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My boy
2006-03-02 | 6:50 p.m.

Looks like I'll have to save the important cheese discussion for another time.

Ok. Here goes, the story of How I Met My Boy (who responds to being called Danny but also Dan and even Daniel on the odd occasion).

Now, I'd love to give an exciting story like how I'd fallen down a well due to unforeseen circumstances and that he was my gallant rescuer, but unfortunately that isn't quite what happened. We met...in a club. Retribution in Leicester, a rock/heavy metal/alternative place brim full of people in gothic clothing, stretched piercings, multi-coloured mohicans and spiked accessories. The reason we got talking was because one of his friends pinched my bum while I was stood at the bar, I went over to reprimand his group of friends, and we started talking. It was nice that they weren't all in the traditional attire either (mohicans really aren't my cup of tea), exactly like Natalie and I weren't. We talked (and kissed) and he ended up taking my number. I went home thinking about the very lovely man I'd met and woke up with bloody butterflies in my stomach.

There's a reason I never once mentioned how I met him when it actually happened...

...I was still with the ex at the time. But it'd be massively appreciated if I could relay all the details of the situation before I'm condemned as a bad person.

God, I think I'm going to have to go way back here, bear with me. After being a significant part of my life for two years the ex broke up with me in August 2004 while he was going through a series of personal crises. I'd been firmly standing by and supporting him and he responded by saying he didn't love me anymore and didn't want to be in a relationship. Pain ensued, but so did healing, and it certainly helped that soon after this I was starting my third year at university and I threw myself into uni life (well the social side, maybe less academically). After a couple of months I began regularly receiving phone calls, text messages and the like from the ex (funnily enough something he never did when we were together). He wanted to get back together...and by Christmas I was convinced he'd changed and thought I'd regret it forever if I didn't give things one more try.

As soon as the Christmas holidays were over he stopped being so caring to the point where he only wanted to see me once every three weeks and I had to be the one who did the travelling because he worked full time and as a student I did 'bugger all'. He even demanded I not arrive until after 9 pm on a Friday so he could have some 'chill time' after work. The text messages and phone calls from him dried up completely and he began getting close with a girl he worked with. He often went out alone with her and paid for them to go places and told me I had to accept it. In my heart that relationship was over and I knew we would split up and that I'd have no regrets over it...and that is what happened the week after I met the New Bloke. My boy knows what happened although the ex doesn't. I didn't think it'd go down too well especially since he told me in the past that if I ever cheated on him he'd get one of his female friends to beat me up...he was nice like that.

Time to bring some fluffiness back to the story, I think. After the night I met the New Bloke we began texting each other once or twice a day and a couple of weeks later it was time for me to go home from uni for the Easter holidays. He asked if I wanted to meet up and I was feeling brave and said yes. I ambled down to London and we went out in Covent Garden for food and drinks. I was nervous and he looked different to how I remembered him. Despite this it was one of those times when I looked at my watch and it was half five in the evening and then ten minutes later for some unfathomable reason it was nearly eleven o'clock and we just about had enough time for a short walk along the river before I had to get my train home.

I felt ever so slightly ambivalent about our first date but liked him enough to go for a second just four days later, when he took me for dinner in Canary Wharf and not only did I begin to feel fully comfortable in his presence (mainly because I ate some flower which was meant as decoration on the plate and he found it amusing) and because I discovered how similar we were and could talk about anything. I did fall for him really quickly and maybe for a while thought I'd tire of him as quickly as I began to like him, but I'm so glad I was wrong. I've seen him pretty much weekly ever since then...I can't bear to be without him. He painstakingly scrubbed dried mud off my legs at Glastonbury, he gets me home and to bed when I'm too drunk and has the patience of a fucking SAINT. His only bad points are literally his lack of passion for the Simpsons, the fact he didn't like the Christmas tree chucked on top of the Cutty Sark and his tendency to snore. But I think I can live with those, just about.

I do hope this didn't bore anyone shitless. One more day til Leicester, eee!

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