Mincing fancies

I had another nightmare last night.

I was sitting on a crowded tube train wearing a cream coloured woolly jumper with my own face knitted into it in purple wool.

As I sat there, the face in the jumper came alive and began screaming out all my inner most secrets to the rest of the passengers.

The driver’s voice came over the intercom warning passengers to keep away from me. I was a human bomb set to explode, he said. An alarm was sounded.

I came round to discover the alarm was my mobile ringing.

'Twas Zosia.

We hadn't spoken since she stormed out on Wednesday night. After letting it ring for ages, I took the call. The conversation at first was frosty.

“Hello,” Zosia said flatly.

“Hey, what’s up?” I rubbed my peepholes, woozy brain finding first gear.

“Not much. Hung over.”

"Ahh..."

“I’m out walking dog."

"Oh."

"Guess what?”

"Um..."

“Give up?” Zosia asked.

“Not yet.” I made a play of thinking about it for a long time.

“It's my dog. He done shit longer than my shoe.”