Kitchen looking like the morning after Glastonbury; check. Clothes strewn over chair in corner of bedroom; check. Caitlin wearing expensive perfume and even more expensive underwear, which remains indecently undisturbed; check. Caitlin wearing expression displaying equal parts sexual frustration and annoyance whilst staring into darkness; check. The clincher – is there medium tending towards heavy snuffling/snoring from somewhere to my right? Of course there is. Once all the above boxes have been ticked, the conclusion can only be that Richard is spending the night.
At first I was quite pleased. In fact, it would not be unfair to say that a month ago I would actually have been quite excited by the prospect of having my boyfriend stay over for the night; something about it making us seem like a real couple. However, in view of the events of the past week or so, I am rather underwhelmed by today’s events, and distinctly underwhelmed by tonight’s lack of events.
It was nice that he called me at work to say that he was unexpectedly free tonight and wanted to come round. I might even go so far as to say that it put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. However, once I saw him unpacking supermarket carrier bags I knew that things were not going to go quite as I would like.
You see, Richard likes to think of himself as a master chef, some sort of experimental kitchen whizzkid. The reality is that if there were such a program as ‘Vaguely Incompetent Chef’ Richard would be stood on that podium every time – it’s not that he’s bad, but his cooking technique relies on pairing unexpected ingredients and hoping that the results pass FDA guidelines on being fit for human consumption. Think Dr. Moreau’s island for food, and you’re somewhere close.
But that’s not the worst bit, bad as it sounds. I haven’t got to the bad bit yet, but I needed to go through that preamble so that you would understand why the bad bit is quite so bad, and what it is bad in relation to, because it sounds fairly innocuous. Richard likes to have a glass of wine while he cooks.
He’s quite a burly chap so he thinks he can take his drink. Because it takes him so long to do things (which is strange, seeing as everything about his cooking style seems so spontaneous) Richard can easily go through a whole bottle of red, and is usually into a second before he even sets the starter on the table. Then we have a bottle or two with the meal, and another couple of drinks when we’ve settled down afterwards. At one point, I swear to God, I looked up at Richard and the grim reaper was stood behind him. But he wasn’t wielding a scythe, he was waggling a crooked little finger at me and grinning, and I knew that the curse of brewer’s droop had already ended any chance of sex for me tonight.
Still, I tried. I managed to get him into bed at a relatively early hour, before he had chance to complain about being tired. The red set with black lace came out, as did the Chanel. My attempts at seduction were as futile as George Bush’s attempts at apelling. Richard was already in bed when I came out of the bathroom, and snuffling/snoring by the time I’d got into bed. And that’s a full recap of my day, starting with unexpected and welcome surprise, veering towards domestic anarchy, and ending up with equal amounts of predictability and monotony.
Until my phone beeped to say I had a text.
