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    One Lonely Night: Chapter 3



    Why oh why did my lounge have a beautifully-polished, bloody hard parquet floor? No shag-pile carpets for me – think that says just about everything!

    So there I was – flat on my back, heart-racing, sweat dripping from every orifice – staring up into the bright blue eyes of… my cat, Fudge. Oh for feck’s sake! If you’re going to wake up on the floor, half-an-hour late for work and with an ‘Oops-Upside-Your-Head’ hangover mashing your innards, it could at least be to the sight of a sexy woman in your bed and the fuzzy feeling of satiated desire. Oh no, not me! I had the joy of being battered and bruised (without the fun) and the vom-inducing stench of cat breath: nice!

    What seemed like an eternity later (actually five minutes of dragging myself off the parquet) I stood, legs-a-trembling, in the shower, hanging onto the soap dispenser for dear life: no early morning wank for me today! The true horror of last night’s debacle slowly seeping into my brain, I dreaded finding my phone for fear of all the shit-faced texts I must have sent. Though, as I thought about it, a vague nagging feeling that I’d deleted her number throbbed through my head, almost like a bizarre antidote to the banging hangover. Oh, let it be true – I wanted to forget last night and, most of all, her!


    Thundering out of work, barely ten minutes after the fastest change in history, I had nearly caused a ten car pile-up on London Road, as I threw myself in front of the nearest black cab. Cashing in a favour with one of the patrol boys would’ve got me there quicker but, you know me, don’t like to make a spectacle of myself! Perhaps thinking I was a tourist, the cabbie seemed to be taking me the longest possible route to the bar. We seemed to drive down back-road after one-way street, hit two dead-ends and stopped at virtually every red light in Glasgow!

    By the time we pulled up outside the tall, late-Georgian building that I assumed was Henderson’s, the excitement of meeting Cat was beginning to wane. It had been an exhausting day and I just wanted to get it over with. Getting out of the taxi, I could just about see that the bar was busy – okay, not perfect for a first date, but at least any uncomfortable silences would be drowned out. Peering through the glass entrance, my eyes searched the room for signs of Cat. Christ! It really was quite classy: glass everywhere, luxurious red and purple wall-hangings, and – chandeliers? No! What the hell had I let myself in for?! The bar was Cat’s choice – I’d have been much happier down the local, playing a game of pool and hustling the lads like usual. Now I had visions that she was one of those lesbians with an apartment full of House of Fraser furniture, Bang & Olufsen hi-fi, and a harpsichord in the corner – everything perfectly placed for maximum oppulent effect: yuck! She hadn’t seemed like that when we were chatting, but then you never could tell on the internet – my dating history was proof of that.

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