Uncertain about the situation with Viking, I continued to online date. Naturally. I should outine right now that between first starting talking to to Cappucino and actually meeting her, my father passed away. I met Cappucino for the first time exactly 5 days after he left this mortal coil, though this will make more sense moving on.

It was a Sunday evening. I had the Sunday blues, big time. Most people tend to get a slither of it around 8pm when they realise the fun is over, bed is looming and they’re on the cusp of starting another 5 days of total and utter mind-numbing dread and sadness. My feeling of this tends to start around 11am Sunday.


“Maybe if I cry enough I will drown and THIS WILL ALL STOP”

It seemed my online dating had taken a bit of a downturn. I wasn’t managing to get into any decent conversations, there wasn’t anyone especially exciting to speak of. My purple patch had turned…another colour that wasn’t purple. Mauve? Let’s say mauve. Mauve is not sexy.

My Sunday blues, on this particular Sunday, were alleviated when I had a message on a dating site I rarely used. Bizarrely, I had logged into it for the first time in months and months earlier that day, then in the evening, I received a message from Cappucino. It said something along the lines of “bit cute aren’t you” to which I agreed and commended her observational skills. I returned the compliment – she was beautiful. I checked her location. She was 250 miles away. I’m not exaggerating. 250 miles. Earth miles, yeah? Not space miles. Actual miles.



It quickly became apparent to her that her search settings on the site were fucked, and she shouldn’t be browsing people so far away. But, for some reason, we carried on messaging. Couldn’t hurt could it? Besides, we were having fun. It was nice. So nice in fact, it consumed the rest of my evening. And my entire Monday. I called in sick to carry on talking to her.

And bed. I like bed.

She was funny, and intelligent, and had a job that fulfilled in her soul. Our messages went from a couple of lines, to paragaphs, to full fledged letters. We connected in a way I hadn’t anticipated and the distance issue became something we’d entirely forgotten. But as we got closer, of course, it’s weight also grew.

Messages online became text messages and eventually phone calls, although we probably only spoke on the phone 2 or 3 times before meeting. She was from the North of England (but wasn’t living there), and I hadn’t really considered the accent attractive before. But my word something changed in me significantly. I was hooked.



She is also responsible for the fact I need to marry this woman.

The distance issue wouldn’t go away, obviously. We continued talking and decided that perhaps we could meet halfway. She was a frequent visitor to the city I lived in prior to my moving, and I regularly went back, so perhaps that was the best option for us. We didn’t book anything in. We waited.

Given that I received a message from her, almost accidentally, due to the distance settings, it was then quite bizarre that I was asked to travel 250 miles by my company to complete some on-site work which would keep me there for a few days. I would be about 15 minutes drive away from her. This was unprecedented, I’d never been asked to do anything like this previously, and it happened not much more than 1 month after talking to Cappucino for the first time.

I’m not a superstitious man. But something, somewhere, wanted this to happen. Something had aligned to allow this to happen, against all realistic odds.


“On Tuesday 21st January 2014, Mars will align with the Earth and something else, and you will finger someone in a Citroen.”

It was on. Arranged. We were going to meet. I was staying on a holiday estate type place where the clientele had an average age of 97. I arrived on the Monday, we met on the Tuesday, where she came to visit me at my estate, which had a bar. I was excited and nervous. I’d already felt quite a lot for this girl so was quite tense. I’d arranged to meet her at the front entrance of the main lodge, and I arrived probably 15-20 minutes before her. This meant I had a lot of time to figure out how I was going to stand. Which is something I consider quite often. Those minutes felt like an age as I checked the time every 12 seconds, but eventually, she had arrived. And I was blown away.

I’d seen pictures of her before, of course, but experience had told me never to take anything for granted. She had this long, wavy blonde hair and dressed like a smart hippy which suited her down to the ground. Physically and in terms of her personality. When she saw me, and got closer, she smiled this big, warm, beautiful smile and I think at that point I fell a little in love.

