childhood sweethearts

You know the guy you used to build tree houses with, and once you showed him your cookie because he'd never seen one before?
No? OK, well nevermind. You're all lying if you didn't.

My childhood sweetheart - as in, the oke who never knew I was alive because I was so shy I'd just blush and run away in his presence - has been missing for years.
I used to wonder every now and then what he was doing. Was he a balding schvitzy nutcase, with a bunion, who sat and surfed Mail Order Bride websites all day? Or was he Robert Redford with a golden tan and Masters degree, who flew around the world as a brave, heroic documentary cameraman who covered war? Or maybe he's actually Kurt Darren and he sings liefie songs to his plethora of fans at Carnival City. I sure fucking hope not. Or maybe he was a divorce lawyer now. Or worse. An accountant. (Just kidding, sort of).

Hell, maybe he is dead? Nope, the last I heard he was alive and well – some years ago. Was he still the town stud? Possibly. The man could pull in women like a crane driver pulls down buildings. He never really noticed me. At junior school I was a shy little merit over-achiever, who got top marks and did remarkable things like sport and shit. It all changed when I was 14. When I became the loud, brash creature I am now, I still didn't talk to him. He probably thought I was a up-my-own-doetpipe snob.

Au contraire. He just scared the shit out of me.

That aside, what had ever happened to him? He was the one chap – pre-pubescent was I – that filled up pages and pages of my diary as a kid. Not that we said two words to each other – God no – but he was significant enough that at 10 years old, I wanted to have his babies. Why I thought he was so unbelievably fantastic is not important – but it may or may not have had something to do with the fact he had a rather stupendously smashing body.

One of the memories I have was when we built a treehouse together and I don't think we even spoke.
“How about we use this stick?”
Peas: [blank]
“Ok, well I'll just use this stick then.”
Peas: [blank]
“Are you mute or something?”
Peas: [blank]
“Can you speak?”
Peas: [blank]
“You're weird.”
Peas: No you are. [runs away blushing]

We got in contact after, like, ten years the other day.
And if he's reading this, I'm running away and blushing, and God please may he not read this. And please may he think it's not him.
Not that it matters in any case. It was so long ago, I mean, I can hardly remember him. I mean, seriously.

PS: I got taken out to dinner last night. As a “casual mate dinner thingie” not a date, it's not a date - just so we're all clear.
We Phuza Thursdayed it up at FTV, and now I feel in urgent need of paracetamol.

My FF (Fake Fiance) gets back from Mauritius today and says he bought me a ring. Bless every one of his chest hairs. Which I have not seen.