March 18th, 1990

March 18th, 1990

At home

Dad and I met mum after church and we went to look at some new houses before stopping in Stony Stratford for lunch, which I always love. The houses we saw were small but affordable, which, dad reminded me is the most important thing.

“You start to have somewhere,” he commented, more than once.

In the afternoon, I picked Ben up and we ended up in Brackley, which is the kind of village I could see myself living in. We bought bread and various cheeses and fruits that we leisurely munched our way through, lounging under a beautiful oak tree on the village green, watching various dogs playfully scampering about.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How much I love dogs.”

Ben laughed. “Dogs?”

“Uh-huh. Oh, and cheese,” I said, popping another piece of stinking Bishop in my mouth.

“Anything else?”

I nodded, yes.

“What?” He asked with his signature grin.


He gestured, “go on.”


“Anything else?”

“No. That’s pretty much it.”

For the next few minutes we ate quietly and watched over fussy parents with kids, some of whom were flying kites. Ben was first to speak.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?”


He let out a hearty laugh, the type of which I haven’t heard him do for ages. “Well, I’m going to pretend you did. And my answer is dogs.”


“Nice to see you playing along now,” he smirked.

“Welcome. What else?”



“Yeah, I like kids. Don’t you?”

“Uh, ehm, no, not when there’s dogs and cheese and champagne and chocolate. Oh, and tea. And biscuits. And cakes.”

“Your list is much longer than mine.”

Trying my best to keep a straight face, I said, “That’s because I’m much more interesting than you.”

He laughed the deep belly laugh again. “So, no to kids?”

“Not like a no, no but they’re not at the top of my list.”

“What are you thinking about now?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Fair enough, does that mean it’s my turn?”

“Uh-huh,” I uttered, gazing at him as he eased his way closer.

“I’m thinking,” he said, putting his face to mine, “that it’s time we kissed.”


Exactly what I was thinking.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s