Note to myself:
Now. Whatever you Fucking do. Stick to the Fucking. Not. The falling in love. Without capital L. Remember? You’re crap at it. Really crap at it.
Just now:
Who is he, she said.
A comedian I sometimes like, I said.
Never heard of him, she said.
Dutch, I’m afraid, I said.
I gotta learn Dutch, she said.
Let’s watch that film, I said.
Just before:
F: What did you mean with writing?
H: What?
F: You suddenly sounded very defensive, when I asked.
H:
F: Nevermind. Who’s this?
H: Hans Teeuwen.
Just a bit earlier:
H: Youtube thing.
F: I wanna laugh too.
Just a tiny bit earlier:
F: What are you giggling about?
H: Nevermind.
F: You’re always so shy around me.
H: Sorry.
F: Don’t be sorry. Show me what you are watching.
Just a tiny tad earlier:
H: No one.
F:
H: Isn’t it pathetic that I only seem to be able to write when a blonde female enters my life? And that sentence is a cliche on so many levels, right there and then. It’s painful. I’m proud of it.
F: I don’t know what you are talking about. Stop talking shite. Let’s watch a film together.
H: Fine. Sorry. Which one?
F: I’ll be right back, pick one.
H: I’ll … .
Just:
Writing, Husten replied.
Who to, Frances asked.
A question was asked what V M Husten was doing.
