I’m meeting her again, next week. Honeyed hints have been cunningly dropped. Reactions have not come rapidly or delayed. The agreed watering hole is remotely reposed from where prying familial eyes would see and scream murder, murder! The long haul has silently softened the forbidden tension, but heightened infernal expectations. The Rabelaisian appeal of breaking the possum rules is thrilling me in ravishing raptures. She knows, she knows, she knows. She says I’m still her favourite. She won’t talk about it directly, but she certainly knows. She knows!