Too Good To Last - He's Def A Prat

Knew the love couldn't last. A week tomorrow night and I will have been back in London for one week. The Prat and I have been hanging out, since Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday he came back from Germany with a Dior mascara for me. For whatever reason he called from one of the duty free cosmetic candy stores asking if there was anything I needed. "Well, actually yes - mascara". Hence I got mascara. V unlike Prat behaviour - I was v suspicious.

So, he comes back mid afternoon - decided not to go to the office as he wanted to spend quality time with me. More suspicion. We go to the pub. There was the suggestion of Thai, but I decided to push my good luck and nix that pronto. We have a great time - as great as it can be with a Prat.

Following couple of days are fine. I don't see him - I've other stuff going on. Friday night, well Saturday morning at about 3am my Soho House mischief-making friend (he's a permanent fixture - you'll see him practically stuck to the bar by whiskey residual sugars - just don't touch - he's really really sticky) decides to answer my phone. How he heard it ringing I have no idea. Until that point I was having a riotous time with Gweebeart, some Welsh Rarebit Gweebeart has pulled and Soho House sticky-fixture boy.

Suddenly Soho House hands me the phone - "I think it's the Prat", he announces.

Of course I'm thinking oh fuck - I did kind of say that I was going out for a drink and possibly something to nibble with Gweebeart and that I probably wouldn't be late. This wasn't a lie, but time got away, we got pissed, Gweebeart met the Welsh Rarebit and Soho House and I got increasingly drunk and more and more funny - well we think so.

Reality check - Prat is furious. He's pissed at me because I'd told him I'd go to the country with him on Saturday to look at country pads. Now he knows and I know that I'm going to be miserable, tired and hungover. Not great for property viewing, nor for Prat and I relations.

The good thing (always look for the good thing) is that Soho House (the actual house) is closing. Once again the lights go on. We all squint, realise how drunk we are, stumble out and I eventually get a minicab. Finally I'm back in Primrose Hill. I've called Prat several times from the car, but each time he answered, he also promptly hung up on me. Why fucking answer at all?!

Of course I'm so pissed by this point - that's what happens - the night gets longer but the drinking gets faster. So I decide to call a few people in New York. No one was around to answer their phone. I know I called Soybean Omelet Love interest, and left him an incredibly gooey message - can't remember what I said but that's my style. Will be v embarrassed when we next speak. Actually also knew he wouldn't answer as he was skiing and there isn't mobile reception at Mt Snow. If I find out otherwise I'll be pissed. Phew. Called a few others but gave up when there was no one around for me to slur my words at.

I miraculously rallied on Saturday. Fueled on icy, icy, sugary cold things. Lots of chocolate milkshakes and frozen chocolate covered bananas sorted me out-ish. I almost fooled Prat that I was OK, but he dryly commented that I surely couldn't be if I was wearing sunglasses during Britain's worst storm for the year - rain was pelting down from a horizontal trajectory and the wind was ripping Cotswold stone tiles off houses yet I seemed perfectly happy to stand out in it all jittery, hyperative and hiding behind shades. Still very nice to get out into the country; we stayed at a delightful Inn in Bibury - guests were cosy couples and one odd pair of bickering ex-marrieds.

It's now Sunday night and the Prat and I came back from the country earlier today than anticipated. Prat got huffy with me because I didn't agree on his house of choice. He said that he was so mad because my reasons for not liking his preference were so esoteric that he couldn't even be bothered to argue with me and would rather come back to London and watch cricket. Hence forth that's what we did. Such a Prat!