Kitty and Helen said that they were going to be in London for a few days and that I was coming down to see them. I told them I would love to, but couldn't afford it. They wouldn't have it, and Kitty paid my train fare of 76 [sic] pounds.
I strolled up to the bar in Covent Garden, where they were with the incredibly attractive Melanie from Reading. They had already bought a caiparinha for me, which was a good job, because in what was to become a theme of the evening, the waiter came out and asked us if we'd like anything else as they were closing. At 8.15, on World Cup Final night, in central London. At the sushi restaurant, the waitress warned us they were closing in half an hour. On the bank of the Thames, where there are some bars on boats, everything was closed, at 10 o'clock. "For God's sake, it'd be easier to find a drink in Doncaster," said Melanie from Reading, who by then had to get a train home.
It was a warm night, and hundreds of exultant Spaniards were running around with flags and vuvuzelas, beeping their car horns, jumping and shouting every time they encountered another celebratory party. Dutch people shook their hands.
We just about managed to get into a pub, where the barmaid served us then turned the music off and the lights on full. Helen came back to the table with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. In a nightclub, Helen opened the champagne and hid it behind a menu. As we were finishing it a security guard shone a torch on it, said something into his headset, and Kitty and Helen had to turn on the fluttering eyelashes to avoid us getting chucked out.
Back to the hotel: one bed, two girls, and me. "We've decided you should sleep in the middle," said Kitty, so I did, and woke up spooning Kitty, my arm draped across her thigh. I could fancy Kitty, and it was a delicious test not to move. I lay there thinking how beautiful she is. Then I came round a bit more and realised it was Helen. "Looby, you've been spooning me for about two hours," Helen said. "I know, I'm sorry, I didn't realise I'd got into that position." "No, it's alright; it was nice." I had my "best" white Primark underpants on, and glancing down at myself I thought I ought to invest in some better underwear.
I got the train back to Lancaster. It had been sultry and humid, I'd had champagne, I'd been laying next to Helen, I'd been in a hotel room with Kitty walking around in her underwear, I'd been staring out of the window on the train thinking about taking photographs of Melanie from Reading for a girlie mag... so I sent Felicity a text, the nature of which cannot be revealed on a family-orientated blog such as this. "Some time soon!" she replied.
Tomorrow, off to Leeds for my fictitious appointment at the University, my cover for meeting Kim off the internet.
