14 Apr 2003
So, I trip over my feet and tongue and realise that if I am to make sweet love to this little wonder woman I’d best buck up my ideas. Good God, but what a derriere! I think her name is Natalie. Or maybe just Nat.
Natalie, Natalie, Nubile Natalie,
Your every glance pulverises me,
Dark, penetrating eyes,
Like a sultry Cat,
You study in Bristol,
You’ve loaded my pistol,
And I’m afraid it might go off.
So we chat and banter and her friends are distracting us from our destiny with their honest and innocent questions. And then it strikes me. Again. SPLATT! I need to sort my life out. Nat is too fine a specimen for her to be satisfied by my lacklustre approach to life. So, I recommend a video and they leave and Nat leaves and she takes her dark hair framing her dark face with its dark eyes and her elegant wrists and what a smile and they go and she takes her bottom with her. Which gives me an opportunity to have a quick word with myself about values and meanings of things and what, if anything, is to be done. I decide nothing. I sometimes forget that it is not me who needs to fall in love with me but others. I need fast cars and big bucks to love me, which, at present, I don’t have. That is why I am just good friends with me at the moment. Others, however, have been known to love me for me. Maybe Nat will.