Page 41 of How We Began

The situation as I understand it is as follows:

I met gorgeous, beautiful, talented man in the room next to mine.

I acted like a total moron ignoring him for weeks.

For some reason he liked me—a lot.

I kept him a secret from my family because I knew they would judge him.

I then ran away the first moment things got hard.

Ben has been nothing short of amazing the whole time I have known him. I, on the other hand, have been a completely neurotic nutcase.

He told me, in no uncertain terms, that he’d fallen in love with me.

I’ve not specified any of the same sentiments back to him.

He begged me to talk to him about the ‘black underwear incident,’ but I refused, acting like a drunk child. Which I am.

Crap.

That is it.

It's over.

23rd December

Sooooooooooooooooooooo booooooooooooooored.

I wonder how long it would take for someone to find me if I died of extreme boredom and malnutrition? All I have eaten for days is crackers and cheese. I’ve now run out of cheese and also crackers so I’m just dipping breadsticks in Branston Pickle.

Not that I have a huge appetite at the moment, but I think I’m probably eating just to alleviate the brain-numbing boredom.

The worst bit about being alone is the fact I can’t ring for a takeaway. It is always dead embarrassing and painfully obvious that I am by myself when I call it through. They always know it is me. I don’t even give my address anymore. “Um, I would like one Chicken Bhuna, one Pilau Rice, one poppadum, and one Onion Baiji. No, not a whole portion. Just one, please.”

“Okay, Leeelah, we will be there in twenty minutes.”

Damn.

I end up ordering extra and then trying to wedge the door closed behind me so the nosey deliveryman can’t peer in to see who I’m with.

Worst bit is that I always end up eating all the extra food. Can’t think how I got so plump.

On the plus side as I am a regular, regular customer, I am guaranteed free after-dinner drinks. I wonder if they could drop me off a bottle of Sambuca with my delivery?

25th December

I’m mid turkey prep but stopped to have a glass of sherry to steel my nerves. Mainly because Delia Smith wants me to put my hand up the turkey's arse. She must be on drugs! There’s not a chance I’m doing that.

It’s fair to say, I’m running a bit behind schedule, according to the instructions I was supposed to have the turkey in the oven at six this morning and, at this rate, Christmas Dinner will be ready at about eleven tonight.

I’ve absolutely no clue why I’m cooking dinner! Yesterday I was bored, so I ended up going into town, buying a twenty-pound bird and all the trimmings, five bottles of sherry, and a case of wine. Yeah, I know I’m supposed to be dry these days, but it’s Christmas so rules don’t count.

This morning for breakfast I ate half a dozen mince pies with cream, a whole Terry’s Chocolate Orange, a bag of Brazil nuts, and a Satsuma. And I drank half a bottle of sherry. It was yummy.

Rubber gloves! That’s what I need.

(2 p.m.)