Right. Before anyone starts clutching their pearls, let me explain.
My ex-boyfriend, let’s call him Josh, was an absolute waste of a perfectly functioning penis.
Three years together. Three years of him treating foreplay like an optional software update and believing that putting the bins out once a fortnight made him husband material.
Anyway, we split up after I discovered he’d been sending pictures of his little soldier to a woman from his gym.
Not even good pictures. The lighting was criminal.
Fast-forward six months and I bumped into his dad at a wedding.
Now, his dad was 54, divorced, silver fox territory, and apparently had been ageing like a very expensive bottle of wine while his son was ageing like an avocado left on a windowsill.
One thing led to another.
And by one thing, I mean three glasses of prosecco and him telling me I deserved someone who knew how to treat a woman.
Reader, he was not lying.
I’m not going into graphic detail because Emma would need to install an age-verification system and possibly alert the Vatican.
But let me tell you something.
That man understood the assignment, read the terms and conditions, and delivered ahead of schedule.
The following morning, he made me breakfast.
Actual breakfast. Eggs Benedict. Fresh coffee. The works.
His son once handed me a cereal bar and called it brunch.
Anyway, here’s where things get awkward.
Josh has apparently decided he wants me back.
He’s been texting, apologising, promising he’s changed.
And his dad has just invited me to spend a weekend in the Cotswolds.
I’m seriously considering it.
Not because I want revenge.
But because I’ve finally discovered where Josh got all the good genes from.
Unfortunately, he appears to have inherited absolutely none of the talent.
So, Emma… am I a terrible person, or have I simply upgraded to business class?
Anonymous, 32
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