I haven’t received a text from David 1.0 in two weeks. Is this normal in a relationship that has just started again?
Since making three new girlfriends at my retreat a week ago, they’ve sent no less than 90 messages (granola recipes, with photos of every step, selfies of yoga classes and weird red marks on their arms) on our WhatsApp group.
The most recent was a twinkling pre-Christmas drinks event held on a rooftop in London (screen grabs of possible scenes, prices, cocktails, outfits and fairy lights).
I believe this reflects the difference between men and women: the former believe they are allotted a limited number of texts and words they can speak IRL.
David’s silence has gone on for so long, I’m thinking of calling Brixton police station and asking them to knock on his door like in an episode of EastEnders, but I’m worried they’ll be too busy. They might laugh at me and tell me intelligently, ‘He’s not that into you.’
When I lived in Hackney, on the street with the highest incidence of knife crime in Europe, I called the police to ask whether, given that their helicopter was making noise over my house, they were going to search for me. Tabby could also look for Susie.
I was in the middle of giving a brief description (light eyelashes, no white bits, slim body etc) when he rudely interrupted and threatened to charge me for wasting the police’s time and making an unnecessary 999 call.
And so I sent David this on Thursday night:
‘Hi Dave. Are you okay?* I have to be in London next Monday evening. Lord Black of Brentwood and her husband Mark Boland** have invited me to The Garrick Club as they wish to thank all the people at Save the Asian Elephants, including myself, who have worked to protect the animals overseas. Helped in making laws through Parliament. Can I stay with you after this as all hotels cost over £600, breakfast not included.’
I use the hotel’s basement cloakroom to put on makeup and change clothes
You see, I’m interesting and forward.
He replied the next day, ‘Yes, of course.’ The condition of the flat is bad. I get tired so quickly. And, wow, what an honor.’
Now, of course, I’m wondering what to wear. When I go to King’s Cross for work, I always use the basement cloakroom at the Great Northern Hotel to put on make-up and change clothes***.
It’s so luxurious and clean, and no one ever bothers me. Actually, I’m thinking of leaving some makeup, shoes and dresses there.
When I go out the nice young men working the bar are always amazed to see the transformation (the jogging bottoms, toothpaste mouth and crazy hair replaced by Victoria Beckham bodycon and precisely combed eyebrows, à la Little Mix’s Lee-Anne Pinnock).
One of them actually quipped, ‘I feel like that, what was his name, Matthew Kelly.’
I’ve been given a dress code for Garrick, but it only works if I’m male: ‘Jackets for men, but no tie.’ Is a transparent lace Prada skirt acceptable?
Will the alarm go off if I’m wearing Zara? I flip through my wardrobe, horrified to find that my Jil Sander cashmere duster coat, bought on an emergency basis for £4,000 at Barneys in Los Angeles to attend the Oscars, has been eaten by a moth. Is.
My Miu Miu black pants also have a hole in a very unfortunate place. As a vegetarian, I had asked the moths to please go away, but it seems my plea fell on deaf ears.
I was thinking about asking God what his name would be if I had a Plus One, but it would take years for David to crack the code.
Also, I am at that age where I cannot tolerate cold or pain in my feet.
It’s a slippery slope, isn’t it, when you start considering the shoe department of M&S, with its ballet flats that curl up like a dead spider when taken off. Awesome kitten heels. Trunks.
I’m guessing the evening isn’t going to go well…
*dead
**They are officially a ‘power’ couple. I think David and I can safely be described as LED
***Please don’t copy me
(TagstoTranslate)LIZ