You wouldn't think that the Crewe Alexandra v Morecambe fixture would be the event upon which a near-infidelity turned, but one must never undersextimate fourth division football.
Exploiting the fact that Transport That Fails doesn't know how much annual leave I have left, I booked the weekend off. On the principle that one must tell the truth as far as possible, I told Mel that I was going to stay with Trina instead of coming home on the same day in the early hours.
It was an absorbing game, Morecambe coming from 2-0 behind to score three in the second half, but not quite up to the excitement of the evening before. We spent seventy quid on starters and several pints in The Pointy Shoes Arms, before going to the common pub. One occasionally meets an interesting racist there, but the one we got was dull, making up fantastical figures -- both numerical and embodied -- from his fearful imagination.
Back at hers, we put some music on and added slippery olives, fatty cheese and yielding crackers to the simmering erotic mix. We started dancing together, I started gabbling on about how I love her, "I really do," and the headiness of spring rising in my soul pressed upon her.
The Appeal Court in my head kicked in at the same time as Trina's own version of caution, and we kissed like punctuation, reverting to chatting in separated seating sectors. It's still all there though.
