Chapter 2 Weetabix
(Carol in the university library)
“Will you marry me? Answer in ten words or less on the back of a postage stamp and within the next minute or so.”
I slipped my note across to her and waited for an eruption of some sort. She merely scrunched her shoulders up in a giggle, scribbled a reply and slid it over.
“Takes more than a minute or so to consider marriage.”
More notes ensued.
“Two minutes then. Come on. I’m waiting.”
“Don’t get cross, but you’ll have to ask my father first. That’s the way it’s done over here.”
“Don’t want to marry your father. And what do you mean, ‘over here’?”
She feigned study, but I could tell she was waiting eagerly for each message. She was enjoying herself within the parameters of her work.
“He won’t be best pleased about that. And I meant that you aren’t from around here, are you? I can tell by your handwriting.” Came her tactful reply.
“Did you ever notice how your writing and mine slope at 90 degrees to each other? There must be some significance in it.”
Carol slid the note across to me and went back to her Tolstoy. Her long blond hair flowed over her headband and down across her face.
“Probably because I have Wheetabix for breakfast and you don’t,” I noted back.
“Weetabix not Wheetabix. There’s no h in it, silly. And your handwriting is getting progressively worse. You are becoming illegible.
“Reform!!!!
“And by the way, I too have Weetabix for breakfast.”
“Oh? How do you have it? I scrunch mine up in a pile in the middle of the bowl and make a milky moat round the outside of it.”
“I have them like little boats floating in the milk and nibble away at the soggy edges.”
“There. You see? We are totally compatible. This amounts to an acceptance of my proposal. We’ll have to set a date. I’ll have a word with your dad.”
“While you’re at it, please ask him to send money, as I am soon to be out of funds.”
“He has a solution,” I noted.
“Good. Whatisit?”
“Stop spending so much.”
“Can’t. Anyway, that’s no solution. Not when you have to pay such high costs of living.”
“Like what?”
“Battels. Makeup. Clothes. Heating and lighting. Food. Books. Pens. Pencils. Makeup.”
“You listed makeup twice.”
“Need it twice as much as anybody else.”
“Don’t need it at all, not with a face like yours.”
“Yes I do. Look at this…”
And as I read the last note she looked up at me pulling the worst face I have ever seen.
“Ugh!! You’re right. More makeup, please. Layers of the stuff. Get that face covered up. Don’t know why I ever thought you the most beautiful creature on earth. Must have been the makeup all the time.”
At which she silently (because we were in a library) blazed up at me and stuck out her tongue, shook her head and didn’t send any more notes for the rest of the hour.
Just before our time was up, sensing disaster, I sent across: “Didn’t mean it.”
She stuck out her tongue again and coyly looked up at me, and I sent across:
”We’ve just had our first fight, haven’t we?”
Nothing came back. I was scared to death, but looking over at her saw a little self satisfied smile crinkle her nose.
“That’s better. Thought you were mad at me.”
Apparently, that couldn’t have been farther from the truth.