Twentieth

It would have been good to experience a massive thunderstorm in Morocco, like the one’s we sometimes get in North Yorkshire, and the aftermath when all the plants seem so much greener and the roads are flooded right across.

There was that time we were sheltering in the Netto supermarket, with the rain beating down so hard on the metal roof, and the unexpected boom of thunder that caused an old woman to drop a packet of cornflakes. By the time we’d bought a few bargain items the rain had stopped and the car park was steaming with the evaporation that had already started.

Though there might have been a chance of being struck by lightning, I recall another time when Jess and I ran out at the peak of a storm wearing only t-shirts. There was nobody else down by the river, and the Ouse looked extraordinary as the brief monsoon rain danced madly on the water’s surface.

‘We’re going to die !’ I shouted above the noise of such heavy rain.

‘Don’t be a baby !’ Jess shouted back.

I couldn’t help noticing her lovely breasts and firm nipples beneath the sodden t-shirt, even though my glasses were virtually useless in the wet conditions. We went back to the flat and ripped-off our clothes, making love on the lounge floor as the lightning and thunder continued for what seemed like hours.

‘Does my hair look a mess ?’ she asked when things had calmed down.

‘Yes, a lovely mess.’

‘I need a hot shower.’

I was left to gaze out of the window, as people emerged from the shelter of shop doorways, and normality resumed for a while until the next violent cloudburst. If we’d been smokers I suppose we’d have lit cigarettes, but instead I made some hot tea for when my lady emerged in her dressing gown. I tried putting my hand between her open thighs, hoping for a resumption of our recent activity, but she pulled away with a little smile.

‘You men are never satisfied.’

‘If we were, the human race would die out.’

‘Not now we’ve got test tubes and all those clever scientists; men are more or less redundant.’

‘Thanks a lot !’

‘Not you, you’re special.’

We both chuckled, enjoying the strong tea and watching the sun come out over the Bonding Warehouse.

Sixth

One good thing about a country like Morocco is that you could have a lovely ride on a motorbike at most times of the year, so long as you avoid places like the snowy Atlas Mountains. It would be great for me as a non-car driver, though you would be indulging in a more risky form of transport, if our initial impressions of road use in North Africa were anything to go by.

Before Jess and I got a flat together in York I was always travelling to her place by scooter, and due to the often inclement English weather and my spectacle wearing, found that the visor and glasses were often steamed-up. I’m sure it would be fairly easy for manufacturers to make heated visors widely available, along with heated gloves, boots and other clothing, but this kind of stuff can be very hard to find – hence the need for a warmer climate.

I would often arrive at Jess’s with my balls frozen, and it would take ages to thaw out and de-mist my glasses, so at last I could admire her uncomplicated beauty. It always seemed extra cold at her place overlooking the river - thankfully not one of these soulless luxury apartments, but a building of faded Victorian grandeur not far from the fire station.

I suppose our romance was something of a whirlwind; one minute the nonsense of speed dating, and before too long we were looking for a place together – somewhere with a bit of character, not far from the centre. Of course York is a popular place for tourists and locals, which means the price of property is often inflated, limiting your choice unless you happen to be the heir to a fortune.

‘You look like a drowned rat’ Jess would typically say when I first arrived on my bike.

‘Less of the drowned !’

‘I suppose you’d like a drink ?’

‘What about the York Arms ?’

‘I’d rather stay in.’

‘Have you got something against gays ?’

‘The York Arms is a gay pub ?’

These large gaps in her local knowledge would sometimes baffle me, though she had only lived in the city for five years. I was more than prepared to overlook such trivial details, because I’d always have to remove my damp biker clothes, and she would usually start undressing as well.