This may sound a little peculiar, but Cappucino had a little twitch in her eyes. I don’t know what it was, but every other minute she would close them tight. I never asked about it (just called her Twitchy a few times), so I don’t know why she did it. Whether it was a tick or a habit or what. But fuck me, I absolutely adored it. It was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen. I can’t even explain why. If it was one eye, then I might have found it disgusting. But it was both at the same time and every time she did it I fell a little deeper.




We walked the the trip upstairs to the bar where we had a couple of drinks. Approximately 5 minutes after arriving and taking our seats, the worst club singer I’ve ever come across began singing on the tiny stage. It was very loud. Shortly after this, he started wandering around the diners, singing to each table individually. Wisely, we took our drinks and moved to a back section where surely even he wouldn’t dare to venture. It became clear that this place sucked. Hard. So she suggested she take me to a little local old man’s pub in town. I agreed. Fuck this place.

We drove about 15 minutes and settled in a little pub which was empty. We laughed, and chatted and it was beautiful. She wasn’t drinking as she was driving, but I was. I also smoke, which she does also, but only when she’s had a lot to drink. So, because I’m a hopeless romantic, I left her alone a couple of times to go and smoke. She didn’t really like that, and I can’t blame her. She told me she was displeased with this, and although now I can completely agree with her, at the time I was a little, little, little annoyed. Almost in a ‘don’t tell me what to do’ kind of way. It was the first seed of something…something I didn’t like.

After a bit over an hour, we decided to make the trip back. I can’t recall who initiated it, but stood next to her car, we kissed.



“So, err….how much do you get to the gallon?”


Now, whether I’ve made it clear or not throughout these entries I can’t say, but let me make it clear now. Kissing is extremely important to me. It’s a wonderful thing. I happen to think I’m quite good at it, rightly or wrong, but either way I take it very seriously. In my later years, perhaps because I’ve found more importance in it, or perhaps because I’ve become even more of a dickbag, if you’re a bad kisser I will in fact actually tell you. Yes. I will tell you. THERE AND THEN.

I would like to make a statement. A statement I’m prepared to live by until the fact changes: Cappucino, to this day, is the best kisser I’ve ever come across. Fact. We created some ridiculous  magic when touching lips and it completely floored me. It was weak leg, wobbly knees stuff. Unequivocally.

Kissing, I understand is a ‘two to tango’ sort of deal. Certain types of kissers will work better with other types. There is no definitive ‘this is the best way’. Some people might enjoy attacking their partners gums with some sort of ‘lancing’ action – that’s not for me. But of course there is a degree of harmony to be found between types.

I don’t know what it was, or how the mechanics worked, but kissing Cappucino was heavenly. Nothing short of. It was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

We drove back to the estate I was staying on, and on the way she insisted we stop in a little lane to continue the kissing. I didn’t argue.



“Seriously, what sort of warranty you get on this?”

Once Cappucino dropped me back we stopped outside my lodge and I invited her in. She agreed. It was a lodge I was sharing with a colleague so it was a little bit like bringing back a girl with your mum asleep next door, but wasn’t a problem. Bless him. We lay there, on my bed, for a long period of the evening. Kissing. Talking. Laughing. I attempted at one stage to…navigate my hands somewhere of an intimate nature. It wasn’t welcome. But it was fine. I was quite, quite satisfied with everything else I’d experienced that evening. After possibly 2 or 3 hours sleep, with the light still struggling to permeate the sky, she left.

As I was working on a huge holiday estate out in the middle of the country, travelling between lodges required a golf cart. Needless to say, this only punctuated my feeling of awesomeness.


My memory is hazy, but this is exactly how it looked.


I left later that day, so couldn’t see her again. I believe we were both anxious to reunite.

Now, gentle reader, I present you a problem. As I was on the verge of turning 30, I was a little embarrassed about the fact that I could not legally – or indeed in terms of my actual physical knowledge of doing so – drive. I mean, the golf cart was a piece of piss so technically I was 70% there.  But I MAY have told Cappucino that I could. Which may have made her feel a little more comfortable about the distance situation. I do not feel great about this. I was naturally prepared to use public transport but…a little less reliable on the timings front.

