Plans
Back to work today. I spent much of the day drawing up a contract between a retailer and a wholesaler of fish and fish products and planning for my date tonight with Maria. No prize for guessing which of the two I paid the most attention to.
Two things had to be decided. One, where to take Maria. Two, how to have sex with her after. Or, more accurately, where to have sex with her. This assumes that she’ll want to have sex with me, but as she’s a nurse there’s a better than average chance if past experience is anything to go by.
On a first date I usually arrange to meet the girl at a pub and we take it from there, and Maria was agreeable to this. What then usually happens is that we either stay put and get to know each other or just have the one drink and then go on to the pictures or maybe a club. I’m fine with either arrangement. I decided I’ll see what she’s drinking first, and how quick she drinks it. If it’s something cheap and she takes her time over it I’ll suggest we stay put, but if it’s expensive and she goes at it like a politician at a pig trough it’s the pictures.
The second decision I had to make, where to have sex with her, was more tricky. If I had a place of my own there wouldn’t be a problem, it would be ‘How about a nightcap at mine?’, but living with my parents there’s no chance of that as they’re very old-fashioned about that sort of thing. I should have my own place by now. I could afford this without too much hardship, but living at home I get all my washing and ironing done and I eat very well, apart from the fish and chips at the moment. It’s like living in a first class hotel but without the chance of sex. Ifield shares a flat with a mate and I get the use of that sometimes, but not tonight, his mate’s boracic and anyway he wants to watch the football.
I decided it will have to be the back seat of the car again. I drive a Mini Cooper, which hardly has a back seat and consequently is not ideal for sex, though by no means impossible; but unfortunately a Mini Cooper is the only car to drive if you’re a young solicitor about town, unless you can afford a German roadster, which I can’t manage at the moment. It is one of life’s great ironies that the Mini Cooper, one of the best cars in the world for pulling girls, is one of the worst for having sex in once you’ve pulled one. I suppose I could always tell her there’s something wrong with my Mini and I’ve had to borrow my parents Honda, which has a big enough back seat for a threesome and room for spectators if you’re that way inclined, but I’d have to get rid of all the smells after, then live with the fear of my mother finding a pair of knickers stuffed down the back seat or in the glove compartment, with all the hassle that would bring with it, so it just isn’t worth it.
“Daydreaming again young Blenkinsop,” said Ancient Mr Nesbitt, mistaking me for someone who left the practice three years ago. He said this all of a sudden, having crept up on me like he does. (It isn’t a ploy to catch people slacking, it’s because he’s so old all he can do is creep, and he can only just about manage that).
“Daydreaming? Mr Nesbitt,” I said, shocked. “Not at all. Just concentrating very hard on doing an excellent job on the Briggs/Bracegirdle fish contract.”
“Good to hear it, Ifield,” he said, and went on his way. Another satisfied customer.
Sawyer the Lawyer.
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