G Love.

To balance out the despairing previous post, I’d like to tell a story about an eccentric gentleman I dated who I continue to adore, G.
He could easily be mistaken for Ed Byrne and Whatamess’ love child.

He is lovely and a shambles. I launched myself at him outside a pub in Stoke Newington at Christmas time. We were mismatched as far as kissing goes. I didn’t care.

An hour late for our first date, he brought his bicycle and was dressed entirely in high visibility clothing. We went to dinner, he finished what was left on my plate and then took my used napkin in case he needed it later. He generally left the impression that in his house there were piles of used napkins, newspapers and broken electronics. At this point we got drunk.

He cycled behind the bus I took home and after we slept together he apologised, then thanked me.

Our next date was worse.

He didn’t touch me all evening. Walking home (with his bicycle) in the tunnels at Waterloo we found a homeless man screaming in agony with a dislocated shoulder. His wailing echoing violently, he begged us to stay with him. I held the bike. G called the ambulance and then became somewhat disgruntled when I suggested we wait until the ambulance arrived and had found the man before we ended our evening.

We both work in homelessness.

The ambulance came and we continued to the busstop. It was late. G was concerned I would miss my last bus home. I was concerned that a. He was mental and b. Didn’t like me anymore.

I was hoping to get a chance to discuss this. He was hoping I would make my bus, he asked me several times if I would run for it, if it drove past.

Then it did.

He asked if I would like him to chase it down on his bicycle and hold it for me.

I politely declined this offer.

He ignored me. I chased after him down Waterloo Road shouting for him to stop.

He ignored me.

When I finally reached the bus, G looked triumphant.

The bus driver looked crossed.

I could not look at G.

We are friends now. It’s much better that way.

One thought on “G Love.

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