Sunday, 23 December 2012
So here it is. The season that singletons all dread. Only, I'm not. Last year I had a broken leg, I lived in a freezing cold, damp, vast house built in the same year as HMS Victory, and was eyeballing Great Expectations I could never hope to meet every day. This year I am warm in The Shoebox, I've had my nails painted, my moustache waxed and booked myself onto a singles holiday in Jamaica. I have zero expectations. The beer will be watery and warm, and served in plastic cups, the bathroom will smell nasty and I stopped laughing at having my towels sculpted into snakes and shit wearing my sunglasses many years ago. Just leave my stuff alone please, and refill the mini bar.I have packed my own glass. And books. Plenty of them. Any hoo, the marital gaffer tape is off, the decree is almost Absolute and I have promised David Wainwright and Tara Wilson that I will blog the deal. Meanwhile, as I wait to leg it to Gatwick South and meet my fellow desperados outside Boots one hour before take off (that will be 10.40 on the 28th)I can only dream. At least if Mr Right is there we can stock up on condoms and lube as we get to know each other better. So romantic.