August 5th, 1989

August 5th, 1989

At home

No more puppet days with Ben. That’s one of the many things on my mind tonight as I write this, slightly tipsy from a very enjoyable Saturday night out with Flo and Morris at Muswells, where I enjoyed more than a couple of strawberry daiquiri’s. I typically don’t like heavy, fruity drinks but tonight I did!

Flo and Morris are lovely to go out with, they’re so good together and really look out for each other. There’s something very comforting about being around a couple that have been together for a long time, in their case, twenty years.

I hate to waste ink on him, but seeing the ease with which Flo and Morris communicate turned my thoughts turn to Ben. He had so much control over me and I have no desire to ever find myself in a situation like that ever again. It can’t be healthy. Having said that, I do find myself thinking about Ben a lot and I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss him. I hope he’s ok.

Mum was on a mission this morning to thrash me (again) at table tennis and she did, gleefully, long after I lost interest. After what felt like hours, I feigned a sore wrist in the hopes she’d take the hint and give me a break but she just ignored me and carried on whacking the tiny ball as if she had a personal vendetta against it.

Dad came in and out of the garden with cups of tea, none of which mum touched. On the few occasions I caught dad’s eye, he just shook his head and I tried hard not to laugh. The final straw for me came when dad appeared with a plate of cream cakes. I’d already used the sore wrist excuse to no avail and was racking my brain for another fake ailment, when the phone rang.

“Let dad answer it!” Mum shouted.

“It’s probably for me,” I said, dropping the paddle. I mouthed, “Hallelujah,” to dad as I dashed past him.

“Karen!” mum shouted.

“It might be LA calling,” I yelled, running through the back door.

Sadly, it wasn’t.


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