Ain’t it though?
You get up. You try a dump. Nothing doing. You have a shower (‘Triton’ Powershower MK IX Triple Jet – the best in the world). Turtle’s head emerges. You hastily retry a dump. 1-0. Back in the shower. Fried seal for breakfast (dirt-cheap at the moment). You arrange to meet that damn bounder Sir Archie Leach for lunchtime snifters at the Reform Club. You order Hudson to fire up the Bentley. He’s getting a bit deaf, so you kick his rump to give him a reminder. You pootle along (it’s pissing it down – quelle surprise). You put the world to rights with said Sir Archie, the old curmudgeon, beating up a passing little guy in the process, who I dare say deserved it. You head for town arm in arm singing sea shanties and whistling at the skirt. You somehow get split up and realise you’ve been dancing with a lamppost for the past half-hour. You thank your lucky stars it ain’t Archie. You get collared by the law for no good reason. You make a bolt for it. You toss any incriminating evidence you have about your person over random garden walls. You hurdle a 5 foot fence (new PB) and the ankle goes. That Chicken Tikka lunch with two Chapatis and Garlic Naan Bread forces checkmate. Tastes exactly the same coming out as it did going in. The game’s up. You try bribery. A shake of the head – this one’s up for promotion. Blackmail. You know the Chief Inspector, he often makes up a foursome with the lads down at the golf club – and then again afterwards back home with his wife. He doubts it. Says the Chief hasn’t played for 15 years – not since his wife died. You blubber wretchedly, hoping he’ll take pity on an old war hero cut off in his prime with a recurring shrapnel-induced leg injury. He says that your leg looked pretty fine leaping that fence back there and he refers to you as 'Rambo'. Trust you to get collared by the force wiseacre. You fake a fit, hollering for an ambulance (always better to spend the night in a hospital bed rather than a cell. Plus, think of the nurses.)
Hang on, I’m just thinking about the nurses for a minute…
PC Plod makes as if to offer mouth to mouth. You ‘come to’ with a sudden jolt, headbutting Plod and busting his nose, all accidental-like. Back-up arrives. Kicking follows.
You wake up next morning on cold cell floor, with one black bollock and one blue (as long as you count two, you're alright. If you’re a chap that is. Or dear Maggie).
You blame it all on the drink. You inform all those within earshot of the perils of the demon drink, and how from now on your route is the sober route - nose down and out of trouble. They fall for it. Even though you laughed out loud at the Desk Sergeant's toupee. You get a fine and a caution. You stagger home. Shit. Shower. Shave. Try not to do those all at once, you’ll have your eye out. There’s the phone.
It’s Archie.
Reform Club for snifters?
The waft of fried seal wanders up the stairs…
Awww Flashie... life DOES suck. Actually scratch that-- my life sucks because it consists of high school, high school drama and pathetic people that go to my high school.
Let's overthrow the education system and have parties forever and ever!
Flashman you old bluffer, that sounds like an ideal day, apart from the dodgy ankle, police brutality, dirty dancing with a lamp post, fried seal and constipation/shits combo.
As for that 'force wiseacre' make sure you slip a £50 in his top pocket, slap his chops and exit right.
Also there's a brandy at the bar for you.
I think'll you'll find it's on your tab old man!
There will be no throwing of education and partying forever - get your qualifications and get out and work - you youngsters have to pay your taxes to provide for my pension in the future. :p
Life does indeed suck. I won't see my boyfriend till summer (but at least I will then :-D), my mother is seeming depressed and both her and my father are trying to convince me the other one is the bad person (on the good side, this just might lead to some sort of relationship to my mother, whom I never had any mother-daughter relationship to at all), my sister read parts of my diary (which I right afterwards tore apart, claiming I'll never write again), and I'm constantly being reminded that I'm too unsocial and that I want to party now - question is how? Argh.
Another thing; I think time passes too fast. And I'm only 17 (well, soon!). I'm not happy. I'm wondering how to become happy, and I'm not quite sure if I will ever really manage. Plus, I have no idea what I want to do in my future.
I'm pathetic! (and yes, it's probably PMS) Someone give me a hug and some chocolate?
"There will be no throwing of education and partying forever - get your qualifications and get out and work - you youngsters have to pay your taxes to provide for my pension in the future. :p"
LOL! Bob you rascal! You crack me up!