Come home to find The Bodie rewatching one of his infernal 70s cop shows. I'm thinking, if he doesn't change out of that smelly old leather jacket he got from the Princess Alice shop he's history. Still, he's got the cutest hair cut. "Alright bitch?" He demands, grabbing me towards him passionately and causing me to bash my stump on the arm of the settee. I'm like, "Yeah, not bad. And how's your self, you baity old cunt?" as he starts to fondle my scar. As we get down to it, I can hear my mobile rattling on the dining table. Probably a text from the hottie who sits opposite me on the tube. He's always sending me obscene (and highly improbable) boasts about what he's going to do to me down there with his prosthetic nose, a jar of ginko and a quart of gobstoppers. "Promises, promises", I text back as soon as I'm able to get The Bodie to dismount (not as easy as it sounds if, as today, he's got his belt buckle tangled up with one of my caliper straps). "C U @ 7.30". I'm thinking, this is terrible, going behind the Bodie's back like this. But I know what I'm like. If I don't get my one good leg over at least 6 times a night, I'm shot to pieces the next day and it plays merry hell with my concentration. What with it being Sudoku fortnight at the Community Centre, I can't afford to take any chances. Besides, he'll be grateful for the chance to get down the Fat Ox for a swift half and a round of cribbage with Doyle. Is it really worth all the guilt, breaking the heart of a seventies heartthrob gone-to-seed like this? Is that a price I'm really prepared to pay? Proving myself the mistress of oriental logic puzzles in the Women-under-thirty (Amputees) section, purely in order to improve my chances of winning an all expenses paid day trip to Skegness? I wonder, as I hop off to my tryst, if there'll be any of those nice black and white stripey humbugs.
Love on y'all,
Bob
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises
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