You know when.
The ten pin bowling has been good.
Her idea.
Wouldn’t have been mine. In centuries. To come.
But it was good.
Not because you haven’t thrown a heavy ball around for such a long time. And forgotten it can actually (hate that word) be entertaining.
Coz.
Your thumb hurts.
And wrist.
Coz.
You were putting the effort in.
And she will still beat you.
In the first game at least. Not the second.
There was never gonna be a third.
The decider was gonna be a pool game.
You know when.
The pool game has been good.
Not because she hasn’t played it for a very long time. Four years at least.
Coz.
Of circumstances.
Though I won.
And.
Gentleman as I am.
I beat her arse.
In the next game too.
But.
You know when.
You’ve got something different on your hands here.
When.
It turns out she was quite unlucky to beat me at pool.
Twice.
Tomboy.
She calls herself.
I am not even gonna go there what I call her.
She wouldn’t let me.
She is probably right.
Coz.
You know when.
We go for a kick about.
And she is concentrating.
And although she hasn’t kicked a ball in years.
Coz.
Of circumstances.
She keeps that ball up, far away from the ground, on her left foot.
And when she misskicks with her left. Foot. The ball. The football. She brings it elegantly back to her left. With her right. Foot.
Sign of.
A true …
Like a father admiring the skills.
Of his far too young son.
Thinking.
Yeah, he’s got some moves, there may be something there.
But she is not too young.
Got the moves too.
Defo something there.
And if her right foot won’t do it.
She is not afraid to.
Make her white top.
Go dirty. With the mudcaked ball.
Controlling it with her chest.
Her head. Even.
Unlike me.
Didn’t like it. Me. When me jeans got covered in mud.
Me expensive sheep-skin coat.
The sticky stuff in my hair.
To make me look cool.
Coz.
Where we played.
Kicked-about.
It was muddy.
You know when.
Tho.
When she is being a mother.
And.
Makes you feel very inadequate.
When she just texted you.
About a serious concern.
About one of her sons.
And you have no experience, no effing clue how to calm her down.
And say the right things.
To and for her.
Coz.
I am but a
This blog may take a twist.
In another direction.
Completely.
Coz Charlotte, my girlfriend, she that is not afraid to make her white top dirty or her hair, has a 4 year-old twin. Both of whom are autistic. One of which severely. As Mols don’t speak and probably never will speak. George, her brother, is fine though. Well, not fine. Behavioural issues and autistic, but he’ll be fine. So Charlotte says, and what do I know?
Charlotte understands this, we have discussed it briefly, but it will be neigh impossible for me not to write about autism.
On Fall On Me.
And the love of her children.
The admiration for the love she has for her children.
The admiration for her.
The love for her.
Just don’t know how to. Write about it. Gotta learn.
You know when.
You’ve got something different on your hands here.
When.
She beats you. In every sense, every aspect of what life can mean.
You know when.
You wake up. In the morning. Feel her breasts. Kiss her neck. With your bad breath. Coz George is crying out for attention and Charlotte has to get up. And attend. To. Needy kids. And I can have a lie-in. And Charlotte needs to get them ready for school. Which will take at least two hours. But I don’t have to be part of that. I just turn over. Cover my naked shoulder with her duvet. And she don’t mind. Wakes me up. Two hours later after she dropped them off at school. No hard feelings. On her part. For me. Me. Being selfish.
You know when.
Isn’t it cool? To have a girlfriend I can play football with?
You know when.
You have fallen in love with Charlotte.
