As exciting as the night had been I had no interest in seeing Squaddy again – my itch had been scratched as it were. So in a sort of gender role reversal I blanked him the next day and turned down his offer of a date. Undeterred he popped up everywhere we went and engineered an excuse to call round, by dropping his wallet from his balcony to ours below. He seemed to have adopted the ‘If you can’t beat them stalk them’ approach usually employed by me. How unattractive, I decided.

The Sri Lankan Tour Guide

It’s a Sri Lankan Greg, I thought, as Rani our tour guide hopped on our rickety bus and proceeded to charm us with his witty anecdotes and observations. Or rather, he charmed me. My friend Sandy thought he was exceedingly smarmy, so therefore did concede he was similar to Greg, just half the size. And a bit more Sri Lankan. 

When we arrived back at our hotel after a few days of sight seeing there was a definite flirty connection between me and Rani and I felt a twinge of sadness that I wouldn’t see him again. But as luck would have it, he was in the hotel bar that evening. And judging by the lack of buttons done up on his shirt was clearly keen to show off his manliness.  We could also smell his aftershave from ten feet. Despite these warnings signs and Sandy’s disapproval, I allowed myself to be taken for a walk on the beach at the end of the night – my romance autopilot had kicked in.

While cosying up on the sand a wave came out of the darkness and drenched us. I should have seen this for the bad omen that it was, but it was only after he licked my arm pit (only western girls let him get kinky apparently) and (despite me being a foot taller than him) picked me up and ran down the beach with me, like a scene from a terrible movie, did I realise I’d gone off him. When I made my excuses and left, Rani was clearly devastated that his seduction technique hadn’t worked. But the next night, undeterred he was in the bar again, his shirt done up even lower. I sent a postcard to Greg, telling him he’d nearly been usurped but not quite. It was four years on and we could joke about these things.

Moving On

Greg’s rather patronizing prophecy was right though – as the years pass and with each successive relationship you do get less burnt when things come to an end. Either that or my relationship with Greg left me with third degree burns, incapable of any sensation at all. But despite never wanting to experience such trauma again, a sentimental part of me misses the agony of it all – weeping over the smell sun cream-infused beach towels, moping over photos of their suntanned visage, catching my breath at a holiday song that brings all the memories flooding back. I wouldn’t re-edit my holiday history (borderline stalking moments included) for all the crabs in Cromer.