The three redheads and I strolled across to Hogans, chatting idly about how odd it was that we were spending our Sunday afternoon in the company of strange women off th'internet. "Annie'll be in later" I gushed, stopping just short of shouting "I know her!" in my efforts to prove that I'm a well rounded human being with fleshly friends (even though Annie is, technically, another strange woman off th'internet). Anyone else? "Ricochet" I replied, casually. There was a confused flutter - who the fuck asked him? Um... "He's a celebrity!" Helen squeaked. Is he? I wouldn't know, I don't listen to the radio.
My sister wants to know if I'm hooking up with Dusty Rhodes next week.
We behaved ourselves well enough for a while but by the time Ms. Atkins arrived (with my stuffed dog Chico in her handbag) we were easy in one another's company and our gossip was greased with gin (the determinedly sober Ricochet had beaten a wise and hasty retreat by then). Boys and bloggers formed the basis of conversations best not reported, the ladies indulged my louche loquaciousness, friendships were forged and my Monday morning ended up being sponsored by the makers of Lucozade sport and Nurofen Plus.
Sure what else would you be doing on a Sunday?
My sister wants to know if I'm hooking up with Dusty Rhodes next week.
We behaved ourselves well enough for a while but by the time Ms. Atkins arrived (with my stuffed dog Chico in her handbag) we were easy in one another's company and our gossip was greased with gin (the determinedly sober Ricochet had beaten a wise and hasty retreat by then). Boys and bloggers formed the basis of conversations best not reported, the ladies indulged my louche loquaciousness, friendships were forged and my Monday morning ended up being sponsored by the makers of Lucozade sport and Nurofen Plus.
Sure what else would you be doing on a Sunday?
