A few weeks ago I went to a meeting with a boy who was sending me an email for a while. He played tennis. He was tall. Looks good. He checked a lot of boxes.

But I didn’t let him go anywhere because I was dating The Toyboy.

While I never put “off market” on my profile (yes, I’m completely dependent on the ego boost, aren’t we all ?!), Down, Toyboy knew I didn’t really want to be with anyone other than him at the time.

I had the most fantastic few months, the weekends away in small hip hotels, huge laughs, lots of champagne and yes, many … well, you have the idea. He put what was left of my soul together.

Remain very Grateful

He was a gift to help me get through the tough days of my marriage. And I was and remain very grateful for that.

We both knew it was valid. We simply would never fit into each other’s lives.

It wasn’t a sport. I can’t imagine life without it. Tennis. Golf. Swimming. Navigation. Her part about who I am. He read The Guardian, I read FT. He couldn’t afford to do as many things as I could. I ate a lot of pizza. He was worried about having children (God only knows why, it never happened that he would ever meet them). Toyboy was obsessed with the fact that all his friends had married and why he wasn’t. He felt it should be. He thought something didn’t happen to him, because it wasn’t him. I couldn’t help him with that.

With Friends

And before we know it, it was the end of June and we were planning to go for another long, dirty weekend. I hit a wall and called it a day.

Then, on a Saturday night, not long after, I get a text that said something like, this is ridiculous when we go to tennis?

I was like it was a surprise, thought he gave up on me. I was with friends at the time. So I just sent it back, oh, it would be great, I’ll check my journal, blah, blah.

He eventually linked me to a drink about a week later.

Support me and give Grandma a hat. The boy was just handsome. And smart and hardworking. Entertaining. Someone who makes you smile from ear to ear that you just want to wrap, take home, and eat snack on.

And then after some very good margaritas by the river, he walked me to the tube and kissed me.

To be Honest

I felt like a million dollars.

The Millions of buck data don’t come very often.

It’s kind of like Bobby Rae’s kisses.

I restore your faith in a whole problem of things. Of important things.

Will I have to be honest (sometimes too much for my own good … when will I learn to keep my mouth shut?), Because the Nice Boy last summer, well, it was a lot of fun.

I danced on my side of table tops.

I was drunk in awful bars in Camden.

Sew quite a lot of late oats.

Stuck in one of too many taxis.

Charles Dance told him he looked great in boxer shorts.

At Dinner

Glasses of champagne broken in the hotel rooms beating over the furniture in the heat of the moment.

I have divorced.

In short, it was a whale of time.

But, erm, no one really got under my skin from the Beautiful Boy. It made me stop and think.

Well, not until now. Damn it.

It made me think, yes, maybe, the best toy is not around the corner, the next time, the next message, the next profile.

Maybe he is sitting in front of me at the table, at dinner, looking at me with those heavenly blue eyes.

Oh fuck, no wonder I was so nervous on the way home from tennis last night (note, change coach) that I couldn’t park in parallel and made a total beating out of myself at dinner !!!

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