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In which Trina continues to be lovely

  Mon 25th June 2012

I had the most loquacious, inquisitive potential future tenant come round today. I felt like the interviewee. "So how do you spend your free time?" she asked. "Well, I see my friends, and I have my girls some of the week," answering the question whilst wondering why I was doing so. She's from Malaysia, finished an MA in HR Management, and now runs a "coaching" business (what?). She asked if she could see her "clients" in my front room. When I said yes I didn't know what I was agreeing to.

After a couple of false starts of her leaving, when I started to stand up, but which she wound back with new questions, she finally left. I ran down to the station, late, ringing Trina on the way. "Don't rush," she said. "I'm on platform three with my book."

She was sitting there with Lawrence Durrell and a vacant seat next to her. "Is this seat free?" I asked. "No. I'm waiting for someone." We kissed, shouders hunched. "I didn't want you to feel all flustered," she said. "Hang on, I ran here partly out of selfish reasons, Trina. It's not all about you, you know."

We went to the Ring O' Bells, which has a garden the bees and blackbirds think they own. Then to the Sun, where she bought us salami and cheese and pickles and bread. We walked with our drinks into the garden. Neil and Kev, whom I'd put off yesterday, were there. "Oh I see," said Neil. "You say you're busy..." "I am busy," I said, with a head nod towards Trina. "Well pull up a chair..." "No, I am not going to pull up a chair. Trina, this is Neil, Kev, Tamsin. Now, we are going to politely fuck off."

After the Sun we went for a walk through a rampantly weeded field by the Priory Church, down a grassed hill and onto the Quay and into the George and Dragon. "Hello looby," said the barman. "How are you?" "All the better since I've been going out with this bird." "Oh really?" said someone at the bar. "Yes, I'm his bird," she said, I want to kiss you for saying that and we got into talk about her origins--Welsh and Scouse, but in which she said her grandfather was Russian, something I didn't know.

But I wanted her to myself. I ushered her away to sit down. We chatted and snogged, hair-raking, kissing, with the knowing indulgence of everyone else in the pub, who will report this on the bush telegraph. Cliff's got a bird. It's a small city, and people talk about each other here.

Snogging goodbye, cock-stiff against her on platform four, her untouchable tits. She got on her train and I had to stop in the station entrance, a wave of druggish, deep breath-y, physical, pleasure.

I don't want to stop feeling like this, and told her so. "It's in our hands," she texted back.


Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

Cliff’s got a bird! :-)

Tue 26th June 2012 @ 08:38

Cliff’s got a bird.

Cliff’s got a stiffy.

Cliff’s got Blue Balls.

Pity poor Cliff.

At least Cliff can get a pint wthout being nagged silly that he’s turning into a fucking alcoholic. Sorry. Bad marital experience. Sorry Furtheron, I’m not having a go at you.

Shit, no matter what I write I feel guilty.

Fuck me, am I turning Catholic?

Tue 26th June 2012 @ 09:08
Comment from: [Member]

It’s like a playground in here :)

Trina said “It’s a good job we’re all postmodern now. You’d have got a thump in the 70s for calling me your ‘bird’.”

Hope not TSB. You could always reply stylishly in the words of a great French sociologist “The judges of normality are everywhere,” which should make any woman leave a man alone with the Laphroaig.

Tue 26th June 2012 @ 09:57
Comment from: nursemyra [Visitor]

ooh this all sounds very exciting and hopeful

Tue 26th June 2012 @ 11:33

“Loquacious!” As my olde-world Italian grandma used to say when someone was being fancy, “Well, smell me!”

“Coaching,” like, a life coach? That’s a dubious profession.

You two carry on in public like a couple of adolescents. It’s funny.

That’s a beautiful, poetic text.

Tue 26th June 2012 @ 12:28
Comment from: [Member]

Thanks N–fingers crossed!

UB: Human Resource Management is a Mickey Mouse degree, and Coaching, unless it involves taking pensioners to the seaside, is a non-job. It’s nearly as bad as that Wantology you were talking about the other day.

Yes we do carry on a bit, and people will have to lump it. Middleaged people feel affection too.

And thank you, very much indeed.

Tue 26th June 2012 @ 13:20
Comment from: [Member]

beautifully capturing that feeling, sir… the beginning… it’s all still ahead. undone, unwritten. yet imagined in every possible configuration, to the tiniest detail!

loved this. and am almost inspired to get busy and open the dance card up for another candidate. one of my gents is dropping off and i might need to refresh the roster…

Tue 26th June 2012 @ 22:19
Comment from: [Member]

Thanks DF. I’d love to think the post was in some way responsible for someone else joining you on the dancefloor (or somewhere!)

Wed 27th June 2012 @ 08:42
Comment from: [Member]

he’s not quite off the dancefloor (or somewhere) quite yet, it turns out… thought we were done. this one seems to be quite intent on the grand finale. here’s to fine endings, as well as those loverly beginnings! (thud)

Thu 28th June 2012 @ 04:43
Comment from: [Member]

You and your complicated love life :)

Thu 28th June 2012 @ 13:12

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 57 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

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