I sometimes wonder if I’m wearing an invisible sandwich board. Or if those suspicions that someone’s playing an elaborate joke are true after all.
“Here you are, mate,” said the sharply-dressed man in the cafe.
“Great pair of tits in there,” as he handed me a newspaper.
“On page 3.”
‘Thank you’ I offered, dumbfounded but not forgetting my manners.
My lunch-sharing colleague gawped at me from across the table, his forkful of omelette held in suspended animation an inch from his mouth.
“Did you know him?” D asked eventually.
‘Nope’ I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘These things tend to happen.’ I added in way of explanation.
A laden silence fell on the table.
I’m not sure which aspect of this encounter worried me most. The fact that I give the impression of a man in need of Carry On-style titillation, or the fact I look naive enough not to know where to find the eponymous topless beauty. Libidinous and stupid. A tough combination to master unless you’re a hedgehog with a scrubbing brush.
Or me. Apparently.
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