really love that Nathan always wants to involve me in his sporting pursuits; it bodes well for the future, I think, this togetherness.
Sometimes I think about how we’ll be in later life. I know I probably shouldn’t, bearing in mind that in the grand scheme of things we only met five minutes ago, but I can’t help it.
Best case scenario: entering ‘veteran’ half-marathons in our eighties, bones creaking as we lurch arthritically across the finish line together.
And a marginally less fun scenario: racing each other along the high street on our mobility scooters.
Nathan will never lose his zest for life and if he wants me there with him, I’d be a fool to resist.
But relationships are a two-way process. So perhaps I should be demonstrating the same willingness to involve him in my life?
Hm, tricky one, that.
I suppose I could invite him along to one of mine and Barb’s box-set binge marathons.
Only one snag. Nathan can’t even sit still long enough to watch the late evening news, never mind lounging on the sofa for hours on end in the ‘Just one more episode? Oh, go on, then’ slump.
As we motor along the deserted high street of a nearby town, I spot something sparkly in a shop window and whiz round to look.
It’s a Christmas tree.
My nausea zips up to critical level.
It’s that time of year again.
A vision flits into my head of last Christmas, when we all gathered at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Scotland to ‘make merry’ (ha-ha).
Justine’s control freak tendencies become rampant in December. Christmas absolutely has to be perfect. No lolling around in pyjamas, eating chocolate Brazil nuts for breakfast and admiring Bing Crosby in a Santa hat on TV. It’s all smart cocktail parties with the affluent neighbours and hand-crafted mince pies from an extortionately expensive London caterer that are so tiny you need to gobble down at least five to make one normal-sized pie.
And candles. Justine insists on candlelight everywhere at Christmas, even in the downstairs loo. (Last year, Dad was in there, catching up with the football scores, and the poor man managed to set his newspaper on fire.)
Thank God we’ll be going to Mum and Dad’s in Manchester this year.
At least there, I can escape to my own bedroom if need be.
And Mum seems to be doing better these days.
I suspect my lovely dad spares me the whole truth, but he’s definitely been sounding more optimistic lately. Apparently Mum’s having more ‘good’ days than ‘bad’. For years, her anxiety and agoraphobia have meant she can’t leave the house without Dad for support. But apparently, a few weeks ago, she went out on a shopping trip with their next-door neighbour, Ellen.
After Dad told me that, I went to my bedroom and had a little cry.
I pull down the visor mirror and check my reflection.
With no time for smoothing the kinks, my wayward blonde hair is going commando this morning, which can be quite scary, frankly. I spend an absolute fortune on potions to keep it smooth and groomed-looking.
Luckily, Nathan seems to like me just the way I am.
Settling back in my seat, I glance tenderly at his handsome profile. Dark hair cropped short, manly jawline and slightly Roman nose. (He’d like a nose job but I’m trying to talk him out of it.)
I’m just glad to be with him today, however challenging this climbing ball thingy turns out to be. My stomach turns over with vague dread.
But I tell myself that whatever happens, it’s sure to be an improvement on the Sunday we got up at stupid-o’clock and journeyed to Wales – yes, that’s right, another country – to take part in the world’s premier Bog Snorkelling Championships.
(Yes, you did read that correctly. And no, it wasn’t just an excuse for a drunken jolly. It involved actual snorkelling equipment and a real live, smelly bog.)
All great fun.
Ha-ha!
Nathan said it would be a laugh and a great workout into the bargain but he’d only do it if I took part as well. So I agreed. But only because he offered an attractive inducement. Dinner at a posh restaurant that didn’t only cater for vegetarians. Usually when we dine out, we go to Beansprouts! (That’s their exclamation mark, not mine.) Nathan can obviously take his pick from the menu there and it’s fine by me because I can always find something I like. But this place he was offering to take me had things like fillet steak on the menu and was really rather swanky.
How could I refuse?
Also, I didn’t want my wonderfully adventurous boyfriend thinking me boring for not joining in with the snorkelling shenanigans. Labelling me a stick-in-the-mud.
So I got stuck in a muddy bog instead.
And slap my thigh, but it was hilarious!
The bit in the car where I had to squeeze my chafing flesh into a too-small wetsuit (left by one of Nathan’s skinnier exes) – my, we did laugh.
Then lining up in the pouring rain with other assorted freaks dressed in snorkels and flippers – something to tell the grandkiddies!
And finally, battling along a foul-smelling trench filled with bug-infested bog water with spectators whistling and cheering us on – well, what can I say? Memories are made of this.
Nathan, of course, approached it with the same intense concentration as he would a heat in the Olympics. And he won. Naturally.
Just missing the world record by a whisker was a little disappointing, so obviously he’ll be returning next time to try to smash the winning time. (I’ve told him I have a hair appointment that day.)
Nathan’s satnav finally, after a two-hour journey, brings us to the car park of a large red-brick building in the middle of town.
I have to say, I’m confused.
What are we climbing? There’s not a hill in sight.
I glance around me. Nope. Completely flat.
So what…?
I catch sight of the sign over the main door.
‘Er, Nathan.’
I indicate the sign and he frowns as the penny drops.
‘Okay,’ he says slowly. ‘So not a climbing ball challenge. A climbing wall.’
He glances at me and shrugs. ‘Well, never mind, we’ve come all this way so let’s check it out.’
He gathers up our gear and we head into the building.
As soon as I enter, I can tell this is definitely not for us.
A gaggle of kids are tearing around by the reception desk as their mums try to simultaneously pay and keep them in check. The average age – not counting us – appears to be about nine.
‘Nathan, I don’t think…’
But he’s already gone over to check out the climbing wall that’s visible through a large picture window, so I stand for a while and watch the kids.
The boy causing most of the mayhem is the ginger-haired one in the Harry Potter T-shirt. He keeps dodging behind the girls and yanking their ponytails really hard, making them shout out in pain. He sees me watching and pulls a face.
I’m about to join Nathan and persuade him a nice long walk would be a good alternative. But I suddenly realise we’ve been spotted by the event organiser, a tall, horsy-looking woman in a blue tracksuit with big front teeth and huge glasses.
‘Halloooo!’ She canters