Third Roommate: [Swings front gate back and forth]
Peas: What are you doing?
Third Roommate: Notice anything?
Peas: No. Just that you’re acting retarded.
Third Roommate: No squeak! Listen, no squeak!
Peas: There was a squeak?
Third Roommate: Yes there was a squeak! A fucking loud squeak. So I sorted it out. Being the handyman around here and all.
Peas: What you sort it out with?
Third Roommate: Sunflower oil.
Peas: Thanks mate. If you going to be known as Handyman Sam, please put the Marmite and Flora back in the fridge when you’re done. It’s been sitting there all night.
Third Roommate: That wasn’t me.
Peas: Then who the fuck was it?
Third Roommate: OK it was me.
Right so here’s the thing. Our single’s dinner is coming up next week. I feel like I’m in Std 9 again. Not a good feeling, considering Std 9 was filled with angst and teenage complexities regarding memories still terrifyingly fresh of my mother making me a silver bright-as-tinfoil dress for a school formal dinner. I was a walking frigging disco ball. Horrific.
Here is the update on single’s dinner thus so far:
1) We were, until recently, freaking the fuck out.
2) Klo insists her [beautiful] matric ball dress will fit me. (Recent ice cream binge aside?)
3) Klo and E2 have hooked up with their prospective partners. They kind of have boyfriends now.
4) My partner is the mate I wasn’t so sure I wanted to take a few weeks ago, because he is, well, a mate.
5) Now I’m certain I want to take him.
6) It’s none other than…drumroll… Certain Someone.
7) What changed in my attitude between last week and now might have something to do with a certain Tupperware of trout.
8) And that our sexual tension seems to have suddenly spiraled out of control. Perhaps it’s just my sexual tension that’s spiraled out of control. And his is just lying dormant under that rugged, masculine exterior of hotness.
9) Crap. He’s my mate. What if I’m reading all the wrong signs? And he’s just being a mate? And I’m being a dodgy hornbag? Crisis.
10) Crap. I need to look fucking exquisite.
PS: This is how I invited Certain Someone. First I called him and sort of mentioned that I’d invite him had I not found a potential hot, single oke between then and now. Then I sent him this email:
Please keep 7 October open for that formal dinner. If you stand me up, I'll be properly f%cked. Oh and get your suit dry cleaned, you need to wear something pretty. Scrub up. We’re all wearing dresses.
In retrospect, that was pretty rude. But I think he knows how grateful I am to have him come along with me. I’m so excited to see him in a suit. Hopefully coupled with a crispy white shirt.