Tuesday 21st June

I am such a tit.

School that is doing its best to educate the Teenager just called and asked me to go in and see them tomorrow.

It’d be nice, just once, to go to a meeting at his school that didn’t begin with the words “Oh you’re his mother”.

That, however, is not why I have belatedly realised that I’m such a tit. Granted, it certainly raises the question of why the Teenager is such a tit but, to be honest, I’d rather not start pulling at that thread.

Grasping the bull and taking the nettle by the horns, I woman-ed up and finally decided to call Handsome-Rob back.

Taking a leaf out of the book used by telephone-sales-people, I had scribbled down a selection of pre-packaged answers to potential ‘verbal-volleys’ that he might power into my side of the court.

For example, if he said “Hello, how are you?” I had prepared the following pithy come-back: “I’m fine, (pause and count to two) how are you”.

2) (HR) “What have you been up to?” (Me) “Not much, (pause and count to two) you?”

Clutching my three A4 pages of prep work, (my Father always says that good fortune is a result of good preparation) I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, perched on the edge of my bed (noticed the dog’s been sick again), and dialled his number.

First time was obviously a practice run as, startled when he actually answered it, I yelped and switched my end off.

Went to my happy place for a minute or two, and attempted to calm my breathing. Happy place swarming with Jason Statham look-a-likes in police cars, returned to sick-encrusted bedroom.

Second time, great success.

He threw me with his first question, which is where it all went a bit off-road because I hadn’t prepared an answer to whether or not I’d just called him.

I went with ‘It wasn’t me’.

In the back of my head, the helpful (yet powerless) voice started hollering again. I honestly don’t know why the helpful (yet powerless) voice in the back of my head hasn’t packed her bags and moved onto another, more rewarding, assignment by now but, for whatever reason, she hasn’t and was, at that particular moment, bellowing that since he’s a CID officer, bullshit ‘I never done the blag’ answers probably aren’t the way to go.

Hmmmmm. A bit of a pickle. What’s my default setting when finding myself in a ‘bit of a pickle’?

Start talking.

So that’s what I did.

Twelve and a half minutes later, when I paused from my riveting soliloquy on the mystery of why Annabelle always starts getting nose-bleeds during Wimbledon week, I realised that he was trying to speak.

Since I’ve barely actually heard his voice yet, I thought it would be quite a novel idea to let him have a go.

Wished I hadn’t bothered as he said that he couldn’t really talk, he was at work and he’d call me later.


I well didn’t like him anyway. I well don’t care (and that).

Sixteen minutes later, phone started to ring.

Handsome-Rob had been unable to talk earlier due to the rather inconvenient timing of my call.

Apparently, he and thirty uniformed officers had been poised on the brink of raiding the home of a drug dealer. The Dog Handling Unit was present as were the Armed Response Unit. The officer in charge of kicking the door in had been hoisting the battering ram toward the crack-den-entrance as I rang.

Apparently all thirty officers waited patiently for the duration of my ‘nose-bleed’ lecture.

The dogs lay down with their heads on their paws. The Armed Response Unit relaxed their arms and started chatting quietly about football and the battering ram was propped gently between the legs of its owner.


Anyway, all’s well. He invited me out again on Saturday.

He has obviously decided to find the fact that ‘I’m mental (his words) endearing and charming (and that!).