Jen: Knock-knock

I’d quite like love to come knock-knock-knocking at my door. It’s why I’m back out there preparing the welcome mat and testing the bell. But really, I’d prefer something a little less literal.

A transcript of tonight’s date:

knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, (pause)
shuffle
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, (pause), knock
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, knock
knock, knock, knock, knock

True, there were some words thrown in as well – you know, about how he hates seeing his family, how Christmas is the most boring day of the year – but it really is hard to concentrate on such uplifting conversation when your chair is under constant attack from your date’s right foot.

Knock-knock-knock-bloody-knock.

I should perhaps have asked him politely to stop, but as a woman with PMS who only hours earlier had been referred to as psychopathic for admitting to maniacally destroying ladybirds with a vacuum cleaner, I knew that sweetness and light were unlikely to be my default tones of delivery. Indeed, I felt there was a very real danger I might reach out and wallop him for emphasis if I allowed myself the catharsis of yelling WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP KICKING MY EFFING CHAIR!!!

And so I stayed schtum and politely destroyed my G&T instead.

It wasn’t a complete waste of an evening. I managed to fit in a Tesco shop on the way home.

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