There is a lamb in my chest. Is that normal?

Date #4 happened on Friday evening, but it was over before you could say 'quickie'. The gentleman insisted we go to a club for our little rendezvous, but didn't count on Chris being there as well. The two of them were about as pleased to meet each other as a Liverpool and a Chelsea supporter were at passing each other in the street. Without the spitting, of course. But there was a stun gun.

And a walkie talkie. I bloody kid you not. It looked like a brick hanging from his belt and it did that screeching noise ever so often.

I felt like I was in a postmodern war movie gone wrong with the club as backdrop. I even considered asking the DJ to 'pump up the volume, dude' as people were starting to look at us funny. There is the reputation to think of, being single and all.

The reason for the gun and back to the future communication's device was the lad's occupation. He's a cop. Luckily he couldn't stay long as he was on call and I don't know who breathed a louder sigh of relief between Chris and I. Robocop hopped on his bicycle (budget cuts, he said) and sped off into the night to fight felons. That was the first time I was actually grateful for living in the Country of Crime.



We didn't stay long after Robocop left to save the world on a bicycle as we had to get up early the next morning for the arts festival. I've been dragging him to this festival for the past five years now because he's the only person who just can't say no to me and the torture of culture.


We watched this terribly sad play about a lady in her fifties realising how life has passed her by while she was busy raising kids and cooking dinner for an ungrateful husband every evening for 35 years. It reminded me so much of someone I know very well and I couldn't help but cry a little. I felt Chris's hand slip into mine. And it felt right.



He drove me home that evening like he always does, but somehow something changed. We changed. He's not the skinny boy with the pimples anymore and I'm not the girl with the long hair and glasses anymore. For the first time we didn't feel the need to talk so much; we just sat there and enjoyed the quiet and the presence of this new and unfamiliar feeling.



The last time I felt this way, it ended badly. My heart felt as though it was torn from my chest and trampled on by a wildebeest stampede similar to the one in The Lion King. The urge to yell Mufasa was present too at the time. That day I thought I had lost something that would never be mine again; my innocence, my faith in people with weeners and that crazy little thing called love.



When Chris said goodbye, he gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. I haven't felt a more affectionate, caring, tender kiss quite like that one and Mary's galloping little lamb found its way into my chest. But I quickly pulled its little leash as Chris broke up with that girlfriend about two weeks ago. It had nothing to do with the talk I had with her and the promise of a foot so far up her ass that she'll have athlete's throat for the rest of her life if she didn't stop cheating on him. After all, I do know the prime spot for the best athlete's foot in the country: a student hostel.


I've fallen behind on fulfilling my meme duties and acknowledging as well as handing out some lovely awards from equally lovely bloggers. This will be done on Wednesday, if not tomorrow. Until then I'm off to write an official report on date #4 to Mom. In honor of Robocop and his amazingly big walkie talkie.