In which you can take the gal out of the 'Burgh...

It’s fine, thought I, as my inappropriate and all-consuming crush on Speckled Lad began to rage out of all sensible proportions. We’re both homeward bound soon, and it’ll all subside when we’re not seeing each other every day. After all, there’s only so much one can feel when one’s in the Home Counties, lazing by the pond of an afternoon, drinking champagne left over from The Mother’s birthday. It’ll be all Stepford and sterile. It’ll be Fine.

Hah. That, my friends, is what is known as a best-laid plan. And I’m sure it wouldn’t have gone awry with such haste had there actually been some time to put it into action. But no: awry arrived before I’d even left the city, and SL hadn’t got home – he was on a train back to Eastbourne, just pulling out of Waverley when he called.

“Hi lovely!”

“Uh?” It was 9.05am, and I was in the throes of a voluptuous hangover, fuelled entirely by Downstairs Neighbour’s margaritas. I could feel the tequila seeping out of every pore.

“It’s me! I just thought you’d want to know – the Politics degree results are up.” First, I was baffled. Not only was the boy not in the city, he’d already got his results, being – as he was – a member of the Economics department, and nothing to do with us non-graph-loving animals over in Social Science. And then what he said sunk in, and I sat bolt upright – regretted when my vision followed three seconds later. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

And it’s since continued. Whilst I was on my train home some days later, enjoying the free tea and extra leg room offered by First Class, the phone bleeped.

Need any help with the crossword, lovely? I’m on standby. Xx

And he has been ever since, calling me every couple of days, to find out how I am – or more often, if I’ve promised I’d call and haven’t followed through. There have been texts, inquisitive, informative and I’m thinking about you. There have been grammar query-related emails, job application-related emails and some full of wholly inappropriate jokes.

None of which has helped get rid of the ever-expanding set of butterflies that appears in my stomach at the mere thought of the Lad. And these weren’t diluted by the call I made to his home number earlier this evening.

“Hi, might I speak to SL, please?”

“Sorry – he’s out. This is Speckled Lad the Younger. Is that Hannah, by any chance?”

“Yeees…”

A knowing, smiling exhalation. “I thought as much. I’ll get him to call you.”

Which makes the girly, irrational and highly irritating portion of my brain want to know exactly how SLTY knew it was me; quite what SL’s shared with the Speckled Collective since he’s been home and whether the downright filthy dream I had about him a couple of nights ago might not be the only one I have any time soon.

Absence clearly does no one any bloody good.