Ok, you're sending a probe to Mars. You have done studies into how to eat a biscuit while minimising crumbs. Do you think just one of you smart arses could come up with a surefire hangover cure? The bane of mankind. Think how much more productive us old lushes would be if the morning after wasn't lost in a haze of - scuse me
- sudden toilet dashes and woozy headspins. Either the 'organic' wine failed to protect me from a hangover or those poisonous little Barbie clone bitches at the so called restaurant last night have slipped something into my food.
I call it food. Two dots of potato and fish, mashed up, fried and salted heavily. Ten pounds, thank you very much, and service with a sneer. Times like that you wish you were a restaurant critic.
Realised that the last time I was in there I did a runner. For very good reason, it seems.
Afterwards LOML (there, for all you acronym fiends out there, I made one up. I'm sure half of them are anyway. ROFLMAO) and I drifted home over the river, and through all the big industrial desert between here and town. Some of our loveliest times seem to have been spent drifting round down by the river, with the evening sun turning everything gold and the moon rising, peach coloured. Budlea blossoming. Broken glass dusted over the tarmac. Half cut, rambling, aimless.
Oh yeah, and the nice little plan we've got in development for next winter. To escape for a few months to the other side of the world. Via Iceland, California and Japan, onwards to New Zealand. The nicest thing about finding the person you want to be with for ever? Daydreaming together.
I realise I might be too much of a romantic for an erotica writer. But then again...