Casanova and The Chocolate Cake.

Peace flits in and out of my life like a nesting bird. Lining my days with books and gardening and contentment and then just as quickly, abandoning my house for pastures new and leaving me once again bereft, restless, aching for something I can’t explain but unable to read and unwilling to write…

It has been a busy few days. Lavish with family and friends and little boys talking ten to the dozen all day long. Bank holiday weekend was lost in a swirl of socialising. On Saturday night a meal for Diane’s birthday, in a new restaurant with a waiter who should have come with a danger sign swinging around his neck. As soon as he linked my arm and marched me to the table I knew he was going to be trouble. By the time he’d had me whisper my order into his ear in Italian, lifted up my hair and nibbled on my neck, told every diner in the room “She making me hot!”, poured wine down my throat and force fed me chocolate cake,  I had been kissed more times than I’ve had hot dinners, Kath had nearly choked laughing on a baby octopus,  and the entire restaurant was enthralled by the amateur dramatics of  an apparently besotted  Italian waiter, charming in a way only a man who  says “Tonight I fall in love!” every third sentence, can be…

But plainly I can never eat in that particular scrumptiously  authentic Italian again, which is a downright shame because the mustard covered parma ham pizza was to die for and all the other yummy mummies enjoyed the spectacle that was my blush covered cheeks so much they can’t wait to go back.
Trouble you see follows me around like cheap perfume…

Which may or may not explain why the very next  night I could be seen tra-laaing around town with my very own Elvis impersonator, complete with sideburns and eyes so vividly blue you could probably paddle in them. Mad, bad and dangerous to know he clearly is, but before I knew it I was giggling like a schoolgirl, shimmying my shoulders and sending my mum garbled text messages it will probably take an army crack team a year or two to decipher (Grep! Still dancing! Baloney. RS. 19. So go to sleeg!)…

It has been fun and exhausting and I miss who I am when I am not forced to be the kind of woman who attracts too much attention in restaurants and finds herself being asked for a date by the fireman who came to fix her alarms.  And so now  I am back to where I was last week. With a wierd sense of nothing in my tummy. Laying old ghosts to rest and staying up late waiting for something to happen while rooting for something resembling my life in the fridge.
This too will pass. This too will pass.