Well, Santa lucked out for me this year, without dispute so somewhere along the line, I must've done something (or 'one') pretty damn good. I woke up on Tuesday with my boyfriend, my official one. Tall, muscly, meat where it matters and an embrace tighter than Scrooge's book-keeping, we'd welcomed in our first Christmas the night before, with a bottle of Bolly and a cork that shot up to hit his tall ceiling. We giggled, drank, toasted and then fondly, shyly, like two new lovers, led each other up his stairs to his room where I think I, hoping to hear the reindeers' hooves as they landed on his terraced roof, curled up and went to sleep. I was woken the next morning with several big parcels, not least one which unleashed a big box of Lancome goodies. My boyfriend then whipped the long, white ribbon which had secured the parcel, around my wrists, tied me to the bedstead and fucked me 'til, quite literally, Kingdom Come.
But, oh God and I hate writing this, 2 days before, I'd met my Quasi-Insane Ex, ostensibly 'to talk.' We'd agreed to meet in a caff which shut just as he'd texted me 'am en route!' 'It's shutting, genius,' I replied, 'must decamp to a pub,' and decamp we did, to a city centre, poor-man's pub with a council-house door and a farting jukebox. We talked for 2 hours and still the chemistry was there, bubbling away, often exploding as our faces melded into one beneath the drunken surface of cheers and baubles and people sitting uncomfortably next to us.
Later, outside, walking back to deserted, underground carparks, I pressed my face to his fleece and murmured
'Please, please don't be a prick again.'
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