8
I’m woken up at 5.45 a.m. the next morning by the deafening sound of my neighbour Agnes’s hedge-trimmer. I tread to the window to see her in her dressing gown
toting the power tool, attacking her rhododendrons as if she’s the Terminator.
I shut the window – it’s threatening to rain anyway – and flop back into bed, blearily picking up my phone, where I discover with a fluttering heart that Edwin texted me late
last night. I excitedly open it up, only to find the following:-
Don’t suppose you could remember to bring that box set to school tomorrow? E xxx
I can at least take solace in the three kisses, which are the sole nugget of hope and affection in an otherwise devastatingly banal request, albeit a reasonable one given that I have entirely
forgotten to bring it in since I promised to do so last week.
I log on to Facebook in time to see the latest Australia update from my cousin Steph. Steph is from my mum’s side of the family, the youngest daughter of my Uncle Harry, who grew up in
Birmingham. We were close when we were little, gravitating to each other during family get-togethers, at which we’d choreograph dance routines to Take That songs and make homemade rose
perfume out of battered flowers and tapwater. I hadn’t seen as much of her as an adult, but a few years ago, at a Boxing Day party, we discovered a mutual desire to travel Down Under and
agreed that it’d be great to do so with a friendly face. She got there sooner than me, but is as keen as ever that I go out and join her as soon as I can.
This is going to get MESSY! she says, underneath a pic in which things are already looking messier than a rave at Mr Messy’s house. She is surrounded by a host of
tanned, ripped men, has a dodgy-looking cigarette drooping from her lip and is topless, except for two beer cans she is holding over each nipple. It’s too early to scrape an appropriate
comment out of the depths of my brain so I just hit Like.
A moment later, another comment appears, tagging my name. When are you getting over here, Lauren Scott? I’ve just shown several of my new hotties, sorry friends (!!!),
your pic and they are all v. keen to show you a good time! Hurry up, girl!
It feels too early for that many exclamation marks somehow. Won’t be long hopefully, Steph. Looks like you’re having enough fun for both of us in the meantime.
x
I press Enter and hope that placates her, at least for as long as she remains conscious.
I try to roll over to get another forty minutes’ sleep, but as soon as my mind starts working over last night’s bombshell about Joe owning the Moonlight Hotel, drifting off again
becomes an impossibility. I haul myself out of bed and try to put a positive spin on being up at this ungodly hour by pulling on my running shoes. A bit of exercise is exactly what I need after
falling off the MyFitnessPal wagon yesterday.
To be fair, it is very difficult to adopt a kale-smoothie-based diet when you can’t get your hands on any kale, so you have to make do with broccoli instead, an overdose of which can make
you feel as if there’s a helium balloon in your lower intestine.
Under normal circumstances, when I decide to go for a run, I open my front door, turn right and venture a mile in a straight line before turning round and walking back. But today I’m
feeling ambitious, so decide to drive up to the Struggle next to the Kirkstone Pass Inn, where the views make up for the fact that its name is entirely appropriate.
I park and remove my car key from its ring, then step out, lock my gear inside and tie the key to the string at the top of my running pants. I set off underneath a pale grey sky, a wild mist
twisting around the mountains, the air crisp as it hits the back of my throat.
I stick to the road, like I always do. A fine rain skims my face as I pound the rising gradient of the road and replay my reaction to Joe’s announcement last night. Which wasn’t
nearly as hard-hitting as it
I’m woken up at 5.45 a.m. the next morning by the deafening sound of my neighbour Agnes’s hedge-trimmer. I tread to the window to see her in her dressing gown
toting the power tool, attacking her rhododendrons as if she’s the Terminator.
I shut the window – it’s threatening to rain anyway – and flop back into bed, blearily picking up my phone, where I discover with a fluttering heart that Edwin texted me late
last night. I excitedly open it up, only to find the following:-
Don’t suppose you could remember to bring that box set to school tomorrow? E xxx
I can at least take solace in the three kisses, which are the sole nugget of hope and affection in an otherwise devastatingly banal request, albeit a reasonable one given that I have entirely
forgotten to bring it in since I promised to do so last week.
I log on to Facebook in time to see the latest Australia update from my cousin Steph. Steph is from my mum’s side of the family, the youngest daughter of my Uncle Harry, who grew up in
Birmingham. We were close when we were little, gravitating to each other during family get-togethers, at which we’d choreograph dance routines to Take That songs and make homemade rose
perfume out of battered flowers and tapwater. I hadn’t seen as much of her as an adult, but a few years ago, at a Boxing Day party, we discovered a mutual desire to travel Down Under and
agreed that it’d be great to do so with a friendly face. She got there sooner than me, but is as keen as ever that I go out and join her as soon as I can.
This is going to get MESSY! she says, underneath a pic in which things are already looking messier than a rave at Mr Messy’s house. She is surrounded by a host of
tanned, ripped men, has a dodgy-looking cigarette drooping from her lip and is topless, except for two beer cans she is holding over each nipple. It’s too early to scrape an appropriate
comment out of the depths of my brain so I just hit Like.
A moment later, another comment appears, tagging my name. When are you getting over here, Lauren Scott? I’ve just shown several of my new hotties, sorry friends (!!!),
your pic and they are all v. keen to show you a good time! Hurry up, girl!
It feels too early for that many exclamation marks somehow. Won’t be long hopefully, Steph. Looks like you’re having enough fun for both of us in the meantime.
x
I press Enter and hope that placates her, at least for as long as she remains conscious.
I try to roll over to get another forty minutes’ sleep, but as soon as my mind starts working over last night’s bombshell about Joe owning the Moonlight Hotel, drifting off again
becomes an impossibility. I haul myself out of bed and try to put a positive spin on being up at this ungodly hour by pulling on my running shoes. A bit of exercise is exactly what I need after
falling off the MyFitnessPal wagon yesterday.
To be fair, it is very difficult to adopt a kale-smoothie-based diet when you can’t get your hands on any kale, so you have to make do with broccoli instead, an overdose of which can make
you feel as if there’s a helium balloon in your lower intestine.
Under normal circumstances, when I decide to go for a run, I open my front door, turn right and venture a mile in a straight line before turning round and walking back. But today I’m
feeling ambitious, so decide to drive up to the Struggle next to the Kirkstone Pass Inn, where the views make up for the fact that its name is entirely appropriate.
I park and remove my car key from its ring, then step out, lock my gear inside and tie the key to the string at the top of my running pants. I set off underneath a pale grey sky, a wild mist
twisting around the mountains, the air crisp as it hits the back of my throat.
I stick to the road, like I always do. A fine rain skims my face as I pound the rising gradient of the road and replay my reaction to Joe’s announcement last night. Which wasn’t
nearly as hard-hitting as it
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