I went out with a friend last night. Several weeks ago, he was in a serious car accident that he was lucky enough to walk away from. Judging from the picture I saw of the wreckage, he must be related to Spongebob Squarepants, because the car ended up looking like a crumpled tin-can with mirrors and rubber trim. He’s recently bought a 4-wheel drive idiotmobile as a replacement and I can certainly understand the rationale. Life is too short to waste on sensible family sedans, if you can afford something more interesting. He took me for a spin in the new behemoth and spent most of the time showing me how bright his spotlights were and thereby nearly precipitated a number of nocturnal road-rage incidents. If you were on the M3 last night, I apologise on his behalf.
We’ve known each other forever, but we’ve lived in different cities for many years and only recently reunited in the Mother City. While we don’t have any secrets, as such, there are still things that we don’t know about one another. I found out for the first time last night that my good friend is total dirty dog.
The conversation turned, as it inevitably does, to women. Ex-girlfriends, in particular. When we were younger, he always managed to have an attractive girl on his arm, whereas I suffered long periods in the dating doldrums. It was years later that I learned his secret*. It is interesting to note that this worked a little too well for him sometimes:
“You remember so-and-so? She was nice. Why did you two break up?”
“She dumped me”
“Yes, I know that, but what was the reason?”
“I slept with her sister”
* You just ASK, for crying out loud! Of course, it doesn’t work every time and there’s the occasional slap in the face (actual or metaphorical) to deal with now and then, but you can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a sodding ticket.