The Fledgling Relationship 

Hello everyone and welcome back to my blog!

I’m sure you’re all desperate to find out what happened after I dashed off on Saturday afternoon? Well, let me tell you, it was an absolute perfect, blissful blur. 

I left my car after the last blog post, nervous and excited and worried and my stomach was in knots only sailors would be able to produce… and made my way up to the station. I got to the platforms fifteen minutes prior to Le Spaniard’s arrival, so mooched around a little, then decided to go into the cafe and purchase 2 cappuccinos to go. I made my way to the platform as another train, on its way down to Bristol, was arriving. I had 7 minutes to wait. Those minutes filled me with such anxiety and dread, I paced the platform endlessly, until suddenly a Cross Country Train was pulling up at the platform and I was searching for his coach, weaving my way through the sea of people surging towards the carriages. 

And then there he was, walking towards me; his tweed green thick winter coat zipped up to his chin, dark jeans and converse, with an overnight bag casually slung across his body.

We kissed in greeting and I passed him his cappuccino, him talking non-stop about the journey, the weather in Manchester, work, asking how my cats were, announcing he was starving etc as we left the station towards my car.

We drove to a grill and settled with our bottled waters which I promptly knocked over with a menu… and then moments later, Le Spaniard did exactly the same whilst wildly gesturing to emphasise his story. It made me feel much better; I wasn’t the only nervous one here. A month, we decided, was far too long. 

Over the meal, we discussed railcards to attempt to make things a little cheaper for us, we spoke of a potential city break we would like to go on in February, we told anecdotes of things that have happened to us over the month… it was gentle and sweet and tender… a little wink or a smile or a comforting squeeze of a hand… things that can easily get lost in a brusque text. Le Spaniard is very direct with his texts, sometimes making me wonder if he’s going off me! But then I remember, it is difficult enough for anyone to convey much warmth through a message, much less a man being able to do that… and a non-native English speaker has even less chance of being able to do this! It reminds me that words really, really are only 7% of communication. 

We drove back to my place and he got himself comfortable; his evening clothes were hung up, he was settled on the sofa with the Rugby on TV, a cat on his lap, a Spanish red wine in hand and a new, happy girlfriend curled up to him. 

I could have happily stayed that way all night. I felt comfortable finally, again; the initial nerves had mostly settled. But a telephone call from my BMF confirmed we were all going into the city for his birthday, and we were going in an hour. I had to get ready and book a taxi and get out the door. 

After 5 outfit changes (only to select the first outfit anyway), I was calling a taxi and we were on our way to meeting my friends. Including ourselves, the birthday group was around 12 people, and it wasn’t long before the girls were talking of wedding plans and the boys were talking sport (Spain were playing) and a couple of my male friends had placed bets on the game. Le Spaniard came to the rescue, putting the game on his phone (albeit in Spanish) for my friends to watch. It made him instantly a hit and I barely got 5 minutes with him afterwards.

Many drinks later and 4 bars later, I was bored of listening to wedding plans and decided to seek Le Spaniard out, who one of my male friends had managed to monopolise. I decided it was time to dance and I grabbed his hand, making him twirl me before dancing with me for a couple minutes… until I got bored and started talking to both Le Spaniard and my friend. 

About 1.30am, the group decided to go to a club and Le Spaniard had spotted a Kebab shop… so we went to the kebab shop and Le Spaniard indulged in 2, before announcing he was tired, and wanted to go to bed.

So Le Spaniard and I set off in a taxi, got back to mine, where I proceeded to strip off and hurl myself into the bathroom where I threw up… and then came back into the bedroom and passed out on the bed until 8am.

I was fresh as a daisy the next day, which is more than I could say for Le Spaniard haha! He insisted on staying in bed until 2pm and then we went for a meal before I had to drop him off at the station. Seeing the train come in to take him away was difficult, we kissed and said our farewells… until 2 weeks time when I go up to Manchester to see him.

We decided 24 hours is no longer enough, so I will stay on the Friday until Sunday… and I have a sneaky suspicion that something will finally happen. I can’t help but wonder what it is going to be like 🙂

Until then, it’s been a pleasure, Treasure




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