...talking, drinking, eating crisps. Salt and vinegar ones. Apparently they're not sold everywhere. Some folk sat around another table, jamming Irish folk songs. There was general merriment. Then an unaccompanied female voice filled the room, and the pickled punters fell silent. It whimpered, soared, fumbled, and stupefied. It seemed the perfect time for Him to take Her hand, and stroke Her fingers. It seemed the perfect time for Her to welcome this.

Time came to leave. As the group meandered towards their temporary shelter, They failed to keep pace, deliberately; then grabbed each other. It seemed the perfect time to Kiss, Hug, Kiss some more, and Clutch. When They were done, She wiped tears from Her eyes, and They quickened Their step to rejoin the group.

This happened eight days ago.

In the eighteenth century, it is purported that the Gregorian calendar in Britain had fallen out of step with that of the European mainland, and that the date had to be put forward in order to compensate; resulting in riots from those who believed that their lives had been shortened. I know exactly how they felt.

What eight days ?

Today another customer traversed Stansted airport.

Today my flatmate made apple crumble. It is some consolation. I love apple crumble. I'm not going to tell her that I ate it with my fingers.

...birthday celebration, Nooma and Smiley Surf-Shop Gal arranged a hundred metre-long tarpaulin 'Death Slide' in a sloping field, lubed up with a hose at the top and Tesco Value washing-up liquid, and surrounded by gorse bushes. And optional inflatables to speed along one's demise. I cannot tell you how much fun it was, or how bastard fast you could go down it. Apparently last year someone broke four bones; and this year it was twice as long.

Now my arms are permanently aching, I have a lump on my shin that shouldn't be there, my feet are shredded, and my old shoulder dislocation injury has become more aggravated than a hippo hit with a rake. And extreme nipple chaffage. I'm glad I was wearing quite heavyweight shorts, as one of the other chaps present complained that he'd practically disintegrated all the skin off his stalk. Wot larks.

I think the birthday card I gave to Nooma might have offended her a little, tho. It had a picture of The Man J.C., and Nooma's head superimposed on the recipient of his blessing. The inscription within read 'Dear [Nooma], Atone now for your sins or you will go to Hell. Lots of love from your pious and godly chum, [Lemonsquash]'. How was I to know the person standing next to her when she opened it up was the local vicar ?

Bad squash. Should I smite myself with willow ?

...bad joke. Does anyone remember Big-Eyed Irish Cutie ?

Well, do they ?

I hadn't seen her for a few weeks. We bumped into each other in a pub on Friday. She caressed my head and called me "boy". Now, either she thinks I'm a dog, or this was a FlirtyThing. Anyway, I sent her a text a few days later to let her know that we should hang out together sometime, as she had threatened. She responded that she was going to the beach *now*, and would I care to join her ? She was going to be in a bikini; so the answer was obviously going to be yes.

I wasn't expecting The Perfect Day. We had ice-cream. We snook into my place of work - despite it being closed - and I made her delicious coffee (that is a surprisingly useful skill). We then had beer. She has an absolutely disgusting black sense of humour. I can't speak about wot we spoke about here, as it would bring forth revulsion / judgement / vomit / ostracision. But we found a very low level, with which we were both more than comfortable. I think I really Like her. Then I had to go to work. This was yesterday.

Today she came to see me at my place of graft, and insisted I join her at the beach at six - when I knocked off - for beer and fun. Six o'clock came. My replacements didn't. So I had to work an unwitting double-shift until closing time. She popped in to bid me farewell. I was sufficiently busy that I at least managed to muster a nod in return. I hate work.

I am going to pop by her place tomorrow though. I'm hoping that this will be the time for a sublime union. And - if I'm quite honest - I suspect that it might be.

She has dimples. I love dimples.

So wherefore the 'bad joke' ?

She is leaving next week, to go back to Ireland.

This is becoming faintly ridiculous.

...work early today. I am meeting Big-Eyed Irish Cutie tonight for boozahol. So one wonders why I am blogging, and not getting some much-needed rest, having a shave, and washing my old chap.

...such a twat, it appears that I jinxed myself, and got no love where I thought it was certain. We've written each other limmericks. She's visited me at work every day this week. We stayed up until four the night before last talking. But still we haven't kissed. And when she leaves, I'm really going to miss her - if something happens or not.