She came to see me the following weekend and drove the whole distance herself. She was taking part in this lifting scheme online meaning that for one stage of the journey she was escorting a young girl from one point to another, before completing the final journey to me. This young girl, as was kind of Cappucino’s way, was then texting me words as spoken out by Capuccino, from Capuccino’s phone. This was just another thing I kind of liked and also found a little odd and scary. Having said that, I made out I was a rally driver without knowing how to change a gear. Make of that what you will.


“Which way is left? WHICH WAY IS LEFT!?”

The weekend was great, for the most part. She was down from Friday evening until mid-Sunday afternoon.  We went out and had food and drinks and played each other our favourite music in the evenings and had sex and all the other nice cuddly things the NSFW police would approve of. On Saturday afternoon there was a weird, peculiar moment whereby she received a text from a friend saying ‘where are you’ as she was supposed to be attending / hosting some sort of party. For 20 minutes or so, she was going to leave on an emergency basis, but she didn’t. The reality of that situation I will never really, truly know.And I almost don’t really want to. I half believe that it was an excuse as she didn’t really want to stay with me. The other half of what I believe is a hodge podge of various other options. But she didn’t leave. And I was glad of that.

When she  did leave, it was drawn out. I love my own space. Possibly too much. And because the distance between us was so huge, I think she felt it necessary to eek out the goodbye. I was quite happy to slap her car on the roof and shout ‘safe trip!’ but she wanted more than that. And she did indeed get more than that. But part of the reason I bring up space is that we texted a lot. As you’d expect. But also, I received a lot of phone calls. Like, a LOT of phone calls. Which….I truly, truly hate.

I possibly….maybe….hadn’t thought this through.




It carried on this way until the second time Capuccino visited. Now, despite the above drawbacks and criticisms, you need to be and should be aware that I really, really liked this girl. Sensationally so. Like, amazingly so. Bar phone calls and facetime, being apart is a difficult thing. It really is. However, I as a human being am not equipped to deal with it WHATSOEVER. I was really, really into a girl I couldn’t see without getting a train. It just kind of sucked. On top of that, my Dad died.

When she arrived the second time, she arrived in the evening. Late in the evening. It had been a long journey.

I opened her car door, we made the standard hello type introductions, and within a few minutes, nay seconds,  she said “You smell like al-kee-hol”. She said it in that way to presumably make it sound less accusatory. But it didn’t make me feel any less like a loser. I had been. A combination of nerves and a generally emotional time are the only means I have to justify it. But those words still haunt me now.

When Capuccino was with me,  on this occasion, I sadly had the responsibility of arranging a funeral and writing what would eventually be the speech I gave at the funeral of my father. He, nor I, have ever been religious people so we opted to go with a non-religious inspired type ceremony – you have a space, a time, you do what you want.



“It was all just, genuinely, so sad”


It seemed a bit contradictory to arrange something with hymns an psalms and Jesus blowing for a man who would have found it all a little beyond him. And un-him. However the massively non religious ‘leader’ we found to conduct the proceedings was REALLY not up for God. Like, seriously NOT up for God.

Chances are, you like…nay, LOVE a song that has the word God in it. Chances are you LOVE a long that has Jesus somewhere in it. Have a check – you’ll be surprised.  This lady conducting the ceremony was having none of it. None of it. Anything remotely biblical was outright refused because it was against her…’ideas’. And this created all sorts of havoc and it was an experience I’d not encountered before. Now, I’m of the opinion that you can be non religious and still be affected by a song that is  God / Jesus orientated or related. This lady? Not so much.



“Twat. Twat. Double Twat”


I can sort of understand it, but at the same time, we just wanted something a bit free. A bit open.

I consulted Capuccino about the readings that would be required to be read out by the lady before the family stepped in. A couple of paragraphs that could be read out prior. You know, introductory stuff. Without really asking her properly, she came up with some Bob Dylan lyrics which were absolutely perfect. My father loved Bob Dylan (I never did), but these lyrics seemed to work and fit like some sort of bizarre, awesome, husky lego.

