Island Hideaway 14 - the return of purple shirted hand-jive goth girl​​​

Her phone number wasn't totally illegible, there were only a couple of digits completely missing, the rest were readable or guessable. I spent the next few days ringing every combination. I confused a lot of people, got a lot of students out of bed on a Saturday morning and frightened my fair share of old ladies. On the 57th call I got lucky. It was a Sarah house, though Sarah wasn't there. ​​​

​​​Of course, there are enough Sarahs in the universe to fill a small city, it took another three attempts before I found a Sarah to speak to and joy-of-joys it was the right Sarah. It was purple shirted hand jive goth Sarah. ​​​

​​​"You twat," she said when I told what had happened with the phone number. "And I thought you were playing it cool."​​​

​​​"No, I was playing it 'twat in blind panic'."​​​

​​​She laughed. ​​​

​​​We talked for twenty minutes, saying nothing of importance. When the call ended, I realised I still didn't know anything about her, other than that she was called Sarah. And I had her phone number now. ​​​

​​​We met up that Sunday night in the Builders, near town. Although I lived two miles away it was a regular hang-out of mine, a convenient gathering-place near town, it served Reverend James and was roomy enough to find a space of your own. I'd been there the night before with Mo, and on Friday with Kaz. The barmaid glared at me, 'you tart', she clearly thought. 'I'm not a tart', I thought back, 'I haven't had sex in over a year, Kaz and Mo are just friends. This is the one I'm interested in.'​​​

​​​Sarah was wearing a purple shirt, though not the purple shirt she'd worn to Barons. "I have lots of purple shirts", she explained. Probably just as well, given the nick-name I'd given her. ​​​

​​​We exchanged life histories, laughed at things that weren't funny, talked literature, university, music, goths, got another funny look from the barmaid when we went for a second drink and kissed, right there in front of the barmaid. ​​​

​​​"The barmaid thinks I'm a tart," I said at the end of the kiss, fearing that she might say something, or possibly slip Sarah a note on a beermat. She was that sort of barmaid.​​​

 ​​“Are you a tart?” she asked.​​

​​​"NO," I said, in capital letters, "It's just that I was here last night with my friend Kaz. Eddie was supposed to be with us but he was given a final, final deadline on an essay so in the end we went for a drink without him."​​​

​​​"That hardly makes you a tart," Sarah said.​​​

​​​"Then there was Mo on Friday night," I said.​​​

​​​"You tart," Sarah said. We kissed again, more passionately than the last time, as if Sarah had upped her game in light of the new-found rivals.​​​

​​​It was the perfect evening. She was everything I'd hoped for: single, a student (second year history), purple-shirted, not a goth merely friends with goths who dragged her to the dance-floor with them.​​​

​​​She lived in Brynmill, in a shared house. I was going her way. "I'm going your way," I said, although in truth it was a long walk to Clyne and I usually caught a bus.​​​

​​​"I suppose I can't stop you walking my way then," she said.​​​

​​​I walked her way.​​​

​​​Outside of her house she said "This is my house." We kissed. My hand started to feel its way inside.  She stopped me suddenly.​​​

​​​"You can't come in," she said.​​​

​​​"Oh," I said. Honestly, it was the last thing on my mind, I was checking that your bra was positioned comfortably.​​​

​​​"It's awkward," she said. What, her bra? ​​​

"Oh," I said. ​​​

​​​"I'm still living with my ex. I don't mean living in that sense, but we're in the same shared house. I can't really bring anyone home until one of us  moves out."​​​

​​​"Oh," I said.​​​

​​​"Maybe next time we'll go for a drink near your place."​​​

​​​"It sounds like a plan," I said. It was nice to get away from the 'oh's. We kissed again.​​​

​​​I skipped away. When I reached the bus stop I realised I'd missed the last bus home. Never mind, I skipped all the way home. ​​​​