Losing Ladies (and Friends.)

Who am I going to chat to in Uttoxeter now that my two favourite serving wenches are serving no more?

Lucy, late of the coffee shop, has left.

‘Already?’ I said with just sufficient expression of disbelief to appear surprised but still in control of my emotions.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Where’s she gone?’

‘It’s personal.’ (This final and decisive statement being delivered with a nudge-nudge, wink-wink sort of look which suggested that my informant thought I should know what he meant. I didn’t, but since it’s personal it’s none of my business anyway, so that’s OK.)

Chelsea, late of another retail establishment, has also left, but at least I know where she’s gone. She’s gone to learn to minister to bodies which aren’t dead yet.

Why don’t you just say she’s gone to do nursing training?

‘Because I like to use unnecessary words and idiosyncratic means of expression so as to fill the page and encourage the belief that I’m odd.’

It’s crass, bad form, bad English, and likely to lose you friends.

‘It’s not the worst of my faults.’

I know.

The thing is, you see, I find that young women make much better conversationalists than young men because they have more savvy and broader minds. Middle aged people aren’t usually worth talking to because they’re too set in their ways and convinced that the panacea for the ills of modern society is a pot of white paint, and the elderly are too distracted by the need to find the nearest toilet.

That last statement is definitely going to lose you friends.

‘But I’m only kidding.’

That’s no excuse.

‘Can I plead insanity?’

No, you can apologise.

‘Sorry.’