Flick.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Flick.

I flick through the channels on my new TV system. Flick. Flick.

Flick.

Beep!!!

I have received a text message from a friend!!! He is spending Valentine’s night in Bolton, watching a football match. He is sad. I, on the other hand, am alone in the cottage, watching the Poker Channel.

The LTLP has limped into London to work. Timing is ever her strong point.

The sudden lack of romance concerns me. Two years ago I cooked her a nice sheep’s heart. Last year I got her flowers. Flick. Flick. Back to the Poker Channel.

There seems to be a fault with my digital box. The picture is too wide for the television, and is cut off on the left hand side. This is the bit of screen that the poker people use to show what cards everybody has. I can see only one card. It is unsatisfactory.

I wander into the kitchen. I am hungry, but there is very little in the fridge and I can’t really be bothered to cook for one.

There is a big home-made pork pie!!! I had forgotten. I cut myself a slice and return to the poker.

Honestly, pork pie is the best. I love pork pie. I tuck in to my pork pie contentedly. Munch. Munch. Munch. It really is a particularly satisfying pork pie.

But, on reflection, it is not a blow job.

This taints my enjoyment of the pork pie. I do try very hard to enjoy it as much. But it is not the same, even smeared with pickle. I finish my pork pie, leaving a small bit of excess crust.

I can hear the tick of the kitchen clock from the other room.

Flick. Flick.

Flick.

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