After that episode, the scene was repeated, more or less to the letter every evening. I had nothing in common with him. The only thing I figured out he liked was football. Something I knew absolutely nothing about, and neither did I want to. After the umpteenth time of sitting there getting frustrated, I turned to him and said: “When are we getting married?” He was taken aback by the suddenness of it, my mother was surprised because of my ‘change of heart.’ I’d realised that I was in a stalemate, these evening sessions could simply go on and on for months, so I had to do something to move things forward. He was actually not bad looking and physically attractive, slim and tall. My plan was to marry him, take him back to England with me, then dump him.
The next afternoon his clapped-out car
