I've just moved aside on the staircase in Wethers to let a wide woman come down unhindered. Fast after her was a skinny bloke whose size was no obstacle to my progress. I started to go up, but stopped myself in case it looked to the fat girl that I was making an exception for her on account of her bulk, rather than my action being an instance of my indifferently applied manners.
I worked at the European Elections last Thursday. To my right, sat behind the trestle table set out for us, the Presiding Officer, an Anglo-Jamaican girl in her twenties. Under a faux leather jacket, which she wore unzipped and never took off, she wore a white top shiny with the strokable sheen of cheap polyester which moved with its own knowledge of the male glance, and glance, and glance, to every shift of her tits when she bent forwards over the table. To my left, a skinny fiftysomething woman in sandals, jeans, a straightforward white shirt and denim top. We were in each others' company for sixteen hours.
Our voters included a Nigerian woman in her eighties, who started dancing round the room to illustrate her carpe diem, a couple of young white men dressed seriously and with a hint of a challenge, in dresses; acutely well-mannered Indians whose Brahminian refinement made me feel awkward; illiterate Somalis with their interpreting daughters ruining all rules about voting secrecy; white women my own age from the administrative and academic classes in grey shift dresses, the chefs de famille butlered by a man, both exclaiming over the trivial achievements of a pre-school child on a wooden bike with no pedals.
It makes you delirious, getting up that early. A young woman presented herself at our desk. Looking for her polling card, she removed a wad of cash. I'd already found her name on the register. I tutoyered her. "I do hope, Chrissie, that you're not trying to bribe me here. But if you are, I'd be quite open to it."
She went to the booth to vote, then proffered her slip back to me. Instead of directng her to the ballot box a yard away, I caught myself involuntarily asking her out. "Would you like to come... Er...no." My colleagues looked at me; I turned red. "Just put it in the box over there." She stared at me for a moment, then we both laughed. That was the best bit of the whole sixteen hours.
The concert in London that Trina was going to was cancelled, and she rang me to see if I fancied a night out.
I got off the coach a bit desperate, but managed to nip into a "no admittance" million pound garden, the door to which a workman had left open, and sprayed on a tree stump with my minimum wage cider-infused Lancashire jus.
We got very pissed and went to bed. I started pinching and pulling her nipples between my fingers. Thank fuck she was too asleep to notice, and my weak cock withered. I don't want to revive anything of that.
Following morning, we went to Putney Wetherspoons at 10am. I've never seen so many young white middle class people clamped into sports bras and spandex shorts, running. None of them were being pursued by the police, which confused me, but on asking at the bar, I was informed that running is considered a leisure activity in that part of London.
I'm down now to very little money now, but I've got an interview tomorrow in the bar at Bristol airport. If I get it, I want you to come and say hello. It serves alcohol from 5am.
