While stumbling around Sainsbury’s Local, clutching a bottle of Moutain Dew, I mused upon a good week. Good as in acceptable. A week that began with a chat with Rosie, which was nice.
A week that ends with another character leaving. Alex B, a cracking guy and a long time chum is departing for Manchester. Bad luck. But seriously, despite it being Manchester, we wish him well. By getting very drunk and playing 3 man. I was blasted and comatose by two am. I remembered some of the conversation.
It was about my flies. My flies on these jeans have a habit of falling down. All the time. I walk the streets pulling them up and going “Fuck’s sake” a bit loudly so as to alert people to the fact that YES I KNOW they’re down.
Well, sort of. My flies were discussed. I made several references to this, something like “Hopefully nobody will see my penis tonight. My flaccid, wrinkled penis. Like a doormouse shivering in a hole.”
Lots of laughs. Laughs that said “Why is Phyllis saying this?” but genuine amusement. Well, today, after I left the supermarket and made for the station to go home, I had two incidents.
First, a starling landed on the platform and gave me some right abuse. The feathered prick stood there going “RAAAAAAAAAAGHCK!” for about thirty seconds, darting its head about and peering at me. He was probably telling me my flies were undone. “I fucking know!” I said, and flipped a finger at him. Then a wanker sign. He fucked off.
I got on the train and blasted the shit out of the toilet with a long awaited bum explosion. Then I sat at a table and read a shit magazine about England’s impending Euro 2012 failure. (It will be) Twenty seconds before getting home, I pulled up my zip again, and the fucking thing snapped.
“This is a fucking disaster” I said to nobody at all. I pulled it as far as possible under my belt, and yanked my coat down over the hole.
I am a bloody tramp.