… no, it’s fine… She’s not my girlfriend, Mum… But…”
“But you like her?” There’s that look of hope again, the one that prays that her son might be freed from the Shackles of Geekdom.
Despite all its attempts to retrieve my dignity, the old EM just isn’t built for this sort of pounding. It gives up and floods my face with blood, which promptly lights up like a solar flare.
“Yeah … I suppose so… Yeah.”
“And what’s her name?”
“Sarah.”
“She goes to your school?”
“I think so.” I’m going redder by the moment.
Mum leans forward in a conspiratorial sort of way, excitement dancing in her eyes.
“Ask her out, Archie. Ask Sarah out on a date.”
IM: That’s it, she’s finally lost her mind.
“Yeah … great idea, Mum… But it’s not that simple…”
“It is that simple, Archie; nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I would love to believe her, love to be able to embrace that simplistic attitude, but she just doesn’t understand! The mere thought of asking Sarah “out” fills me with dread and self-loathing. Equally, I can’t seem to face the ludicrous levels of excitement that telling Mum Sarah’s already coming over would bring. And I don’t want to jinx it; I’ll tell her when it’s all settled in my head.
“Tony says he wants me to get her round for dinner one night.” Try as I might, I can’t keep the bleating terror out of my voice.
“Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with him, tell him to back off. I know how awkward it can be to let someone know you like them, but he’s just excited for you. So am I.”
Mum’s earnest little face almost makes me wantto cry. Not tears of joy, but tears prompted by the fact that she’s going to end up disappointed by her socially-challenged son.
“Ask her out, Archie. It’d do you good to have a girlfriend. Lunch’ll be ready soon.” And then she’s out of the door and gone with a discernible spring in her step.
By the time I make it down to lunch, Tony has obviously been put on a leash and the subject of Sarah is dropped. However, it’s clearly been dropped from a great height, because the ripples it’s made make any other topic of conversation seem forced and stilted. I restrict my answers to nods and grunts, trying to become one with my roast pork.
After lunch, I thunder back up to my Lair and get some more unpacking done, leaf through old rule books, do a bit of painting – anything except think about what I want to think about, but I know I shouldn’t think about. I can’t help it; I end up thinking about it. I wonder where she lives.
IM: Stop it…
The parade of local shops is about a five-minute walk away from the new house. Given that I saw Sarah up at the local shops, it must mean her local shops are now my local shops.
IM: You’ll be telling us that two plus two equals four in a minute!
And given that she was on foot, it means her house can’t be too far away, either.
IM: How did you manage it, Holmes?
I wonder what her house looks like.
IM: Stop it…
But, try as I might, I just can’t picture the sort of house a girl that beautiful would live in; this piece of the mental jigsaw puzzle has yet to be found. It’s like I want to imagine it right and nothing less will do.
IM: *Sick noises*
And I wonder what she likes? Should I take a leaf out of Tony’s book and start thinking about flowers? I’ve never bought flowers before; I wonder which ones are her favourites?
IM: Why don’t you start planning the wedding while you’re at it? It’s not even a proper date, you freak!
My IM’s right. I need to put these thoughts to bed. I keep going with the unpacking, but after a few hours, a hurried sandwich, a few false starts and a bubbly “good night” from Mum, I eventually throw in the towel, crash on to the bed, and take a profound interest in the ceiling. I wonder what Sarah’s doing right now?
IM: Not expending the same amount of energy thinking about you, that’s for
“But you like her?” There’s that look of hope again, the one that prays that her son might be freed from the Shackles of Geekdom.
Despite all its attempts to retrieve my dignity, the old EM just isn’t built for this sort of pounding. It gives up and floods my face with blood, which promptly lights up like a solar flare.
“Yeah … I suppose so… Yeah.”
“And what’s her name?”
“Sarah.”
“She goes to your school?”
“I think so.” I’m going redder by the moment.
Mum leans forward in a conspiratorial sort of way, excitement dancing in her eyes.
“Ask her out, Archie. Ask Sarah out on a date.”
IM: That’s it, she’s finally lost her mind.
“Yeah … great idea, Mum… But it’s not that simple…”
“It is that simple, Archie; nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I would love to believe her, love to be able to embrace that simplistic attitude, but she just doesn’t understand! The mere thought of asking Sarah “out” fills me with dread and self-loathing. Equally, I can’t seem to face the ludicrous levels of excitement that telling Mum Sarah’s already coming over would bring. And I don’t want to jinx it; I’ll tell her when it’s all settled in my head.
“Tony says he wants me to get her round for dinner one night.” Try as I might, I can’t keep the bleating terror out of my voice.
“Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with him, tell him to back off. I know how awkward it can be to let someone know you like them, but he’s just excited for you. So am I.”
Mum’s earnest little face almost makes me wantto cry. Not tears of joy, but tears prompted by the fact that she’s going to end up disappointed by her socially-challenged son.
“Ask her out, Archie. It’d do you good to have a girlfriend. Lunch’ll be ready soon.” And then she’s out of the door and gone with a discernible spring in her step.
By the time I make it down to lunch, Tony has obviously been put on a leash and the subject of Sarah is dropped. However, it’s clearly been dropped from a great height, because the ripples it’s made make any other topic of conversation seem forced and stilted. I restrict my answers to nods and grunts, trying to become one with my roast pork.
After lunch, I thunder back up to my Lair and get some more unpacking done, leaf through old rule books, do a bit of painting – anything except think about what I want to think about, but I know I shouldn’t think about. I can’t help it; I end up thinking about it. I wonder where she lives.
IM: Stop it…
The parade of local shops is about a five-minute walk away from the new house. Given that I saw Sarah up at the local shops, it must mean her local shops are now my local shops.
IM: You’ll be telling us that two plus two equals four in a minute!
And given that she was on foot, it means her house can’t be too far away, either.
IM: How did you manage it, Holmes?
I wonder what her house looks like.
IM: Stop it…
But, try as I might, I just can’t picture the sort of house a girl that beautiful would live in; this piece of the mental jigsaw puzzle has yet to be found. It’s like I want to imagine it right and nothing less will do.
IM: *Sick noises*
And I wonder what she likes? Should I take a leaf out of Tony’s book and start thinking about flowers? I’ve never bought flowers before; I wonder which ones are her favourites?
IM: Why don’t you start planning the wedding while you’re at it? It’s not even a proper date, you freak!
My IM’s right. I need to put these thoughts to bed. I keep going with the unpacking, but after a few hours, a hurried sandwich, a few false starts and a bubbly “good night” from Mum, I eventually throw in the towel, crash on to the bed, and take a profound interest in the ceiling. I wonder what Sarah’s doing right now?
IM: Not expending the same amount of energy thinking about you, that’s for
Similar Books
