I have fallen head-over-heels in love with an antiwar activist called Boudicca. She smells of body paints and lentil soup.
I first met Boudicca at an antiwar demonstration in London. She had
the nicest bottom I had ever seen, and her vulgar songs about George W
Bush truly made me blush. ‘Andre’ she would smile, with heavenly pink
lips that plain and humble boys such as I could only dream of kissing.
'Who let the bombs out?'
At the time I did not know who had let the bombs out and so I would
just shrug my shoulders and hang my head in utter shame. But over the
years she has taught me things, many things, and now when she phones me
from her two-man-tent and asks. 'Andre, dear Andre... who let the bombs
out? I tingle all over and joyfully cry. 'Bush, Bush and Blair'.
Oh how I wish one drunken night she would tie me to the railings and seduce me with her fiery passion.
I have fallen head-over-heels in love with a socially awkward beauty called Beverly. She smells of salt and vinegar crisps and simply refuses to look me in the eye.
As I sat on the train opposite her, dressed in my finest pink cowboy shirt, Beverly remained oblivious to my presence and continued to stare at the floor. ‘What tragic twist of evil fate had left a beauty such as Beverly void of all self-worth?’ I wondered to myself, as we hurtled through the countryside at 1000mph.
Suddenly, Beverly’s phone began to vibrate to the sounds of The White Stripes. ‘Hi babe’ she smiled, in a manner I had not suspected from someone so clearly afflicted by inner-doubt. ‘I’ll be at the station in 10 minutes, I’ll meet you outside… bye… bye… yes babe, I love you too’
Oh how I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
I have fallen head-over-heels in love with an Italian waitress called Kafka. She smells of whipped cream and Parma ham.
Today, I ordered my cappuccino and decided to sit at the table outside her pretty little bistro. Almost at once, Kafka reappeared in her tight fitting apron with my perfectly made coffee. I smiled, and as she replaced the dirty ashtray on my table with a one she had cleaned with her own fair hands, my heart skipped a beat and I swear I could hear the sounds of The Little Minuetto from Don Giovanni humming softly in my ears.
.
I have fallen head-over-heels in love with an invalid called Hopscotch. She smells of blackberry crush and juvenile lust.
Every week I visit her in hospital and every week she greets me from
her bed with humbling eyes that bring joy to my life. But today I found
her sitting outside in the pouring rain swearing at the elderly people
waiting for a bus.
'What's wrong?' I shouted, as she sobbed in her chair, her world apparently crushed.
'I've spent all flipping day on E-flipping-bay, and I can't find a prosthetic leg in my size.'
'Oh Hopscotch' I sighed, 'let's get you inside, as your wheelchair is starting to rust'.
.
I have
fallen head-over-heels in love with a middle-aged psychotherapist
called Blossom. She smells of apricots and antiseptic cream.
Every week I visit Blossom in her whitewashed room filled with joy.
And every week she greets me with an optimistic smile that instantly
lifts my spirit. She is a marvelous person. And our meetings are
without a doubt the highlight of my week.
But today, Blossom didn't greet me in her usual manner and just said
I was no longer mental and so she had decided to discharge me.
'But can't I just pretend I'm still mental?' I sobbed.
'No' said Blossom, in a tone I hadn't heard before, 'That would be totally unethical'.
And with that, my case was closed, and I was left to face the cruelness of life on my own once more.