Oh dear. So far these blogs haven't painted me in an especially flattering light. This one isn't going to either. Other people seem to be writing these wonderful heart-rending entries, tugging on heart-strings and rejoicing at the happy endings. Not me, I'm afraid.
I think I shall lie - we met at a dinner party, hit it off in a very civilised manner discussing Wagner and Proust and lived happily ever after. The End.
OK. Do I have to do that nasty counting thing again?
Mumbleohmygodisitreallyseventeenyearsagomumble. We met at a friend's flat, en route to the pub. I had just finished work, at 9pm, and I barely spared him a glance as I waltzed in to collect said friend. The pub was calling and I had catching up to do.... he got swept up in my whirlwind, or something, since he ended up down the pub with us. The pub was packed with just a small space by the door of the loos, just underneath a wall light. I'm 5'2", nay bother. He's 6' and spent the whole evening bashing his head off the sconce. He has since, rather unchivalrously, blamed this light for all future events, since it knocked him senseless and he didn't know what he was doing. Hurrumph. He asked me out, very originally offering to take me to a theme park for the day. Meh. I had nothing better to do. I agreed. He left. I stayed. 'Nother gin there, barkeep!
Morning of date: I was more hungover than was attractive. We had arranged to meet in the tiny village centre, outside the post office. He was late. VERY late. I spent an hour slumped on the post office step, green and sweaty, too ill to even move, trying to summon my father to collect me by telepathy. I did wonder if Himself had driven by, seen me and carried on going in horror, but felt far too sorry for myself to wobble off to a phone box to find out. (Oh yeah, I pre-date mobile phones too). Luckily for Himself, he arrived before the telepathic messages reached home, apologising profusely. Then he tortured me by taking me on giant, sweeping roller-coasters in my pitiful condition.
If you have never looked down a fifty foot drop after pickling your entire intestinal cavity, never roared at a hundred miles an hour around a track while rythmically pounding the equivalent of the Edinburgh Tattoo in your skull, never swooped over caverns while enzymes systematically digest your eosphagus... well, you are a lucky, lucky woman.
I tell him he didn't "catch" me, I was just far too sick to escape.