Moving on

Hi, Deb, it’s me. Just calling to let you know some post has arrived for you. Looks like a mobile bill, and that stupid fashion magazine subscription as well. I can send them on if you give me your address? Or I can just leave them in the hall. You’ve still got you key, haven’t you?

 

Oh, and I found my Reservoir Dogs DVD, by the way. After like, three years. It was in the It’s a Wonderful Life case. God knows where the Wonderful Life disc is. I never got why you did that. It drove me up the wall. Going to watch Scarface but finding Love, Actually. Jesus, that was annoying. You want Al Pacino doing some gangster shit and you get Hugh Fucking Grant. 

 

And putting things away all the time, what was that all about? I never managed to get to the bottom of a cup of tea before you’d whisked it away into the dishwasher. Having to fight you off just to finish my dinner. The place is a lot messier now, believe me. 

 

And being able to eat what I want too. I’ve had lasagne and chips three nights running, and it was bloody gorgeous every time. No sodding lamb tagines or tuna salads.

 

Was out with Pete and that lot last night. Absolutely shitfaced, got back at three this morning. Great night. I think Suzy was chatting me up actually. You were wrong; she’s not a conniving little bitch. 

 

Anyway, I’d better go. The football’s on. I can actually watch it now. I don’t have to put up with all the huffing and eye-rolling about missing bloody X Factor. Or questions about why they don’t make the goals bigger so they can score more. For crying out loud, woman. 

 

Anyway, I’d better go. 

 

Yeah.

 

Actually Deb, I’m a fucking mess here, please come back. I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry I called you a chubber. And for pissing in your wardrobe. And that thing with your mum, that was bad, I know. I’ll make it up to you, please come back. I love you. We can work it out, can’t we? Can’t we? 

 

Deb?

 

End of message.