Bridge

The weather has been a bit better.

Claire rang at seven to say she would come up in ¾ of an hour and dutifully arrived; I suggested we go out somewhere. She was driving her new car, a yellow Fiat Polski, which roared and shuddered and kangaroo’d as she crashed through the gears. I giggled in the passenger seat while she laughed and occasionally stalled the car. She hasn’t passed her test yet although she seems quite a competent driver to me.

We headed for the King George at Garsdale Glen and she clattered across the swing bridge over the canal at such speed that it caused us both some amusement. We stayed until closing time, three pints helping me to overcome my usual woodenness, loosening my tongue. The evening passed off unspectacularly but enjoyably—I like being in her company and I think she had a good time too.

On the way back we bought fish and chips and ate them at her place (her brother slumped in front of the TV), before she gave me a lift back to Egley after midnight where we said goodbye until next Easter, perhaps.