when i first left the warm embrace of cornwall and moved to london at age nineteen i was nice to everyone – utter strangers, unconscious drunks in gutters (he hated me for it, admittedly), numerous belligerent strays - until one day, on the quiet top deck of the seventy-three a man wanked into my hair from the seat behind me.
i only discovered this when i ran my hands through the wet ends.
on friday, when i went to the v&a for the surrealist’s ball (question, how was it ? answer, really really weird.) a man approached me with what i at first thought was his cock in his hand but which in fact turned out to be a carrot held at groin height.
still, even when i thought he was holding his erect penis i smiled genially.
am i too nice, or too stupid, or both ?
you were right odge, i never learn.
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4 comments:
73 bus? all makes sense now. never could work out where that little lot went. thanks for clearing up one of life's little mysteries for me
you are filth of the highest order of the sacred monks of perversity, sleaze and smut.
it's why i like you.
neat picture by the way, i think it really captures you in all your invincible glory.
twan.
Hi! I finally made it - and what a nice post to leave a comment on. Strange this story never came up considering some of the bobbins we talked in wakefield. Still laughing about your boss. This is putting their soft spot for you firmly to the test. Hope you're enjoying the sunshine - I like the half moon pic - we'll grab a tea at some point? course.
steve steve steve steve steve.
oh steve, the only man ever to nurse my broken heart in just seven words that i doubt you even remember saying;
“daisy. you are much better than this.”
hooray for you, and hooray to our bi-annual tea and cake meet which is surely due any day now.
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