Post-two weekends spent in The Bakers, I'm beginning to wonder if it's possible that a chat-up line (delivered in the style of a semi-erect 70's milkman) can attach itself to a locality as small as a single public house...or perhaps, more likely, a certain breed of hands-on clientele who dwell within it.
Further to this, I'm curious as to how well this particular phrase has served these men in wooing their unsuspecting victims (and I choose my wording specifically here) down whatever guinnel they have elected a fitting setting for their 'passion'.
You see, forgive me for being old fashioned but during a bout of al fresco heavy petting - if a man nuzzles into your neck to whisper huskily "The things I would do to you" - I'm struck with images of my body 'dismembered in several bin bags' far more than 'in the throes of a spectacular orgasm'.
As you may have noticed, having had it used on more than the odd occasion in the past two weeks (and somehow miraculously being immune to it's charm), I have yet to see for myself which of the potential results a quick forray down one of Stockport's many alleyways would bring about.
What I will emphasise is that each of these men, who are otherwise not unattractive, would have fared much better had they simply kept their mouth shut.
That said; last night was, for all intents and purposes, fucking brilliant.
Despite a late arrival to find the venue sold out - a realisation that I knew a fair percentage of those already inside, which led to a calling in of favours long owed, ensured that we we're at the bar (drink in hand) by just past 10:30pm.
[Favourable to the alternative of watching the merriment from The Boars Head across the road, where we were glumly seated next to a man who looked suspiciously like most police artist renditions of a paedophile with his bag of Weetabix and discount biscuits.]
I'm not a particularly superstitious young woman but amidst the variety of favourable incidents, I must admit that four specific things happened last night that have solidified in my mind that 2011 is going to be spectacular:
1) For the first time, ever, I found £10 on the floor at the bar.
2) I was assured, repeatedly, that I cast an incredibly striking figure - to be told you're beautiful, which in itself is an unusual occurrence for me, does set one off on a good footing.
3) I received the first positive comments about this blog from a writer who has been in business since I was but a twinkle in my father's eye.
4) [I don't care how harshly I'm judged for this one] but the first song I heard in 2011 was The Smiths 'How Soon is Now'.
Further to this, having escaped a hangover (but alas not the results of an ill-fated 3am kebab) I'm feeling remarkably optimistic.
With nine days left before I return to Edinburgh, we shall see what productive use I can make of them.
Annie.
<3
Further to this, I'm curious as to how well this particular phrase has served these men in wooing their unsuspecting victims (and I choose my wording specifically here) down whatever guinnel they have elected a fitting setting for their 'passion'.
You see, forgive me for being old fashioned but during a bout of al fresco heavy petting - if a man nuzzles into your neck to whisper huskily "The things I would do to you" - I'm struck with images of my body 'dismembered in several bin bags' far more than 'in the throes of a spectacular orgasm'.
As you may have noticed, having had it used on more than the odd occasion in the past two weeks (and somehow miraculously being immune to it's charm), I have yet to see for myself which of the potential results a quick forray down one of Stockport's many alleyways would bring about.
What I will emphasise is that each of these men, who are otherwise not unattractive, would have fared much better had they simply kept their mouth shut.
That said; last night was, for all intents and purposes, fucking brilliant.
Despite a late arrival to find the venue sold out - a realisation that I knew a fair percentage of those already inside, which led to a calling in of favours long owed, ensured that we we're at the bar (drink in hand) by just past 10:30pm.
[Favourable to the alternative of watching the merriment from The Boars Head across the road, where we were glumly seated next to a man who looked suspiciously like most police artist renditions of a paedophile with his bag of Weetabix and discount biscuits.]
I'm not a particularly superstitious young woman but amidst the variety of favourable incidents, I must admit that four specific things happened last night that have solidified in my mind that 2011 is going to be spectacular:
1) For the first time, ever, I found £10 on the floor at the bar.
2) I was assured, repeatedly, that I cast an incredibly striking figure - to be told you're beautiful, which in itself is an unusual occurrence for me, does set one off on a good footing.
3) I received the first positive comments about this blog from a writer who has been in business since I was but a twinkle in my father's eye.
4) [I don't care how harshly I'm judged for this one] but the first song I heard in 2011 was The Smiths 'How Soon is Now'.
Further to this, having escaped a hangover (but alas not the results of an ill-fated 3am kebab) I'm feeling remarkably optimistic.
With nine days left before I return to Edinburgh, we shall see what productive use I can make of them.
Annie.
<3
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