Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 9 - normal teachers don't drive Porsches.

I can't tell anyone what I've done. Ever.

Brutus must never find out. Pippa will not approve and if the school know that I've been taking naked baths with their star Oxbridge candidate and rugby captain, Head Boy, Gold Duke of Edinburgh award winner, potential prime minister and ultimate master of the universe, then they will blame me for leading the boy astray and I will not be able to live. Doris would be in charge of the scaffold; she wouldn't even bother wearing the black hood to keep the anonymity of the executioner because she would want me to see her gleeful hippopotamus smile as she released the trapdoor, the noose tightened round my neck.

Ed has promised never to see Brutus again in return for me lowering him down three floors from our flat on a rope made of three bridge builders bras and a pair or reinforced gusset ladder proof tights.

Monday

Mondays are never good.

There is something about Monday morning that makes one want to give up on life.

Bed has never felt so warm, soft, cloud-like or luxurious as it does when the nasty electronic voice of the mobile phone alarm makes the shrill announcement.' Its seven o'clock. Its time to get up'

Could it be the utter laziness of a recovery Sunday – after a Saturday night spent cramming an entire lifetime of hedonistic pleasure into a few hours?

Monday morning means no milk, no fresh bread and not a single pair of tights without major construction defects. The events of the past two days are forever a blur of stumbling friends, wine glasses, flashing strobe lighting and take-aways so the shock of reality hits home big time.

The worst thing about Monday is always...Bebop Deluxe!

My intentions are always honourable. I fully intend to pay her attention, fill her water bottles, lubricate her internal bits and wash her down....but

I always forget.

When I abandon Bebop Deluxe on Friday evening she's left ignored and abandoned until Monday morning when I hold my guilty breath and expect her to spring into action without any excuses. But,,,,of course, she has been left out in the rain, cold, frost, sun, and wind so my expectations should be rock bottom.

Today my car is paying me back.

She's had enough of the abuse, lack of nutrients, water and a roof over her head. I brush the fallen leaves from her filthy bonnet, scrape an adequate peep hole in the icy frost with my most over-abused credit card, wrench the door open and hurl a thousand books into the back seat, slam the door and then expect her to jump into life with the first turn of the key.

Bebop is on strike.

She coughs and splutters like a whore wanting her first morning fag but there isn't enough spark to light even a miniscule puff.

BeBop is dying....but she can't die yet. I have to get to work. There are generations of young men depending on my inspiration.

'Come on ,,,come on little car! Don't let me down.'

Bebop coughs again – it's a deep throaty bronchitic hoke. I turn the key again and this time she coughs up enough gunge to clear her pipes and she's firing.

The fag is lit, the nicotine is hitting the spot and my little whore is getting her act together.

Next to us Brutus's shining convertible oozing love and attention, grins smugly as Bebop reverses out of the bay, smoking her high tars. If these two have personalities, Bebop would be the unemployed, illiterate bog cleaner and Brutus' wheels would be a titled Adonis with an address in Chelsea and a shooting estate in Scotland.