Some things have to be reported immediately.

I have just walked in the door, fresh from my "chatch up" with Charlie. Things could have gone better, but then again, I was expecting that.
First of all, I didn't meet her at her house. I got a txt saying that she was going to 'the park'. Now, to my mind, there is only one 'the park', but that one is halfway across town. So I rang to make sure.
"Which park?"
"Ah, the one with the swings?"
"And the flying fox, yeah?" (THe main feature of 'the park' is it's triple flying fox)
"Yeah."
"Sweet, see you there."
My flatmate just happened to be going out, so she drove me half way there. I ran the rest. As you know, I don't run too often. But I arrived at 'the park' only slightly sweaty and feeling quite good. Just then however, my pocket vibrated (Not from any extra-scrotactular-sense, but because my cell phone was in my pocket. And it was on vibrate.) It was a txt from Charlie:
"Not the one where we went. The one at the Botanics."
Sometimes you just have to laugh. The park at the botanics is not 10 mins away from my place.
In the end, the journey to meet Charlie took 50mins.
2nd thing was that I didn't tell the whole truth. Charlie had been worried about me giving the could shoulder, and me simply saying it was about the book really didn't have enough weight to let me feel alright about the amount of worry I had caused. But I couldn't say anything about those other feelings. Because she was looking good. Really good. And we were having a good conversation about not much, but it was good. So what was I going to do? Even though I had put on a clean shirt and showered and everything I could do to make sure I am was not in any way the usual crumpled, untidy and slightly stinky individual that I usually am (the brisk walk had done something to affect that), I still cannot do anything about my eyes. Becuase the really cool thing about wallowing semi-perpetually in a sea of slight self pity and alcohol is that it makes you look like utter shit. My eyes are now bagged and almost completely ringed with grey. Speaking of grey, there is a definate collection of whitness around my muzzel. I couldn't very well, feeling and looking like the arse end of a cigarette, expect any attempt at a conversation about our relationship to go too well.
Fucken Sigh.
Apart from that, it was a nice little meeting, alone and sober, which, considering both our personal vices, is likely to happen once in a blue moon. So I am not displeased. It's just that any meeting with Charlie stirs up so much confusion and feeling, especially that little feeling that your stomach has just turned around. Why does that happen? And for about half an hour afterwards you have to constantly mentally slap yourself so you dont start second guessing everything and blowing small things out of proportion and beating yourself up about things you should or should not have done.
To anyone out there reading this who has a partner: I don't care how much you think you have to go through or whatever. Tiff at home? At least you have the option of talking about it. In fact, its more than just an option, its expected. And even though expressing emotions may be a bit difficult sometimes, it is a damn shit fuck lot better than not knowing weather you can say anything at all.

Boy howdy I could do with a cigarette. I might not murder for one, but I would surely tap someone lightly on the head with a 4x2 for one.

And I don't have money till Wednesday.