On a lighter note, I had boiled eggs with soldiers for the first time in my adult life today. Yum.

...the radio yesterday, talking about the (heavy) petting-zoo. I didn't hear this. Apparently she sounded very professional, although she claimed that she sounded "like a twat". She told me that she'd spoken of their Hallowe'en plans. I asked her if they were going to put skeleton masks on the goats. She said that they were going to go a step further and scalp the goats, so that they were going around with their skulls exposed. Nooma is consistently hilarious.

She's going travelling soon, for six months. She shall be missed.

...has just run out. Tomorrow (today by the time you read this) is Big-Eyed Irish Cutie's last day on this soil. There were a series of near misses. And we never got that kiss.

The thought of that kiss had sent me into erratic convulsions many times. I managed to successfully embarrass myself in front of my flatmates by voguing buoyantly at the very mention of her name earlier. Even though it is the world's dullest.

I'm not going to get it.

The kiss that is, you grubby urchins.

Should I offer to cook for her tomorrow, or should I just let it go ?

...that 'Boon chap is the brillest person that there ever was and ever will be (not that anyone needs more proof) :

If you don't know what the flaps this is all about, background reading can be found here and here, combined with Solicious's genius suggestion that I should get Nooma a Bruce Willis badge.

She loved it. She absolutely loved it. She mounted it upon her lapel, and then removed it and put it on her bag when she realised that if it was there instead, she could wear it *every day*.

If we ever bring young into this world, I would like Mr. 'Boon to be the godfather, as he was instrumental in our falling in love. And also because of that horse-head business that we won't go into here.

...with being overly fastidious. But we'll get back to that in a minute.

I work in one of two bars in the village (well, there is another pub, but it is so League Of Gentlemen-esque that no-one goes there). Flame-Haired Aussie Barmaid works in the rival pub. We see each other very frequently, as - in true 'you don't shit where you eat' stylee - I drink in her bar and she drinks in mine. And the flirting has gone into overdrive. I have even surprised myself with how brazen I have found myself being. Example :

LS is very tired after long double shift. At ten to eleven, he rings The Bell Of Joy for last orders. FHAB fixes him with a censorious eye.

FHAB : Don't be mean. Don't you love us ?
LS : Well I do love you... but I love my bed more.

LS realises after saying this that he is not being nice to an Object Of His Affection, so decides he must redeem himself. So, he grabs her attention five minutes later.

LS : I hope you realise that, when I said I loved my bed more than you, it was just a temporal thing. It's only 'cause it's been a long day.
FHAB : Don't worry - I know. I have those too.
LS : Normally, I love [FHAB] far more than I love my bed - obviously. [Brief pause]. I think it would be better if we combined the two, though.
FHAB giggles *a lot*, and becomes ten times as flirty thereafter.

She is clever, creative, and quite clearly working in a job that she is wasted in. She's been talking about creating a 'zine for arty types in this county, as there is no real local vent for writers, illustrators, poets etc. And it hurts not a little that she is really rather foxy. And we are getting on very well. I may ask her out for a drink - at neither of our places of work - to 'discuss' things. Like the 'zine. And maybe the possibility of our doing the wild thing for days and days on end.

So what is it that I'm undecided on ? Well, I'm a bit of a 'teeth fascist'. She doesn't have perfect teeth. And I find that off-putting. Whenever I tell friends about Objects Of My Affection, and mention the Teeth Factor, they usually roll their eyes, and tell me that the reason I never get lucky is that I'm far too picky. And also that I'm a twat-face. Does anybody else share a similar point of view ? To mine, I mean; every fucker alive seems to share that of my friends.

...Flame-Haired Aussie Barmaid for a few days, and I went to her pub for last orders to see if she was working. She was, and invited me to a party at her house (which she calls 'Heaven') when she knocked off. I thought that this seemed promising. Until I realised that, amongst others, we would also be joined by her boyfriend.

Well she would, wouldn't she ? She is - after all - staggeringly beautiful, friendly, smart and amusing. And the disappointment was mitigated by realising that her fella shared all but the first trait. We like him. It pleases me when a blow is struck for us sub-attractive men. And they seemed to go really well together.

