British Summer Time

A change to British Summer Time kills me. Every time. I don’t understand why we keep doing this; there is no scientific reason behind it anyway.

So what’s new?

Ex has moved out. A guy from IT moved in. He’s only renting a room from me for few months. Very professional, likes his gym – actually he looks like Buzz Lightyear, when you think of it. I've become obsessed with guessing when he wanks. I’m 94% sure he did earlier this evening. He came back from a weekend in Yorkshire, saying he is having an early night, as he needed to get up at 3am. And off he went, into the wanking world. The annoying thing is that I will never know if I was right. Well, unless I ask him, but that would be spoiling the game.

Anyway, apart from that, not much is happening. Work, work, work. Some of it for a charity too - am now officially qualified to talk to people who are contemplating suicide (I thought this would be a useful skill to bring to my management role, at work).

Situation with Mr TV Director – no change – I’m still trying not to give into evil… but I’m hanging on a very thin string, and if it breaks I’ll fall straight to hell, and into his open arms.

Not much dating to report. I’m contemplating dating someone from work, out of convenience, and because it is new, to me.

Oh, and am happy to be back… Watch this space.

Mr TV Director, My Saviour

Have you ever had a dream that came true?

THE DREAM

Last night I dreamt that I was taken hostage. In a small cell, attached to a huge room, were my ragged bed and a toilet seat. I woke up, from what seemed a rest after a night in transit. Through a slightly opened door I saw three women crouching, surrounded by a group of men, who were sitting, scattered on the floor. Without hesitation I run towards the women, untied their hands and shouted ‘Run’. I knew I would have to fight to make our escape possible. There was blood; all possible styles of fighting were exhausted. I was doing alright. In the end however, numbers worked against me – dirty men held me down. I was breathing heavily.

The most senior of kidnapers appeared above my face. He kneeled down and whispered slowly:
“We were negotiating your release with your Saviour, Mr TV Director. But you’ve just blew it”.

THE REALITY

It’s lunchtime. At my office. I’m having a Japanese soup at the desk, slurping hot ramen, when text arrives:

Mr TV Director: Where do you work M.?

It’s him! Last night’s dream flushes through my head…

Beautiful but Grumpy: Do you mean location or the company?

Mr TV Director: Both

He’s breaking the rules  we had set up when we met: never to talk about work.
But I’m weak.
I give him what he wants, and follow with:

BbG: Why?

Mr TV Director: Just wondering.
Wandering what if I was to find myself nearby.
Wandering if entertaining you at work somehow might be worthy of your time.

I like his poetic tone.
BbG: I thought it was flowers – was just about to say I didn’t like carnations.

Mr TV Director:  :-)

BbG: Well. Are you in the area?

I’m apprehensively awaiting reply, and feeling out of breath discreetly loosen up my bra.

Mr TV Director: No. But I could be. If not now, another time.

He’s such a tease!

BbG: With my 1000 meetings a day I doubt it being possible. But still, you could try to hang around outside the building. I’m sure I would feel your presence (I guess you’re not working).

Mr TV Director: Start working again next week. Kings Cross.

BbG: Oh, what is it? I saw your hurricane program and liked it. Good music.

Mr TV Director: You have?? Teaching journalists how to film stuff.

BbG: Why don’t you teach me how to make a film?

Mr TV Director: Ok. We could go into the porn business together. A female director would be a good selling point.

Here we go again…
Is he really capable of saving me, as the dream predicted? And what is he to save me from?

I spend the rest of the day imagining his head between my legs.

The phone beeps, disturbing my vision. It’s a text message:

Andy: Want to do lunch on Saturday? Islington.
We’ve got lots to catch up on.