March 5th, 1990
Felt sluggish this morning after too many Black Russians chez Florence last night but instead of doing what I usually would (rolling over and going back to sleep) I got up and pulled my bike out of the shed. I must admit, I did go back into the house for another cup of tea while I pondered if I should actually go for a bike ride or not but with the sun shining, it seemed I had no excuse not to.
I set off with no destination in mind and ten minutes later I found myself one street away from Ben’s. Being a Monday, I knew he’d be at work but something told me to double check.
I pedaled quickly to his house and in a rush to ring the doorbell, I practically sprung off the saddle. I held onto the handlebar with one hand and reached up with the other to ring the doorbell. Feeling my heart racing, I uttered, “Get a grip, Karen” and was about to turn and leave, when Ben opened the door.
“You’re a day late,” he grinned.
“Sorry,” I stuttered. “I wasn’t expecting you to be home.”
He laughed. “That makes no sense.”
“I thought you’d be at work.”
“I took the week off.”
“You wanna come in or are you in training for the Tour de France?”
“Very funny,” I said, trying not to laugh. “I’ll come in but only for a minute.”
“I think you’ll want to stay longer than that, after I show you what I have,” he said, smirking.
“What’s that?” I asked, balancing my bike against the wall.
“Something you can’t get enough of.”
Four hours later, I put my bike back in the shed, with a big smile on my face and a tummy full of cream cakes.