It Started With A Tweet(52)

I watch Rosie as she pours two large glasses and slides one across the table to me.

‘I see you’ve got no trouble with your arms now,’ says Rosie, raising an eyebrow at me.

I hesitate with the glass halfway to my lips. ‘This is medicinal.’

‘Uh-huh, sure.’

The Baileys slips down so nicely, and all thoughts of the pub go out the window. Who needs a room full of strangers who would no doubt stare at us as the odd ones out all night – or worse, be like Gerry and Liz and interrogate us instead.

‘I wish we could put a rom-com on and chill out,’ I say, as I wriggle my bum trying to get comfy on the wooden kitchen chair. I’ve been worked to the bone, and there’s no bath in operation or a soft sofa to ease my aching muscles.

Rosie scrunches up her face. ‘Yeah, I thought I was doing really well with this whole digital detox, but do you know what, I bloody miss the TV,’ she says sipping her drink.

‘Ha, I knew it,’ I say, pointing at her and almost whooping with delight. It makes me feel better that I’m not the only one pining after modern life.

My ears start to tune into a buzzing in the room. ‘I must be going doolally,’ I say, looking around the room. It sounds so convincing, ‘I’m sure I can hear a phone buzzing. Must be all the talk of technology.’

‘Oh fuck it,’ says Rosie, jumping up and heading towards the door, and for a second my heart starts to race as I imagine that she’s going to go over to the well to get out the phones. I’m starting to fidget with excitement, but she reaches into a cupboard by the front door which I hadn’t even noticed.

‘I found this, this afternoon when I was looking for an Allen key. I was going to save it until we really needed it.’

My heart sinks as she pulls out a small radio. I don’t know what I was expecting when she opened the door, it’s not as if it’s big enough to hold a secret TV or anything, but I can’t help but feel disappointed.

‘It’s not even digital,’ I say sighing, as if it’s the end of the world.

‘Then that makes it perfect with your digital detox.’

She’s grinning as she switches it on, and she turns the aerial round as she twists the dial to get a station. It’s so obvious that she’s not going to pick anything up, as that’s just our luck out here, but the static gives way to a tiny bit of music.

‘Go back,’ I shout, and Rosie turns the dial slowly and then moves it back and forth until she tunes it in.

Take That’s ‘Pray’ comes on and I almost weep with delight. Not only is it my favourite old school Take That song, but we’ve also got music and something to drown out the creaks and squeaks of the windows and the imaginary buzzing.

‘I love this song, I haven’t heard it in ages,’ says Rosie.

She puts the radio in the centre of the table and we both stare at it in wonder. I bet this is just what it felt like back in the day to hear something on the wireless. Our attention captivated by the tinny and crackly sound of music coming from this little machine.

I rip open the box of chocolate fingers and we both dig in. Despite the aches and pains, I seem to be doing a pretty good job of bobbing along in my chair to the music.

The song comes to an end and the DJ comes on with a real local-radio DJ voice, a Cumbrian version of Alan Partridge. I’m expecting him to call us pop pickers at any moment.

‘Time to give it large. Up next on the ultimate nineties and noughties is “Do You Really Like It” by D J Pied Piper and the Master of Ceremonies.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Rosie, seeing my shoulder bob and raising it with a head nod. ‘This was one of my uni songs.’

‘It reminds me of my leavers’ ball at school,’ I say.

It’s funny, as I often forget when I’m with Rosie that she’s three years older than me. It doesn’t make much of a difference now, but the gap felt as wide as the Grand Canyon when we were younger.

‘Did you have yours in the school hall like us?’

‘Yes, I think we had a sit-down dinner in the dining room first, and then a disco after.’

‘I bet it’s not like that now. It’s all prom dresses and limos.’

‘I know, and I thought I’d been indulgent having my hair done at the hairdresser’s.’

‘Wow, Mum let you have your hair done?’ She shakes her head. ‘Youngest children are always the spoilt ones.’

‘She probably would have done that for you too, but don’t forget you dyed it bright red after school finished and she was mad at you.’

‘Oh God, I did. It was supposed to be crimson but it looked like I’d been tangoed. It took months to grow out. It was still a pale pink when I started at sixth form. It would be real trendy now though, the faded-colour look.’

‘It would.’

I giggle at the memory of my mum going nuts about Rosie’s hair. I remember her being grounded for weeks over it, as she’d not only, to quote Mum, ‘ruined her hair’, but she’d also ruined one of Mum’s precious M&S white towels that had flowers embroidered on it.

‘I think I’ve got to start dying my hair again,’ she says, pulling at her dirty blond ends. ‘I’m starting to go grey.’

‘Only starting to? I’ve had grey for years now.’