Friday 6th April. Nail-Polish & Rugby Players

Last night, when I arrived home from work and was going through my usual routine of attempting to exit the vehicle without all of the empty fag packets, Twiglet packets and half-drunk Lucozade bottles, craftily following me and spilling out onto my parking bay, I heard a voice in my head telling me that my back brake-light’s out.’

Charmed as always by the happy circumstance of living my life with a team of disembodied voices chattering, entertainingly away in my head, it took me a second to realise that, with a few notable fantasy dream-sequence type exceptions involving me, Jason Statham and a blindfold, the voices aren’t usually manly-ish.

I looked up at the sky for a bit, waiting patiently to see if there might be any additional information headed my way, when the voice coughed.

Well everyone knows that the ‘voices’ don’t get minor, upper respiratory infections and so that left only one plausible option, and turning round to discover my neighbour, David, standing right behind me confirmed my suspicions.

Neighbour-David moved in about six months ago and is dead helpful when it comes to pointing out everything that’s wrong with my car.

Since my usual response to things like having tyres but no air or a tax disc holder containing only a cartoon sketch of a penis, are usually of the breezy, ‘what-you-gonna-do’ shrugging variety, I have to say I’m surprised he’s still bothering.

I smiled politely, (the voices, on the other hand, were at this point singing a Katy Perry song quite loudly, which was nice) and since I was quite confident that he’d realise any minute now that this particular avenue of conversation was going to be entirely a one-way-street, went back to humming along with Katy.

The music stopped abruptly when we (and by we, I mean me and my friendly council of advisory voices) heard the words “and I wondered if you’d like to come with me.”

Who’s-that-what-now?

The voices, who were clearly pretending not to listen, suddenly remembered they needed to dust the coffee table, and had gone unhelpfully quiet.

The upshot is I agreed to go out to a lunch to somewhere or other next weekend on an outing that isn’t a date <insert nervous, psuedo-masculine giggling here> with some sporting friends of his.

I only agreed because the words rugby shorts and piss-up appeared in the same sentence.

Fast-forward an hour and a half.

I’m watching the Sopranos, painting my toes to make them look like they’ve got long nails growing on them, trying to keep Annabelle out of my nail-polish box by hissing and waving my legs at her threateningly from direction of the sofa, when I get a text message.

Aha my old friend, so we meet again.

Handsome-Rob’s back.

And he wants to talk.

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