March 21st, 1990

March 21st, 1990

At home

I’d hate to be in Mandy’s ugly, white plastic shoes. Her so called boyfriend is a nightmare and a mean spirited, argh, I don’t even know what to call him. Actually, I do but I’m not willing to soil my diary with filth.

I’d planned on going to Paris on the afternoon flight and arranged to meet Jean Jacques at Charles de Gaulle. I made a point of telling him the purpose of my visit, which was to look at some properties I’d seen advertised in the paper. Jean Jacques offered not only to make the appointments but said he’d be happy to drive me around the countryside.

But then you know who rang and asked if I wanted to meet him after work and grab something to eat and instead of saying no and continuing with my Paris plans, I stupidly, regrettably said yes.

 

I knew from the minute I saw him that he was in one of his what I call weird, distant moods but as usual I pretended everything was fine and started rambling on about all sorts of nonsense, none of which he responded to.

I said I’d wait outside the shop for him to finish his shift and my instinct was telling me to make some excuse about having to leave but of course I completely ignored it and sat like a fool, waiting for him.

When he came outside, he was in no better a mood and mumbled something about not being hungry.

“Oh,” I uttered. “I thought you wanted to get something to eat.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Oh, ok, do you want to just have a look around the shops then?”

“Nah, I think I’ll go home.”

Looking back, I really should’ve let him have it but it was my own stupid fault for agreeing to meet him in the first place, when I should’ve stuck to my guns and got on the plane. And, to make matters worse, instead of leaving him there, I said I’d drive him home. Honestly! What is wrong with me?

Mum is none too pleased that I didn’t go to Paris, which is ironic given the fact she usually refers to Jean Jacques as “a slimey wee worm.” However, she did agree that if I’m going to look at houses in France, it makes sense for me to do it with someone who speaks fluent French.

I left a message for Jean Jacques but I haven’t heard from him yet.

Ugh! When will I ever learn?

 

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