A week on and I’m still rather tearful.
My mobile phone has an unsightly crack in its display from where I threw it into the bin in disgust.
All bloody day I waited, checking the signal reception just in case I was in a communications blackspot or Vodafone’s spy satellite had been nuked by the Russians. But no. All was fine. The technology was functioning as it should. Like a well oiled machine in fact.
And talking of oil, I was oiled up too. Oiled up and waiting.
Was that the problem Keeley? Would you have preferred me dried and talced as opposed to oiled up like a centurion in a Roman bath house?
Well, you could have rung and told me. I’m amenable. I’d’ve bent over backwards for you (I’ve got the harness and everything).
You were in Leamington Spa last Monday and didn’t call me. Not once. I don’t dare show my face in Pizza Hut again after the fuss I made. She’ll be here I said. Any minute. You just keep that All You Can Eat For £6.59 buffet open.
But 3 hours later they had to close and the only thing that had caressed my lips was a breadstick.
I don’t want to hear about shooting schedules; about how you were only here to film the external shots for the new up and coming remake of Upstairs Downstairs.
All I know is I’ve sung your praises on this here blog for the last 3 years and I thought we had an understanding.
I’m cut to the quick, Keeley. I’m now on an uneven keel and feel like I’ve been keel-hauled and not in a good way either.
Next time you want a pizza you’re on your own, baby. We’re done.
P.S. I’m free next Wednesday. I’m very forgiving. Just call me (I’m still on the same number; your lawyer probably has a record of it).