May 12th, 1989

May 12th, 1989

At home

Just got home from possibly the most awful Friday night ever!

Enjoyed a spot of sunbathing in the garden this morning and snoozed on and off to the sounds of the Pet Shop Boys. I woke up when the tape cassette clicked off at the end of side one and promptly turned it over so I could keep listening. I love all the songs on “Introspective,” but whenever I listen to, “It’s Alright,” it makes me want to go out clubbing. And, if I don’t get called out on standby tomorrow, I should be out doing just that tomorrow night with Pamsy, under the guise of Operation Double O!

Went to Ben’s this afternoon, of course he wasn’t there but it was nice catching up with Susan. Right before I left, I asked Susan if I could go upstairs to Ben’s room to look for my silver hoop earrings. The second I walked into his room, I felt really sad and got so choked up I thought I might cry. When I went back downstairs, Susan was in the kitchen and I called out “bye,” and made a hasty exit. Susan came the door and waved as I drove off.

When I came home, I felt really lost, so when Sarah rang and asked if I fancied meeting her, Simon and a few of his mates at the pub tonight, I didn’t hesitate and said, “Love to.” The words, “Simon’s mates,” should have told me all I needed to know but my head was still somewhere in Ben’s room.

The “mates” ended up being just one guy called Randall (who names their baby Randall?) sporting a very dodgy haircut and a slippery looking shirt.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, eyeing me up and down with a smarmy expression.

Even just a minute into meeting him, I could tell his preferred response would be for me to:

  1. Giggle.
  2. Cover my mouth and look away.
  3. Act shy.
  4. Do anything involving the word coquettish.
  5. Use the ever original (not) “All good I hope?”

Instead, I did none of the above but that didn’t deter, “You can call me Randy, most of me mates do,” from continuing. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

I tried to get Sarah’s attention but she and Simon were in a heated discussion over which one of them should get up to feed the cats tomorrow morning. You can call me Randy ordered himself a pint of Carling Black Label then proceeded to explain in great detail why he liked “their ads on the telly.”

Like I care.

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” he declared to nobody in particular.

Fortunately, the barman interrupted him. “That’ll be one pound twenty please,” he said, precariously placing the pint down on the bar.

You can call me Randy passed a crisp fiver to him.

“Nothing for the young lady?” the barman asked, with a sympathetic expression.

You can call me Randy looked at me. “Oh, yeah, sorry, you alright or do you want a drink?” he asked.

Mustering my sweetest smile, I fluttered my eyelashes and said, “Just a small bowl of milk please.”


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