Bad News
Maria and I arrived at the pub about the same time. That isn’t the bad news. That comes later. I asked her what she’d like to drink. Just a slimline tonic, please. I got her one and a pint of Stella for myself and we sat and chatted about our day. She’s working in the men’s geriatric ward at the moment, they swap them around (the nurses, not the geriatrics). She told me that geriatrics are the worst patients she has to nurse, but she didn’t tell me why. Because they try to feel her up I suppose. I don’t blame them, I’d be doing the same thing myself later with a bit of luck.
Her duties seem to be mostly fetching and carrying for the geriatrics and feeding them their pills; no mention of bedpans but I bet she sees plenty of them, as well as pee bottles, if my experience of old people is anything to go by. Then it was my turn. I fed her some bullshit about heading a successful drugs bust this afternoon. I made it sound really exciting. I’m good at bullshitting, you need to be if you’re a solicitor, half the job is talking and writing bullshit, heretofore, wheretofore, notwithstanding, and all that garbage.
She took forty minutes over her drink, so with slimline tonics at £1.50 a throw it was no contest compared to the pictures at £7 for a seat, plus chocolates and maybe a can, say twelve quid altogether, so I suggested we stayed put. She agreed and then asked if she could have a cocktail, she’d forgotten what they were called but she knew the ingredients, the barman at a club in Ibiza gave her the recipe when she was on holiday there last July, she and her friend Claire were on them all week. I get her one. It costs me a fiver. It lasted her ten minutes then she asked if she could have another one, it was lovely, almost as nice as the ones in Ibiza. I only just stopped myself asking her if the name of the cocktail might possibly be Prepare To Get Your Knickers Down If I’m Paying A Fiver A Time For These.
Less than an hour later she was on her third. She had five altogether. And that isn’t the bad news. After the fourth she told me she really fancied me but she never shags on the first date. I smiled and said that’s fine, I never try anything on the first date, and award myself ten Brownie points. And that isn’t the bad news either. The bad news is that on our next date – and there was always going to be a next date with a girl who by telling me that she didn’t shag on the first date had more or less promised that she did on the second and who I already had £26.50 invested in, not counting my Stella and three diet cokes – the bad news is that on our date she wants to go out with me in my police car when I’m on a case. It will be so exciting, she says. I don’t know about exciting, it’ll certainly be interesting.
Sawyer the Lawyer.
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