dull.
The lads arrived for the boat building class.
They wandered over from whichever cottage they’d been
using as a classroom, had their lunch down by the river,
peering up at me.
I’d wave. They’d jostle one another.
Sometimes a few would knock and chat from the
doorway, attempt to flirt a little. They were either
eighteen or forty-something.
Neither appealed to me.
One forty-something guy, ex-army, showing off to
the teenagers around him, said:
Let’s have your number then, Picasso.
I gave it to him.
Later sitting against the radiator, I got a text:
Alright Picasso, where r u staying?
and when I didn’t reply:
it’s Martin Cooper from boat building.
I googled him and found his profile – smiling with
his wife and kids. A lot of photos in his uniform with a
ruddy face,
comments underneath from other similar looking
men – nice one Coops.
Thirty minutes later another text came through,
playing hard 2 get?
The weather was truly miserable.
I got a cold, became convinced the stove was killing me.
I think it was, Ava.
My head felt huge, my heart felt weird, my lungs felt tight
and clogged up.
Trudging along the river the trees swung
and shook in my peripherals.
I needed paracetamol.
The shops nearby only took cash and I’d run out. I
walked four miles to a post office that had a cash
machine.
It beeped at me aggressively.
It’s all out, love. We’ll get some more tomorrow.
I was desperate.
The woman at the B&B found a sachet of Lemsip