Once upon a time I was seventeen. So was Mary Davies. We were
sort of an item, you know? – in the way that 17-year-olds are wont to be. She
was from the bad side of the tracks, I was from the good, which probably
explains why I believed her when she said she could only see me on Mondays, Wednesdays
and Fridays because she was washing her hair the other nights.
Are you giggling yet?
Eventually, a friend of hers told me the truth of the
matter. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays she was seeing somebody else, and
on Sundays she went out with the biker guys from the local pub. I didn’t see
her for about six months after that. (I did, however, wonder when she found the time to wash her hair.)
But then she called me and asked if we could go out again,
so we did. We went for a drive and called in at a pub on the way back. She had
two vodka and tonics, then fell asleep in the car. I took her home and never
saw her again.
The End.
Isn’t life a hoot?
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