All this has thrown a problem into sharp light. Lemonsquash has no Objects of Affection left. And there's no point in resorting to the old trusted 'there's plenty more crabs on the beach' rhetoric, as this really is a very small place. If I have no futile pseudo-quest for love to rejoice in and lament over, I'm not sure what I'll have left to talk about. Maybe I should go back to blogging about insects.

Whilst walking over the hill on the way to the next village, FHAB told me about about the white lady who haunts the local spooky cliff-top hotel. Her soul is not at rest as she looks out to sea, awaiting the return of her True Love who set sail and never came back. This was followed by drunken wonderings as to why she hadn't got it on with other spectres, as - considering the lonely centuries that she's endured - he couldn't really give her shit for 'not having waited' if ever he reappeared. Despite the subsequent japery, the hopeless plight of the woebegone romantic who was stuck at the edge of the earth looking for something that *just isn't there* struck a chord, for some reason.

FHAB has offered me a room in 'Heaven', a beautiful house atop a cliff, with a spectacular view of the coastline. The irony hardly needs pointing out. I need to move out anyway. So the question is, should I move in with a couple of brill Aussie gals in an absolutely gorgeous location; whilst remaining in a part of the UK that Nooma described as being "the graveyard of ambition" the very first time I met her ? Or should I keep up my 'Littlest Hobo' lifestyle and move on, not knowing where to or in search of what ?

Hmmm. My hangover seems to have made me slightly melodramatic. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

...existential concerns at the moment. They were first invoked by Big-Eyed Irish Cutie, when she told me that she didn't believe one of the stories I told her. Admittedly a lot of my stories appear to be far-fetched, and I'm not sure I'd swallow them myself if I didn't know them to be true. Or at least believe them to be. But this got me to thinking - I don't know that my mind hasn't just constructed them. Did my mate really set fire to my first car, and drive it whilst it was aflame ? Surely not.

There is a new guy at work. Let's call him Young Overly-Eager Barperson. He is upsetting my calm. Though a nice chap, he is very intense, talks a lot with no discernable filter, and is constantly finishing jobs that I'm doing whilst I'm still doing them. He thinks he's being helpful. He's actually being insanely annoying. It's probably a good thing I don't have a girlfriend, as I could fully envision him pushing me aside and attempting to complete the task at hand without my permission. My head was sent into a spin yesterday by Impish Northern Bar Manager, who claimed that there was no new guy, and that he was just a by-product of my over-active imagination. A bit like a poorly-scripted 'Fight Club'. So maybe I *do* have a girlfriend; it's just that The Figmentalist (not named on account of being crazy about figs) is having sex with her, not me. I think I may need a few days off.

By the way, can you think of well-known pop songs given a new, Christian spin ? So far I have 'Noah Limits', 'Like A Verger' and 'Karma Communion'.

...to have an unexpected visit from Nooma yesterday. She's been a bit of a hermit lately. We ate apple crumble, watched a video of The Death Slide (I may have to post the video on the web, so that the true carnage can be appreciated), and watched slugs having sex on the garden path. A fab time was had.

Now, my flatmate's boyfriend (The Friendly Fisherman) won her a cuddly toy rabbit in a raffle. My flatmate already owns an actual rabbit. Her boyfriend decided to tease the rabbit by vibrating the toy, and seeing if he took the bait. He certainly did. Ten seconds of frantic humping later, and he jizzed on the cuddly toy's head (that is to say, the rabbit did). Here is a picture of the inanimate temptress, posing provocatively on a carrom board :

She was definitely asking for it. The little slut.

Tickled by this tale, Nooma asked The Friendly Fisherman for a repeat performance. After a moment's waggling, the rabbit was back at it again, thrusting like the rocket in the old Spectrum game 'Thrust'. Well, he is a rabbit, after all. Everyone was struck by the hilarity of this. Nooma chided The Friendly Fisherman for being "cruel", as he didn't allow the rabbit to finish the job. I think she just wanted to see the mess. She is deliciously sick.

I only have a month to make the most of her company before she fucks off for another six.

She wants to buy me a present in return for giving her my mosquito net, but doesn't know what. I don't know what either. What should I ask for ?