Bubbly with the B's
Worra nother day this has been.
Up early, the call, from the wandering troubadour to inform me when he would be arriving, came in at 9.00. 15 minutes later I left in HIS car to go to Liverpool Street.
I had to ask three people where the station was as all signs dried up every 100 yards.
I don't know how to reverse in the old gits car so I honked at folk, they drove to me, and told me where to go, both literally and metaphorically.
Parked the car and was told it was safe.
I walked onto the concourse. The arrival time was 9.46 precisely. Platform 3. They then changed it to platform 14.
I got a text saying I'M HERE.
I walked to the end of the station and received another call crabbily asking me 'Where ARE you?'
I went to where I thought I should be and nothing. I called back twice. Nothing. I texted him and then he called me and shouted.
'Where are you I told you where I was and....' I hung up.
Within thirty three seconds of communication we were already at each others throats.
I turned up to platform 14 AGAIN. And he was standing there all exhausted and irritated by his wife of 33 years who had put on a little black dress in honour of his absence.
'I didn't recognise you.' he said wearily.
'I've just seen three beautiful women and I thought you would be wearing your dungarees.' he said with all the sensitivity of George Osborne.
We walked to the escalator, dropped his case in the boot of the car and headed back to Battersea. It was as if nothing had happened and that three and a half weeks of a back injury and carbunkles hadn't happened. B called twice to find out where we were.
I had to negotiate 8 million bicycle riders riding for charity and all the cars outside Chelsea Park who had come to see all the beautiful elephants that were standing in serried rows of delightful colour. We arrived back at the flat in time for three hugs a piece and then a walk to the Square.
We had breakfast in the Italian on the corner of the Square. Jim had his 'First bacon sandwich in three weeks, 'Ookin' delightful.' B had a ciabatta with Parma Ham, Emmental cheese and rocket, and I had roasted vegetables in a salad with camomile tea.
Back to the flat to unload and then B and I went out, in the searing heat, to buy in the bubbly for supper and green vegetables for all.
I got caught at the barrier, in the car-park cried in Waitrose because my ticket had been swallowed up. Ten minutes later and hysterical shouting from me saw us leaving the car park with tears streaming down my face and the car park attendant unable to deal with an ancient woman who was crying over £2 and the lack of time to unload before the match.
B's back went weird with the tension, I cried in the bathroom and Jim said he was really pleased to be home. The three of us watched the match and by the time Lampard's goal had been disallowed we were laughing and genuinely happy to be with each other.
By the last ten minutes I started the ironing, burnt three fingers on my left hand and took my glasses off as I was sweating so much from the hot sun, the pressing of two weeks worth of duvet covers, pillow cases and fitted sheets, and screaming at the English team who played worse than my mother who is 88 and more of a tennis fan....
It's now 18.25. He and she are catching up in the sitting room, the last of the washing is spinning, the shirts have dried in ten minutes on the balcony and we are cracking open the champagne to celebrate his return in one piece.
It is so good to have the old git back. B sounds normal again and the sound of the Northern git is lovely.
I'm going now to uncork the Bredon Brut, make a big fresh salad and settle down on the balcony with a book, B and Mr. Bywater.
The wanderer has returned and I love it.
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Glad all is back to normal my lovely.
Lots of love to all the B's