Darn Sarf - Part II

As from yesterday, Sarah greeted my appearance at her front door with a heart-settling smile and an unguarded and natural kiss. She then told me that I smelt nice which was a tiny bit odd as I hadn't put on any aftershave or similar smelly, but I brushed it off as at least something positive.

Sarah took my coat and ushered me into a small and compact room with nothing but a small settee, table, a bookcase and various electronics. On the table was a breathing bottle of Rioja and a couple of glasses, which Sarah said I could help myself to if I so desired. I must cowardly admit at this point that nerves were playing a slight havoc within me, so I conveniently ignored my no booze for Lent policy and poured myself a decent portion, after Sarah had apologised for not joining me immediately but dinner was at a crucial point and was in need of her express attention. She asked if I was still a temporary vegetarian which I confirmed; but as Sarah I knew herself didn't do the meat thing it wouldn't have mattered.

I sat down and sipped my wine. I'm not a wine man - if I ever spit out wine after tasting it it's because I don't like it, not because I'm appraising it without getting pi$$ed. I hate all that false pretence in restaurants where the waiter pours you a bit to allow you to play the charade of tasting it as if you know the first thing about what you're about to pour down your throat. I do wonder how many waiters run back giggling into the kitchen after pouring a mix of ribena and anti-freeze into some pleb's glass and it receiving the thumbs up.

I sipped my Rioja and cast a discerning eye over Sarah's reading predilections. No idea what I'd expected to find, whether it be dusty academic tomes or the complete works of Barbara Cartland. In the end there seemed a variable mix of volumes with chick lit. winning the battle for supremacy. There were several well-thumbed Marian Keyes and a couple of Meg Cabots and a further odd sprinkling of various names I'm not well read enough to be familiar with. There seemed also to be a complete library of Harry Potters that were almost falling apart; but I hoped they belonged to Ruth.

There were also three bibles. I made a strict mental note to myself not to mention religion all evening. Aside from my monthly habit of sacrificing a new-born baby to the true king himself, Beelzebub, Lord of Darkness.

Five minutes passed with just me and my wine. Getting bored, I went in search of Sarah, and found her gently chopping up something orange in the kitchen. She smiled when I came in asked if the wine met my approval. I said it was nice but then wine was not really my thing; I was more of a single malt man. Sarah frowned and asked what single malt was. I informed her it was Whiskey; which seemed to throw her a bit, but then she laughed whatever it was off and said she barely drank herself ("aside from a glass of white wine in the bath" - to which I replied I wouldn't think a glass of white wine would be enough to fill a bath, which received a slight giggle in recognition of it being a joke of some description) and never touched spirits.

There was (horror!) a brief awkward pause which I filled by asking where Ruth was. She was at Sarah's sisters was the reply. This both annoyed me and relieved me as I was slightly looking forwards to meeting her and making comparisons to my own (male) children; but then again I would not have perhaps been able to cope with a little girl taking an instant dislike to me (or an over-bearing love of, as sometimes has happened in the past), so I guess it was balanced.

Sarah pointed me over to the dining table and told me to take a seat as dinner was imminent. So I yelled Heck no, bitch, ain't no lady gonna boss me around. No I didn't, I took my seat like a good boy and waited to be served. I scanned my mind for things I find utterly inedible (broccoli, brussels sprouts, cabbage boiled to the point beyond disintegrating mushiness) and the coping measures I'd instigate should any of them be served up before me.

I had no worries - it was a risotto with orange lumps in it; although they were completely palatable orange lumps. I didn't ask what they were, but they were either parsnip or squash or turnip or one of those other slight odd vegetables that come in medley packs but get chucked in the bin. At least in our household.

The meal went down very well, as did the Rioja and a second bottle, a Cabernet Merlot. As ever with Sarah, the conversation flowed freely and without interruption and we laughed genuinely at each other's jibes and asides and jokes.

We moved back into the little room with the bookcase and small settee. Sarah asked what music I liked and I came up the non-committal "all kinds" (as I doubt her CD collection contained "Touch Me I'm Sick" by Mudhoney) which was a mistake as she pressed a few buttons and Lennon & McCartney came on introducing Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I can just about stick the Kinks from the forgotten sixties, but definitely not the bloody Beatles.

Quite swiftly the wine took full effect. The invasions of our personal spaces by each other became more pronounced until Sarah was virtually sat in my lap. Once John Lennon's nasal tones had spat out the final bars of A Day In The Life (and that pointless looped bit had come and gone), Sarah reached for my glass, put in gently down on the floor, then took my face and pushed our lips together. It was rather nice - or at least the long-forgotten dual-purpose appendage in my trousers thought so.

Things became a little confused for the next couple of hours. But they were very nice.

And Sarah fixed me eggs for breakfast.