No News is Bad News

Despite the rather embarrassing episode of the unfurling post-it note that I related in an earlier post, Starting Off on the Wrong Foot, Jane overlooked the matter and we actually started dating. It lasted precisely three weeks, and I was dumped by text message. Not a text message from Jane, but rather I deduced from the lack of one from her that all was not well in our relationship.

In order to pay for her annual holiday abroad with friends, Jane took a part time job at a local take-away, delivering pizza on Saturday evenings. One of Jane’s friends was celebrating her thirtieth birthday one Saturday, and a huge girlie night out was planned. Unfortunately, Jane couldn’t get anyone to cover for her and so she would miss the big event. She was rather peeved at this.

I didn’t help matters by going to the pub that Saturday afternoon to watch football on some dodgy satellite channel. I left the pub, well merry, just after six o’clock. Jane started work at six-thirty, so I thought I’d earn myself some brownie points by texting her to let her know I was thinking of her, because hey, I’m thoughtful like that.

It was just a brief text: Have a good shift xx (notice my avoidance of txt spk), but it showed Jane that she was in my thoughts. The double x was how we always ended our text messages. I felt that I had fulfilled my duties as a caring boyfriend and I continued my stagger home with a sense that all was right in the world.

I woke up on the settee at three in the morning feeling like death. I drank water and coffee and ate toast. I checked my phone but there was no reply from Jane. I went to bed.

I rose again just before noon and still there was no reply. I began to wonder if Jane had actually received my text and so I checked to make sure there was no failed to send notification. Nope, there it was in my sent items box, timed 18.17. I thought it best to send another text to make sure Jane was all right, but just as I was about to leave the current screen, I did a double-take of Daffy Duck proportions.

As I had stumbled along drunkenly keying in my text, I missed out one letter from the message; just one lousy letter from fourteen. But, crucially, the letter I missed was the F in shift. The reason for her non-reply became clear and I stoically put it about that I was single again.

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About Joe Young

Supposed writer from the north-east coast of England.
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