14th July: nookie in Stamford

            I’m woken by horses neighing. I’ve never experienced this before and it feels good.  I even make use of the onsite showers and kettle.  At a row of communal sinks, whilst spitting toothpaste, not lubricant, I speak to a fellow camper, except she was camping for real. She tells me it was her first time and she’s learnt that next time she should pack a lilo.  We are both novices but at least we’re trying.  As I leave I think about leaving a ‘thank you’ card to the nice lady who I met last night; I’ve got one hundred and seventy-eight glossy greetings cards featuring a large hadron collider to get rid of.

            Today is my second date with Brexit Bloke and we’ve arranged to meet for lunch at the rather smart George Inn, in Stamford, at one.  I have a red Vivienne Westwood dress hanging up in my twelve-inch wardrobe and somewhere, maybe in the fridge that hasn’t yet been used as a functioning fridge, there are some high-heeled grey boots.  I leave in plenty of time, expecting to use the car park at The George, but there is a low-hanging bar that prevents vans from entering.  Never mind, I will park at the train station. There is another low-hanging bar.  Aren’t people with campervans allowed to participate in civilised society?  I drive to the outskirts of Stamford, park on a road with no parking restrictions and walk to The George, twenty minutes late.  But it’s all rather lovely and Brexit takes a photo of me with my makeup, my lobster salad, glass of Chablis and wearing the Westwood. (Photo x). I use it for my Facebook profile and find it consoling that I can pretend to be her, that woman in the photo, when in reality I’m a hobo. 

            After two or three hours under the July sun we arrange to meet for our third date, not in a week or so, but in thirty minutes in the park next to the River Welland.  There we share a bottle of Prosecco purchased from the Adnams off-licence.  And then we’re kissing and his hand is wandering up my thigh and I’m rather enjoying it.  After a walk and dinner I’m persuaded that we should get a hotel for the night.  For cost reasons it’s perhaps fortunate that the four-star George is full, but instead we’re offered the last room at the three-star Boot. It’s the equivalent to a stable – the room above the kitchen ventilation system or it might be above a pneumatic drill convention at a freight train terminal.  We decide to distract ourselves from the noise with sex. It’s not exactly making sweet lerve with a Barry White soundtrack, more like directed naked gymnastics to Lady Gaga, but what the hell, I’m in the town voted the best place to live and perform directed naked gymnastics by The Sunday Times in 2013; it would be inconsiderate not to make the most of this opportunity.