The Ned Wood Archive

I Lied to Myself ‘bout the Chances I’d Wasted

What a night.  What peaceful sleep.  What joyous dreams.  

Next morning, Thursday morning, I had to go and see her.  But what did she really think about me?  Had I finally received a sign that all of the teasing and ribbing and joshing were her way of telling me something?  Or was last night a mistake?  No, surely not.  She’d taken her time to come round, but now she knew what she wanted.  She liked me.  Didn’t she?

I wish I’d got to know her sooner.  I wish I’d hung around her room more often.  Those other guys, Gray, Tim, Neil even, knew her better.  One whole term and this was only just happening.

After breakfast I went over to see her.  It’s OK to do that now, after last night isn’t it?  She won’t mind, in fact she wants to see me doesn’t she?  What if she’s changed her mind?  What if she’s embarrassed to see me?

She wasn’t there.  It was five past nine.  Maybe she had a lecture or tutorial.  Shows how little I know about her.  I’ll come back later.

What could I do.  I couldn’t go to lectures.  In fact I wasn’t sure whether they really expected anyone to go during the last week of term, on account of most people spending all night at parties.  Some folk were going home already.  I’d arranged to go to London on the Friday.  I’d fixed up a ride through the notice board for less than the train fare.  Everywhere was slowly winding down for Christmas.  I hung around the Coffee Bar, then went back up to Glen at lunch.  Same doubts in my mind.  Same result.  She’s not in.  Is she avoiding me.  Maybe she’s just gone round the corner.  Anyone in the kitchen?  No.  Silence.  The floor is deserted.  No it isn’t, a small mathematician type person is coming.  Have you seen Mary?  No.  Thanks anyway.  I walk away.  Damn, I should have left a note.  I know, I’ll come back in a couple of hours and see if she’s there and if not leave a note.  I’ll put it in that name holder thing that everyone has on front of their doors, but only about 10 people can be bothered to use, and then most of them write “Snoopy” or “Tigger” not their real name.

“Sorry I missed you.  Ned.  Happy Christmas.”

or

“Sorry I missed you.  Love, Ned.  Happy Christmas.”

Maybe I should say something about last night?  What can I say.  Think of a good quote.  “The hand that writes this letter..” too depressing.  “You were untouchable, out of my reach”.  Come on.  Why is it everything I think of is about unrequited love.  Surely Rod or Bowie can come up with something between them.  Maggie May, Your Wear it Well, Janine.  Perhaps not.

“Sorry I missed you.  Ned.  Happy Christmas.  PS Thanks for last night”

“Thanks for last night”?  What does that mean?  Thank you, that’s all or thank you, have you got any more?  Try again.  Better be quick, someone will see me.

“Sorry I missed you.  Ned.  Happy Christmas.”

She wasn’t there the next day either. Did she go home already?  My note had gone.  Had she got it or had it fallen out of where I’d put it.  I couldn’t find it in the corridor, but I start to worry about hanging round so much.  Is somebody watching me every time I come round.  It feels so empty here.  Not quite deserted, here’s that mathematician with her square hair cut and wire glasses.  Well, she can think what she likes.

That’s it, I’ve got to go.  Bloody hell, I better leg it – the ride leaves in fifteen minutes.  And I’ve got to pick up me stuff.