They were still not ‘approved’.

Given we just wanted to bury my father, and were prepared to sacrifice things just to avoid the drama, we just went ahead. The Non-religious host didn’t want any religious songs but this was the main one. It has Jesus in it. A LOT.

And so it fucking should.


Not sure how long it was after all of this hullaballoo that I saw her again. A few weeks? Maybe longer. She came to visit again before embarking on a European journey, so we relaxed for a few days and went shopping for bags and warm clothing. The end may have begun here…

Whilst browsing a famous sports shop and looking at the various bags, we got separated. I wasn’t close to anyone at this point, and I hadn’t farted for two days out of fear of reprisal,  so I let a silent one ease it’s way out. Within 2 and half seconds, she reappeared. Out of fucking nowhere.



“I genuinely think something might have died in here”


Not my finest moment. And it was clearly me. She quickly made excuses to be somewhere else. Oh the shame.

Between this and the next time we met, there were, again, a lot of phone calls. Some nice, some not so nice. She had a habit of being one of those people where if you’re on the phone with her, you’re effectively in the room with her. Or doing whatever she’s also doing. So, if someone walked into the room she was sat in, she would have a full fledged conversation with them without telling me to ‘hold on’ or ‘give her a sec’.  It was just furiously  annoying. She obviously anticipated that I’d also be wandering around chatting to people / making spreadsheets / skydiving,  but if I’m on the phone with someone that’s pretty much all I’m able to do. And before you say anything, yes, I can multi-task. But not with my trousers off.

I’d encountered this sort of thing with people before and felt the overwhelming desire to promptly hang up. I’d never previously ‘been out’ with one of these cretins – I had a sudden throwback to being 13. But seriously, on the phone, talk to me or don’t. I’m really, really easy either way.  To me, it was a whole new world. I was Aladdin. In Agrabah. On the rug with Princess Jasmine as she nattered away to someone whilst I wondered if she’d survive a fucking shove.

Despite all of this, and the fury that some of our phone conversations brought out of me, I had a lot of feelings for her. She tested and pushed me a number of times about moving away from where I was. About getting a car (that I couldn’t actually drive), about getting my old job back. This was because, as far as she saw it, my work here was done. But it wasn’t that simple, or at least it didn’t feel that way to me at the time, although I could and still can understand her standpoint.  It just all felt a bit soon for me, whilst I also knew that there was no point in time wasting and lingering somewhere I didn’t belong. That I probably still don’t belong.

A week before we met for the last time, we had a conversation on the phone that got somewhat sexual. We’d not seen eachother for some time, a month perhaps. At the beginning it was great, just some light flirting, but as it got deeper, and dirtier, and more….(ugh) erotic, she went really, really, really quiet. She was providing a ‘sexy whisper’. Even to this day it’s because I assume she was in a room full of really quiet people watching the Eastenders Omnibus.

Challenge: Say “I seriously cannot hear a word you’re saying” in your best ‘phone sex’ voice. Say it again. And again. And once more.



Shut up B. You weren’t there.

Obviously, it didn’t end well.

When we did meet, which only came about because she happened to be travelling somewhere and I was also travelling somewhere, there was an in-between location of our travelling. A hotel.  I arrived at our hotel a number of hours before she did. We spent only a few hours in the  hotel, awake with one another, before either one of us had to leave. She had a bath. She’d been travelling  a lot of the day. I sat next to her whilst she bathed and I stroked her. She smiled.  I smiled.

I was laying on our bed by the time she exited the bathroom and here’s where it fell apart.

As she stood in front of me, vulnerable, beautiful, moist…I took a picture or two. I didn’t hide it. She knew I was doing it.  I suppose the urge was enhanced because of the fact that I so rarely saw her. I wanted a document of what I thought was a beautiful physique. A beautiful person.  And this was something I’d never done, or felt the need to do and have never done since. She wasn’t naked, she had a towel draped around her. And it was the sort of moment I really adore within a relationship, not just with her, but with anyone I’ve been in a relationship with yet struggle to really put into succinct words. Essentially, watching her get ready is the baseline of it.

