Mr Brightside

I met him a week before lockdown in an east London pub called The Red Lion. We chatted and danced. I usually stop dancing in protest when places play Mr. Brightside (unable to shift cringeworthy thoughts of Cameron Diaz awkwardly jerking to it in the holiday) but I didn’t and I didn’t mind that he was absolutely loving it, bobbing along out of time. I told my colleagues that I was in love. I’m sometimes known to slightly embellish for comedic effect but after I’d said it out loud I knew this was different.

We locked down together in a sickly cliche of walks in the woods and intoxicated nights star gazing from the back garden until my lovely Mum, in pantomime style, fell in the river at the bottom of her garden which resulted in a dislocation and two fractures. I needed to go and look after her but there was little to no guidance on the right way to navigate the unusual situation. I was stressed and in shock but comforted by his unflappable disposition. After 24 hours I came up with an idea. He didn’t flinch AND he agreed! I suggested we move into our first home together; a thirty pound, red, two man tent that we were to pitch in her garden and that’s where we stayed until we could safely bubble. We were woken by ducklings calling for breakfast most mornings and enjoyed the remainder of the summer with my family by the river playing, fishing, debating, reading, scrabbling. It really was a Darling Buds of May, plague nuance that I’ll never forget.

Thankfully my mum was on the mend and in September we moved to Sofia, Bulgaria where we’ve been since. We thought we were invincible but caught covid-19 while we’ve been here. We worked through yet another isolation together and even enjoyed more time together. 

Sadly the trip hasn’t worked out and we’re returning to the UK in January. We are now looking forward to going back to the Red Lion for 20 pints and a dance where we first met. Preference still not Mr. Brightside. Some things don’t change.