I woke up yesterday morning, got in the shower, and realised that one of The Girls was blue. Blue. BIC round stic med. blue, to be precise.
Saturday night was my Christmas party, of course. At quarter to twelve, Pretty Aussie Girl, who is replacing me at Piranha Inc., talked Fratboy and me into joining her and a dozen of her pretty, pretty friends at some other venue. It didn't take much convincing, poppets. The whole proposition included climbing into the back of a white limousine with a group of the most gorgeous people I've ever seen up close, strolling past bouncers and line-ups at various night-clubs around the city, and looking fabulous the whole time.
It was a night of debauchery and dancing and very dramatic cigarette poses - the last of which I'm quite skilled, thank you very much. And it was a night of martinis. Lots and lots of martinis. Which probably meant that it was a night of chatting up various boys at various bars, while waiting for a various beverages to be served to me.
Which may, just may, explain how it came to be that at some point through the night, while I was in the throes of fluid movement on the dance floor, a business card with a number scrawled on the back was thrust into my hand. And really, I had no patience at that point to fumble with my purse. Who wants to waste even four perfectly good seconds not dancing, when one could be dancing? So into the bra went the card, and quickly forgotten.
Until the next morning, when I fumbled around the detritus of the evening before, sorting through discarded jewellery, and the contents of my tiny purse, trying to find the reason behind my indigo breast.
And there it was - the name and number smudged beyond legibility, mixed as it was with the dancing glow of the night before.
Ah well. Poor sod. Whoever he is, I’m sure he'll recover soon… (For the record, my beauties, that was even more fun to say than you can possibly imagine!)
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