A Flight of NY Fancy.

I was standing in the lobby of a Manhattan hotel waiting for my credit card to be processed when I noticed a skin-tight young woman, smooth as a vanilla milkshake and pristine as a newly minted scalpel, staring pointedly at me. Eventually I stared back.

‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ she asked with merely a hint of hard edged interest.

‘Yes.’

‘Thought so. Probably explains why your hair resembles the Titanic.’

‘Titanic?’

‘It’s a wreck.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I replied limply, being quite unable to conjure a pithy reply. She allowed me little time anyway.

‘Come to my salon tomorrow and I’ll raise it from the sea bed. 2811 W 44^th Street.’

‘Erm… Right. Thanks.’

The expression on her face dismissed me, and so I went about my business. Needless to say I was otherwise engaged tomorrow.

None of that happened. It just dropped into my head when I looked in the mirror.