The smell of her fresh from a shower or bath. The smell of the shampoo. Watching her pick her clothes. Brush her hair. Catching a glance of her in the mirror. Listening to her hum or sing. Catching a smile. It’s that sort of thing which I find perfect.

I had to get the train at 5:00am, so my actual time with her was outrageously minimal. This was the last time I saw her (which I didn’t know at the time), but I kissed her on the cheek as she slept, and snuck quietly from the room hoping I wouldn’t wake her. In hindsight I should have done / said a lot of things. A lot of things.

Like left her the bill.



“Sshhh…go back to sleep. It’s early. But just so you know, I’m taking 2 towels, a shower head, 4 miniature bottles of vodka, a Toblerone and the TV. I owe you £400 quid. See you soon.”


I was sad to leave her, genuinely. And sad that we got to spend so little time together.

Weeks went by, and we had some wonderful conversations / texts back and forth, though it seemed the frequency of questions about what I was going to do with my life, and what changes I was going to make and when I was going to move and when I was going to buy a car increased. She may have been getting somewhat impatient. To the point it really made me annoyed. All this, and there was no real query about her moving or doing anything of her own, partly because I implicitly trusted her to be far more mature and have all these things in hand and be able to act upon them at a moments notice.

Those who know me truly, of which there aren’t that many, know that pressure and continual questioning just won’t work with me. I’ll sooner walk away than answer. It’s likely my own fault as I know the answer will invariably be “Wait, I’m working it out” and yet I don’t really want to say that. It sounds cheap. So I’m guilty of telling people what they want to hear (to a degree) and hoping for more time than they’re prepared to give. Her pushing may have resulted in a few angry phone calls. At least one phone call whereby I had to hang up.

In the midst of all of this, we had an evening of texting back of forth whereby we spoke of the things we missed about each other. The little things. The things that if you’re not in a relationship  really make you want to be sick. Like,  full throat-sick. Cool sick.



“No, seriously, what’s the tax like?”

They were nice texts.

I sent her the picture of her wrapped in the towel. It was something I missed. I was about to accompany it with a full novel of how much I loved that evening, and how it was too short. But she most certainly did not feel the same way. She saw the picture and demanded that I delete every picture of her I had, of her  including pictures that featured her arms, neck, legs, upper chest and face. Which, (and I still don’t understand to this day why) I actually did. There’s nothing left of her on my phone. All gone.

I reacted badly to this. It was almost as though I was no longer worthy of having such items at my disposal. It’s the way it felt. And it was actually the way it was. We weren’t going to go any further as a couple and without her needing to say it, she did. So I called her a wanker.  Which she didn’t take very well.

I can now understand that,  but I felt this happening almost as though a discussion had been happening behind my back and had been reverted back to a ‘text boyfriend’ until eventually not being a ‘boyfriend’ at all. Almost a little like when you know you’ve done something wrong and your parents have a good chat about it before speaking to you. I felt it all slipping away, but the thing that made me saddest is that she seemed to wait for a moment to do it. A moment whereby I’d crossed the line, when, in actuality,  it was always going to end this way. Always.

She was supposed to come the following weekend but she didn’t. I spoke to her on the phone and she slowly phased out the fact she wouldn’t come. I said I would get a train to her. That afternoon. That evening. The next morning. But it wasn’t going to happen. I remember the tone of her voice –  it was still really, really lovely. But negative none the less. She paused in all the right places to make it poetic. She ‘ummmed’ in all the right gaps to make it a slow, soothing pain. Like death by Morphine.

I appreciated it.

Since then it’s been a one or two drunken messages back and forth that have amounted to nothing, over the course of three years.

It’s dead.

Literally 3 weeks ago (June 2016) she sent me a message saying “We really did do some amazing kissing didn’t we?”.  My heart actually raced when I read it. I replied. I agreed. Whole heartedly.

I’ve heard nothing  since.