European Adventures and an Unexpected Booty Call

I kept up my daily phone calls with my girl, a London travel agent. We took turns with the flying weekend visits.

Things were going great… until my 24th birthday.

I had planned a football trip to Teplice in the Czech Republic and would be in Prague for a few days either side of the match with a dozen mates. This didn’t go down well.

She arranged to meet me in Paris the week after. I was told not to worry about ringing her* and to have a great time.

Prague was beautiful.

Architecturally, culturally and eye candy-wise it was stunning. It didn’t take long for the strong dirt-cheap Pilsner to take effect.

One day blurred into the next.

My mates and I grabbed occasional meals and drank round the clock. I drew the short straw and was sharing a double bed with my sleep apnoea-suffering 200kg behemoth amigo, Fat John. He woke me up one night by sleep-walking over my chest and across the hall to my best mate’s room, walking in on him entertaining a young Czech girl, who would go on to steal his passport.

It wasn’t the sort of tale I could recount to my beautiful travel agent, although maybe she could have swung me a suite at the Prague Hilton.

Our connecting flight got cancelled and I had to spend a night in Brussels. I rang her from the airport. She had been in hospital all week with an abscess and was disgusted that I hadn’t bothered to call.

The cracks were now starting to show.

I smoothed things over until Paris, where she had a totally unjustified diva-strop. I was falsely accused of looking at a passing girl on the Champs-Élysées.

A night of champagne and fine dining made things better.

After another couple of months, she arranged to sell-up, leave London and move in with me. The novelty of living together saw us through the first year. We lived out of each others’ pockets and loved it.

Then, gradually, cabin fever set in.

She hated her job and began to miss her London life. She grew frustrated with her limited finances and got sick. I rarely saw my mates. I bought her a bottle of good champagne for Valentine’s Day and she drank it with her best friend. She turned vegan and got into yoga. Alarm bells were ringing.

She started getting up early and avoided getting undressed in front of me.

She was never in the mood for sex. One night I came home from work and the local paper was open on the kitchen table at the rooms “To Let” section. The next week she was gone.

I saw her in a pub a month later.

I was with a crowd of girls. She kept glaring over. At the end of the night I got a couple of calls from a withheld number. I knew it was her. I called and she answered before it rang. She was blunt. She wanted to be fucked. I went round to her place, came and went within an hour.

I never saw her again.

I get an email on my birthday now, although it was two days early this year.

* Note to self: When a girl says don’t worry about ringing her, she doesn’t mean it.


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