Some weeks, some days, are just so full on you can barely catch your breath. Last week, and in particular, Friday, was one of those. Holidays, sickness and tight deadlines made for a less than ideal combination. At 11am on Friday I thought I might be late or even have to postpone my date with 2of6, the guy asked out for me by PJ a few weeks ago.
By some miracle, at 18.01 I was shutting down my computer, deadlines met, pages sent to the printer, weekend ready to begin, leaving the office on time.
I felt strangely euphoric. So when I met my date outside the train station, I launched into full-blown conversation.
At the best of times I am chatty. I come from a VERY chatty family. I am the quietest of my sisters, which says something about how talkative we are. I blame our Irish heritage.
On Friday night I was in overdrive. A motormouth on speed. My whole family rolled into one hyper-conversational person.
I told my date all about my job, in detail. I told him about going to Tokyo, in detail. I told him about meeting Wayne Rooney, in detail. I told him about writing about cancer, in detail. After a while I thought I ought to ask him a question. So I asked him about the crisis in the Eurozone… Let’s just say it’s not the flirtiest question in the history of the world ever. So I picked up again.
I talked and talked and talked. I talked about the Royal Family, even, in detail. And by detail I mean explaining how Peter Philips is Princess Ann’s son, and that he’s married to a Canadian called Autumn. I then talked about how I have no idea how I know any of this stuff.
Hours passed and still I kept going and going and going.
And then, at around 11.30pm, all of a sudden I felt completely worn out. The adrenaline of the day had finally been exhausted. He took advantage of the fact that I’d paused for breath to tell me he likes clubbing.
I’m not sure it was a fair exchange, and I’m pretty sure that was largely down to me, the big mouthed girl from clapham.
Pause for breath
Stop to listen
Continue to wear exciting red shoes