Le Pompiere

So the Fireman.

Monsieur Le Pompiere.

Was polite and handsome and charming and a gentleman.

And bought me drinks and laughed at my jokes and complimented me on my coats, my boots, my hair, my smile.

And we talked and talked, and drank and drank. And he made excuses to touch my hands, my arms, my elbow when he spoke.

And there was kissing, and I did stay over as I missed my last tube but it was all good clean fun. And as I am a good girl, I only misbehaved a teensy tiny bit.

And I slept in his London Fire Brigade t-shirt which I got to keep.

And later that day there was a text, and then when I got back from Edinburgh there was another flurry of flirty texts and then...

Silence.

Until yesterday. With a text conversation that does not make sense, basically saying yes he'd like to see me but... " working nights until Tuesday, rugby Wednesday then away in Egypt 'til the 13th. Saturday may be a possibility?"

As it is, my Saturday night is already booked up and has been for some time. So I text back to say "I'm sorry I can't do Saturday after all but perhaps Wednesday after the game or shall we leave it for the moment?"

Which I think is fair, non?

I mean, I do like him. And I do want to see him. But I'm not about to chase him round the houses.

Silence again.

But perhaps he's sleeping. Or tired. Or working. Or putting out burning buildings. Or pouting. Or just couldn't give a rat's arse either way.

If he likes me, he knows where to find me.

And to be frank, if he's not pounding down the door to see me, well... it's a shame but I'm not going to sit around twiddling my thumbs.

But at least I got the t-shirt.