Planks of remorse

Did you know that Oxford Street in London is so named because there used to be an actual ford where Londoners could herd their Oxen from one side of the river to the Top Shop on the other side in the late 1670's?

This morning dawned hazy, lazy, sunlight shining in rays through the stale weed smoke in my room.

I was so cosy in bed, I didn’t want to get up. Not in a million years. I wanted to stay for as long as possible, still mildly stoned and contented, safe and warm in in my bed and avoid the real world out there.

Eventually I got up though, and peered through the curtains at the weather. Looked a little blustery, trees swaying about and all that.

Or was it?

My flat is so hermetically sealed against the elements, perhaps it wasn't windy at all and the trees had just developed a way of moving about of their own accord.

I trudged into the kitchen and poured myself a cold glass of OJ, before wandering into the lounge and slumping on the sofa. On with the telly. Eurosport. Norwegian Log Chopping Championships.

There was one new message on my answer machine.

Zosia?

Nope. My mum. What was I planning to do for next Christmas, go to hers or stay in London?

Next Christmas? We've only just had the last one. I can't think as far ahead as next Christmas. I can't even think as far ahead as next week, for loon's sake.

Instead of thinking about next Christmas, I thought about that Tallulah bird and what happened yesterday.
An extraordinary set of circumstances. She was clearly blootered before she arrived. Had she come with sex on her mind, or had it been a bizarre by product of a genuine need to borrow my effects pedal?

I had no idea.

I haven’t had a snifter of extra-curricular combat action in over a year. I must be getting a little rusty at reading the signs.

Anyway, I rolled a spliff and sat there on the sofa for a bit, examining my feelings to get a proper perspective.

Christ, I'd shagged a complete stranger, someone I didn't fancy in the slightest. Someone I'd normally go to great lengths to avoid shagging.

What did that make me?

An calous sexual opportunist.

Yeah, baby.

And if I had no qualms about shagging the semi-repellent Tallulah, it made me wonder, given a similar set of circumstances, whether or not I’d shag the people next door as well - two fat girls from the Channel Islands.

No.