Tick fucking tock.
I'm in a horrible bout of clock watching, the big hand telling the little hand that this dating nonsense is truly a ruse to bring us single stupids all the way to a drunken, early, hazy grave.
Wear the red jumper. Don't wear the red jumper. Clad yourself in a suit. Don't be a fucking muppet, she knows you have the week off work. The hoodie's too casual, maybe the shirt with the buttons that pop. No, not that.
I'll wear the blue one to bring out my eyes, which will dart in a most clandestine way to the Liverpool match that I'm going to miss while I woo, the goal being some measure of scandal or the thrust to write again.
Pray for a cancellation that won't come. Check the iron. Another cup of tea. The watch again. Warm enough for the nice jacket. Bring a purple snack. Don't ask about old injuries. The rounds issue. The blushing issue and the keyring in the pocket, fingered as a makeshift stressball.
Don't mention the blog.