Life can throw curve-balls. I'm not sure if this is a curve-ball, or irony, or what, but the other night I attended a drug and alcohol information night which was put on my 13yo son's school year. I entered the hall and collected my lucky door prize ticket. I won. Thrilled was me. Chuffed. I walked to the front of the hall and was handed a - wait for it - football. Rugby League code football. Those who know me well will know I seriously loathe this game. I smiled with the sincerity of someone who has been 'roasted' by a comedian, and went back to my seat. Afterwards, when the deputy headmaster commented to me, I could not help but say, 'I detest the game, and I detest the culture.' Yet the forum and information night was very well put together, and kudos to the Year 7s. I hope my son was listening. The headmaster talked about the rules against smoking at the school, and it reminded me of my fourth-grade teacher who used to light up an Ardath in front of us, puff away, and leave a bunch of green-faced kids spluttering and choking, eyes streaming. My husband, now a non-smoker, used to smoke when he was in high school, and he would be accosted by the PE teacher, who'd demand, 'Where's your smokes?', and bludge a few. The headmaster then spoke about what would happen to a student whom it was suspected was affected by alcohol at school, and I thought back to when I was fifteen, and a few of the guys turned up rotten, maggoty, plastered, off-their-tits drunk to the school dance. They had been swilling rum-and-coke in the park near by hall. Throughout the course of the evening, I was - ahem! - making out with one of them, and almost got drunk on his saliva. Also got busted by the Maths teacher. That was sooooo embarrassing, but thank God I did all this stupid stuff before social media (yet here I am, yammering about it on social media; go figure).
I had to work this morning, after a bad night's sleep owing to this monstrous head cold and cough that has plagued - PLAGUED, I tell ye - me of late. I'm going to have a rest shortly. But as I drove around from home to home, medicating one oldie, showering another, the song 'Slow Hand' by the Pointer Sisters came on the radio. Reminded me of when I was fifteen, and all that was encumbent with that tumultuous time in my life ( including going the grope a the school dance and getting caught by the Maths teacher). Bit of a guilty pleasure. Kind of sultry. Kind of seductive. But I had a bit of a think today. Bonnie, June, Anita, and Ruth, whichever of them warbled on the recording, tell us they want a man with 'a slow hand'; somebody who 'will not come and go in a heated rush'. And it hit me, like a Damascene revelation. These ladies are utterly sick of premature ejaculators! Who's with me on this theory?
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