Getting back to it...

So, today I returned to work.

This week is expected to be my first full, 5-day week in the office since the end of November. Well, assuming I get through the week, that is. That's right, I have avoided a full 5-dayer for around 10 weeks.

I have already discussed how I horribly back-ended myself with holiday last year, allowing me my Parisien escapade before the Christmas break.

And then I got to work a full 6 days and a morning before my medical excitement and, whilst I am not fully recovered, I have to go back some time. Someone suggested I should get a little more leave and break myself in gently with a short week this week - my attitude is that I will see how I go. If I start to struggle, then I may take the end of the week off; but I do have to get back some time, and at some stage I have to work a full five-day-week, so I might as well try for it from the outset.

I didn't want to go back. I have lots of little projects started (non-physical) which I could easily have stayed at home and completed; but I worry about my sick leave record - I don't want too much time off on my file in case either I get a job offer where it would form part of the reference; or in case something else happens to me that needs me to take more sick leave - we only get 4 weeks paid leave in any 12 month period.

But as I say, I have to go back at some stage; and if I'm healthy enough to do bonking over the weekend, then that surely is healthy enough?

And that's a story and a half, that is.

Before Christmas I had a snog with a lad in a nightclub. He was cute, it was good. Well, except that he kept his eyes open when snogging. That breaks one of the rules of kissing. One day I will set down the rules of kissing for all. But one of the rules is that once you know who you are kissing, you close your eyes.

Anyhow, we remained in contact, and were supposed to go for Sunday lunch had my appendix not exploded. But it got postponed and occurred this weekend. Well, not the Sunday lunch, but our reconvening. We each knew the other were to be out on Friday night, and the instant we saw each other in the bar we clasped.

All well and good, he came back and we had a lot of fun. Eventually. It was a bit of a struggle to get three fingers in at first, but we got there. Anyway, I gave him some sausage in the morning (by way of a good hearty sandwich, obviously) and he was off out into the wide world.

Was I to see him again? Well, we were under no misapprehension. He was transferring university away, and would be close by to me infrequently at best. So it was going to be fun whilst it lasted, but that was all.

But then he texted me on Saturday night. Now, this is the problem of living so close to town: I can receive a text at quarter-past eleven and be in a club in town - washed and changed - before midnight. Now, the text simply said that he wanted to meet me, and I said I was at home watching a film. He said we could either meet in town or he could come round mine.

I made the decision.

Despite being somewhat tired, and halfway through a film, I wanted to go out. I knew off Facebook that some of the footballers were out. I hadn't been invited, and I quite like going out with other people on those occasions to make a point - to show that I have other friends if they are going to snub me. And this was probably the key factor.

So I arranged to meet the boy just outside the club and (eventually) he turned up and we went in. And yes, he was a boy. He did that very cute thing when I asked how old he was he said "Nineteen... next week."

Looking back at it I should have seen the signs; I should have known. I was, with all the best of intentions, being used slightly. He didn't have anywhere he could stay: because of his position between universities he didn't have a room here; and yet he couldn't go anywhere until Tuesday. So one way or another he had to stay with me or with someone else.

Ultimately it was someone else; and done in a slightly dishonourable way. Yes, we were under no misapprehensions: we were not in a relationship, there could be no relationship. But, in reality, I was on a promise, surely? We'd had sex the night before and here he was wanting to see me again, pestering that he could either come over and stay, or that we could go out together and go back together. But we didn't. He turned round, and directly in front of me started snogging his ex-boyfriend. He had been flitty in the nightclub about him: he had said that he was on the look-out, didn't want a run-in with him so was trying to keep away. In reality he was on the look-out, wanted him, was trying to find him. And I was purely the crutch to use until he could toss me off and lean on someone else.

But I don't make a scene. I went off, on my own. And I'm not bitter about it: I got to have sex with a cute lad; and there was no pretense that we were to go forward together; so was it really any worse that he had another moment with someone else rather than me? No. It was just slightly unfair that is all. And had I wanted to play safe and keep himto myself, I could always have suggested that we stay in at mine.

Of course, the worst thing was then leaving the nightclub to find the footballers queuing outside to get in. They asked me to join them, but I wasn't in the mood. And anyway, they were only grabbing me whilst I was out - they hadn't actually invited me.