Mr Computer Cleaner Ch. 01

He went inside, humming 'I Feel Pretty'.

It was just after 10:30. Dio cleared his phone message recorder. There were messages galore so it was almost midnight before he slipped into bed. He dreamed of riding up and down the Carrington Highway on a big white horse looking for a damsel in distress.

He woke during the night, most frustrated. He and the girl had forgotten to exchange phone numbers! He doubted that they would find each other. Where could he start? Who the hell employs events organizers? Damn, damn triple damn. He stalked off to the bathroom and came back to bed feeling less angry.

Kara who?

He moaned. Perhaps he'd wake up in the morning and would remember something that she'd said to give him a clue.

* * *

Anyone thinking a prostitute would be incapable of setting good examples to her child should think again, even if the child was unaware of his mother's well-rewarded occupation. One of Nancy Wellington's firm rules was that Dio must make his bed properly 'for every day of your natural life'.

As Dio wasn't in to having unnatural days, he assumed that meant every day. So on this glorious sunny morning he dutifully made his bed and thought about Nancy as he often did at such a time or sitting outside on the back terrace where they'd spent lot of happy hours. He always thought of her as his mother the herbalist – not his mother the slut. He apologized aloud, "Sorry mum - prostitute by necessity."

He left the room, whistling Brahms' lullaby and opened his laptop. Three email messages were posted there, awaiting his attention. The first was from a former Helpdesk associate Art Lobb, checking that Dio was keeping out of trouble. Art was "boringly engaged" as a supervisor in a bottle washing plant. The second was from his computer supplier pointing out that Dio's account was two months overdue. He sent off a reply promising to square the account on the twentieth of the current month.

The third email was a spam from some Dickhead wanting to rave on about 'Flattie'. Dio was about to trash it when the mouse seemed to take over and clicked the message. It opened and joyfully he saw it was Carra. Of course – the subject line 'Flattie' referred to their meeting the previous evening over her flat tire!

We twits didn't exchange phone numbers last night. Surprisingly I almost cried when I realized that I'd probably never see you again. During the night I went for a...you know...and sitting there the image of your email address I'd glanced at on you truck filled my mind. Isn't that cute? Reply with your address – it's my date so I shall pick you up at six.

Carra

Dio's face lit up and he began beating his chest like Tarzan.

TO BE CONTINUED