I decided that any attempt to grow close to my newfound love would be aided by a shared interest. Given that all I knew was that he was a collector of vintage music gear, as well as quality British vintage clothes, I decided to become a collector.
And then I found it. It waited its turn patiently, sat quietly in the shop basement protected from any touch or look bar mine. A 1960’s Mr. Fish shirt, sky blue, vaguely transparent, with long sleeves adorned with ruffles around the wrists. It was perfect.
I crushed the package under my jacket, cycling through London whilst Saturday sank into the rain. The roads were becoming one enormous bog. The city writhed in the confusion brought by the downpour, as people dashed madly through streets-turned-rivers to reach home, clutching their possessions with both hands, mostly above their heads. I ducked into a bar, waiting for the storm to pass. The first thunder had sounded long ago, and the summer was already losing the battle with fall. The bike lay beside me, half withered to rust, clinking as the water dripped from my clothes and hair, and onto the frame. I just wanted to be home, to unfurl my prize and package it tenderly along with the best quality British chocolates. With the rain easing, I made a break for it, my precious cargo well protected against my belly as I rode, drenched and smiling.
As soon as I entered my room, I called Maggie. For as long as I had known Maggie she’d been into all this vintage stuff, and at the mention of the Michael Fish she was out of her house, across the street and beside me before I felt the wind from the open door.
‘Where is it?’ She laughed, eyes practically bulging.
‘In the drawer. Take it from the bag.’
She didn’t need telling twice. ‘Wow, I can't believe you found this,’ she chuckled, admiring the blouse with all the care I had seen the antique dealers lavish on their treasures.
‘It’s well a chance. Look, there is a playing card with jack of hearts. Shall I post it as well?’
‘Post it together, for sure.’
‘Do you think I should stitch the little holes on the sleeves?’
She quickly examined little holes one after another. ‘No, no, the holes are charming, he can fix it himself if he wants to.’
‘Okay. Probably better to leave as is before we go and ruin it right. Okay, let's wrap it up and put it back in the drawer.’
‘Wait, wait, I want to take a picture. The blue curtains with the sun behind will look amazing.’ I posed, half naked, for her camera. I forwarded the picture along with the gift. I recognised the girl in this one. I kept the Jack of hearts in my purse.
At the first chance, I switched trains. A newspaper occupied the seat next to me. I scanned the adverts on the upturned page.
Helen: petite, brunette, attractive single female, likes quiet nights, cinema, would like to meet tactile male for dates, chats.
Michelle: single mum, twenty-five years, looking for male friend to enjoy good conversations and hopefully leading to more. Looks and age unimportant.
Jess: twenty four years old bubbly single mum looking for a genuine male to spend quality times, looks unimportant but kind heart essential.
Gayle: Petite brunette loves cinema. Down to earth. Writes poetry, attends lectures, never oversleeps, cooks and cleans like a good Baltic girl. Slight Eastern European accent. Golden smile and good looks. Also acts. Dances gracefully. Takes beautiful analogue pictures. Has a hook for philosophy. Wishes she could be open minded.
Man should be tall, with dark, gray or no hair. Blue eyes are to die for. Brown eyes need not apply. Must be well groomed and impeccably dressed. Older than me. Nice hands to touch me and dance with me. Other limbs in the right places. American of any descent.
Own accommodation is a must. Preferably loft, or old-school house. No prior female tenants. Swimming pool or terrace with garden for flowers, herbs and vegetables would be adorable. Would like a horse I could gallop over the hills and far away.
I decided that any attempt to grow close to my newfound love would be aided by a shared interest. Given that all I knew was that he was a collector of vintage music gear, as well as quality British vintage clothes, I decided to become a collector.
And then I found it. It waited its turn patiently, sat quietly in the shop basement protected from any touch or look bar mine. A 1960’s Mr. Fish shirt, sky blue, vaguely transparent, with long sleeves adorned with ruffles around the wrists. It was perfect.
I crushed the package under my jacket, cycling through London whilst Saturday sank into the rain. The roads were becoming one enormous bog. The city writhed in the confusion brought by the downpour, as people dashed madly through streets-turned-rivers to reach home, clutching their possessions with both hands, mostly above their heads. I ducked into a bar, waiting for the storm to pass. The first thunder had sounded long ago, and the summer was already losing the battle with fall. The bike lay beside me, half withered to rust, clinking as the water dripped from my clothes and hair, and onto the frame. I just wanted to be home, to unfurl my prize and package it tenderly along with the best quality British chocolates. With the rain easing, I made a break for it, my precious cargo well protected against my belly as I rode, drenched and smiling.
As soon as I entered my room, I called Maggie. For as long as I had known Maggie she’d been into all this vintage stuff, and at the mention of the Michael Fish she was out of her house, across the street and beside me before I felt the wind from the open door.
‘Where is it?’ She laughed, eyes practically bulging.
‘In the drawer. Take it from the bag.’
She didn’t need telling twice. ‘Wow, I can't believe you found this,’ she chuckled, admiring the blouse with all the care I had seen the antique dealers lavish on their treasures.
‘It’s well a chance. Look, there is a playing card with jack of hearts. Shall I post it as well?’
‘Post it together, for sure.’
‘Do you think I should stitch the little holes on the sleeves?’
She quickly examined little holes one after another. ‘No, no, the holes are charming, he can fix it himself if he wants to.’
‘Okay. Probably better to leave as is before we go and ruin it right. Okay, let's wrap it up and put it back in the drawer.’
‘Wait, wait, I want to take a picture. The blue curtains with the sun behind will look amazing.’ I posed, half naked, for her camera. I forwarded the picture along with the gift. I recognised the girl in this one. I kept the Jack of hearts in my purse.
At the first chance, I switched trains. A newspaper occupied the seat next to me. I scanned the adverts on the upturned page.
Helen: petite, brunette, attractive single female, likes quiet nights, cinema, would like to meet tactile male for dates, chats.
Michelle: single mum, twenty-five years, looking for male friend to enjoy good conversations and hopefully leading to more. Looks and age unimportant.
Jess: twenty four years old bubbly single mum looking for a genuine male to spend quality times, looks unimportant but kind heart essential.
Gayle: Petite brunette loves cinema. Down to earth. Writes poetry, attends lectures, never oversleeps, cooks and cleans like a good Baltic girl. Slight Eastern European accent. Golden smile and good looks. Also acts. Dances gracefully. Takes beautiful analogue pictures. Has a hook for philosophy. Wishes she could be open minded.
Man should be tall, with dark, gray or no hair. Blue eyes are to die for. Brown eyes need not apply. Must be well groomed and impeccably dressed. Older than me. Nice hands to touch me and dance with me. Other limbs in the right places. American of any descent.
Own accommodation is a must. Preferably loft, or old-school house. No prior female tenants. Swimming pool or terrace with garden for flowers, herbs and vegetables would be adorable. Would like a horse I could gallop over the hills and far away.