Sunday 18 June
8st 12 [gewicht], alcohol units 3, cigarettes 17.
After sitting in semi-darkness for the third weekend running with Daniels hand down my bra, fiddling with my nipple as if it were a sort of worry bead and me occasionally feebly saying, 'Was that a run?' I suddenly blurted out, Why can't we go on a mini-break? Why? Why? Why?'
'That's a good idea',' said Daniel, mildly, taking his hand out of my dress. 'Why don't you book somewhere for next weekend? Nice country house hotel. I'll pay.'
Wednesday 21 June
8st 11 (v.v.g.) [very very good], alcohol units 1, cigarettes 2, Instants 2 (v.g), minutes spent looking at mini-break brochures 237 (bad). Daniel has refused to discuss the mini-break any more, or look at the brochure, and has forbidden me from mentioning it until we actually set off on Saturday. How can he expect me not to be excited when I have been longing for this for so long? Why is it that men have not yet learnt to fantasize about holidays, choose them from brochures and plan and fantasize about them in the way that they (or some of them) have learnt to cook or sew? The single-handed mini-break responsibility is hideous for me. Wovingham Hall seems ideal - tasteful without being over-formal, with four-poster beds; a lake and even a fitness centre (not to go in), but what if Daniel doesn't like it?
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