The Tasty Eight

Love story.

So it’s the usual Sunday morning, we’re all sat around the room, at the big round table, slouched on the sofa, cross legged on the floor, the tasty eight, oh yes, we have a name for ourselves, we’re so cool. We’re writing. Taking it in turns to think up something funny, and writing it down. I’m writing it down, my favourite job. I like to have the big book, the biro and THE POWER. I like looking back at what we’ve written and trying to weave it together, like a puzzle. Really, if I don’t write it down, I won’t remember it. This hasn’t improved with practice, and I’m good at weaving together, so I get to have the big book.

The morning is hot already, and all the windows and doors of Jon’s house, which is where we are, are open. Julia is in the kitchen, making tea and shouting through ideas. She’s wonderfully surreal and we’re all howling, Andy and Nell are in the middle of the room, trying to develop what she’s saying but just dying with laughter. I’m desperately scribbling in my book, elbows pressed to the rug, tears on the point of dripping onto the page. Jon’s sat above me, lay across a chair with his legs over one arm and his head lolling back in utter joy at what he’s hearing. He’s wearing navy shorts, loose, down to his knees, and a loose long sleeve cream t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up over his tanned arms. His hair’s a mess and he hasn’t shaved. I unfold myself slightly to wipe my eyes, and look up. He’s looking at me, a huge, broad grin on his face, arms folded, eyes glittering. I just feel the love radiating off him, it’s hard to explain, but I’ll never forget that morning, surrounded by all those wonderful people, and feeling, just bathed in love from the most beautiful man.