to the hospital with me, in case I am asked how often we have sex, so that he can
Bugger – I’d nearly forgotten about those bloody toes. What’s the point in flirting with someone when you’d have to keep everything covered if you ever met up and took things further? I bet that’s why people stay married – to avoid the horror of having to disrobe in front of someone who isn’t inured to disintegration via familiarity …
Now I’m even more suspicious of Max’s half-hearted attempts to get fit.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE
This morning’s postal delivery is interesting, I don’t think. Fifty-five letters and twelve campaign postcards: save trees and/or whales; bring back imperial measures; ban fireworks; introduce a bank holiday for St George’s Day; make cycle helmets compulsory; don’t make cycle helmets compulsory; and sign the declaration in support of religious broadcasting. There is also a parcel containing five one-litre bottles of urine, beautifully packaged, but with no return address.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE (EVENING)
Success! Finally found my fifth-form diary. I’m going to read it in bed as I haven’t had time until now.
Johnny Hunter’s name is scrawled on the front: ‘Johnny Luvs Molly 4 Eva’. Spelling obviously wasn’t a priority at the time.
MONDAY, 7 JUNE (LATE EVENING)
Oh God, now I definitely know who Johnny Hunter is. And what he’s talking about.
TUESDAY, 8 JUNE
This morning’s post is even less enthralling than yesterday’s – as if to rub in how boring my life is, now that I’m no longer fifteen and getting up to God knows what behind the Science block – although The Boss does have a new batch of death threats, written in bright red ink, for a change.
I’m inclined to ignore them as, apart from the distinctive colour, they’re not much different to those he gets all the time. (Greg denies any involvement on this occasion, and claims not to own a colour printer, anyway.) So I’m just about to throw the letters into the bin, when someone from Special Branch phones to say that they’ve infiltrated a group of animal-rights extremists and think that we should step up our precautions against attack.
The officer wants to know what our security arrangements are and, when I tell him we don’t have any, he suggests we get some, preferably yesterday. He sound even less impressed when I tell him that The Boss doesn’t agree with security arrangements as they are a ‘threat to democracy’.
‘Doesn’t Mr Sinclair realise that, while he is protected for most of the week by the security at the House of Commons, you and your colleague are totally vulnerable?’ he says, in the sort of voice that you’d get if you crossed Alan Rickman with Barry White.
He sounds so sexy that I resist the temptation to sarcasm, and somehow avoid saying, ‘Gosh, officer, we hadn’t thought of that !’ Instead I surprise myself by flirting a bit – the mutilated-dog-tails woman must have been contagious – and I end up confiding that The Boss isn’t the easiest person to manage sometimes.
It’s a good job the officer can’t actually see what I look like, otherwise I’m sure he wouldn’t then have offered to carry out a security inspection, and to tell The Boss what needs to be put in place to protect me and Greg.
‘I’ll come and see you later this afternoon, if you like?’ he says, which would be very good news if I didn’t have to leave work early for my appointment with the gynaecologist – though I don’t tell him that, of course. A woman must protect what remains of her dignity, after all.
On that note, I have insisted that Max comes to the hospital with me, in case I am asked how often we have sex, so that he can
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