Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

1.25 p.m. Clearly, Roxster has clocked that I have checked out his profile. What am I going to do? Pretend it hasn’t happened? No, that’s just . . . I mean, the whole thing is just . . . You can’t pretend something like that hasn’t happened, can you? We’re human beings and we did care about each other, I thought. And . . . text from Roxster:

Stared at phone, mind spooling through all the texts I’d made up in case he got in touch:

Instead, impulsively texted back:

The Leaves in His Hair. Hahaha! I had no idea you liked skydiving so much! Oh God *lunges at wine bottle*.>

There was a pause. Then another ping on the phone.

There was another pause. What was he going to say? Something kind? Something patronizingly meant to be kind? Something apologizing? Something that would hurt?

I stared at it. All those mean things I had planned to say . . . My finger hovered over the phone. And then I simply texted back the truth.

Then immediately thought, ‘Shit! Why didn’t I just put one of the less-mean-but-funny ones? Now he’ll just have got his ego-reassurance and bugger off.’ Text ping.

Another ping.

<*YELLS* JONESEYYYY?>

Me: <*Calm, slightly distracted* Yeeees?>

And we were off!

Roxster:

Me: <*Airy, dismissive* Well, it’s hardly surprising. How dare you draw attention to my age in that impertinent and unnecessary fashion? Oh, oh, look at me, I’m so young and you’re so old.>

Roxster:

I laughed. I was indeed pleased with myself. There was such a rush of joy and relief that we were back with that secure feeling of knowing someone cares, and understands your sense of humour, and it wasn’t all cold and empty and over, we were still there.

But then at the same time there was a dark, lurking fear of getting back into it.

I waited. Texting ping.

THAT’S DISGUSTING!! That’s absolutely against the rules of . . . of . . . Feel like ringing the police! Surely there should be some sort of DATING OMBUDSMAN who legislates against this sort of thing!

Another texting ping. Stared at the phone as if it was a creature in a space movie. I didn’t know what it was going to do next. It might suddenly rear up into a monster, or turn into a gentle little bunny. I opened it.

Looked eerily from side to side. Another texting ping.

What was he saying? Was he saying he’d rethought the whole thing and wanted to be with me? But did I want to be with him?

Roxster:

And again:

Suddenly had flashbacks to all the delicious dinners and aftermaths we had enjoyed and had to stop self texting back:

Maybe Tom was right. Maybe Roxster wasn’t just dismissing me as a sad old bag. Texted:

This was UNHEARD OF. He must be really, really serious. I needed time to digest this.

Another texting ping.

And another.

Was going to text: but maybe that suggested I thought he was being cheesy and there were onions hidden amongst the nice stuff.

So, again, I just texted what was true.

REKINDLING

Thursday 11 July 2013

Days of continuous sunshine 11, raindrops fallen on head 0 (unbelievable).

2 p.m. Is boiling hot. Still! No one can believe their luck. Everyone is out in the streets, bunking off work, drinking, wild for sex and complaining that it is too hot.

Texting is completely back on again with Roxster and he has been lovely, despite Talitha’s dire warnings about taking someone back after they have dumped you. And despite Tom’s dire warnings about people who are All Text and No Trousers, and professional warnings about the fact that I could only expect a future of mixed messages, and had I thought about what I actually wanted – apart from endless texting and sporadic nights of sex?

Roxster has explained about the curry and lateness on the break-up night, and said he wasn’t – as I suspected all along – having a curry with ‘colleagues’. In fact he was sitting on his own, stuffing his face with chicken korma, poppadoms and lager, because he was so confused, and suddenly overcrowded about being a proper boyfriend, and maybe becoming a father figure. And then, after he made his break-up speech, I seemed completely fine about it, almost relieved, delighted to break up, until the farting rant. And then, after that, he didn’t know what to do. And he is cheerful and sweet and light and so much better than lecherous married bastards. We are seeing each other on Saturday: for a walk on Hampstead Heath.

BLIMEY

Saturday 13 July 2013

3 p.m. Frantic preparation. Had to deal with Mum, who is taking Mabel and Billy to tea at Fortnum & Mason (good luck with that one, Mum). ‘Oh, Mabel’s wearing leggings, is she? Where do you keep your colanders?’