Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 11 - do not call the police if you forget where you've parked the car

Wednesday.

Wednesday?

How come...it can't be? It must be Saturday ...or more likely Sunday...

The inhuman American Latino accent of the mechanically created alarm urges me to get up because it is not the week-end...it is officially Wednesday and therefore a work day.

How many bodies in this block of flats will be phoning in sick today I wonder?

Whoever thought that it would be a good idea to hold an engagement orgy on a Tuesday night was testing the water of mad, stupid, crass ideas. I stick my head under the pillow but in the deafening silence of a wintry autumn Wednesday morning, my alarm robot has ignored my dire warning to shut up and has another violent nagging session.

I can't go to work today.

There are too many reasons why I need to stay in this warm uncooked meringue of a duvet and nurse the worst headache I've had since I had to have my stomach pumped on the night of my eighteenth birthday. I even went to bed with a hangover last night.

Besides, I've got Brutus to calm and reassure that I am not stealing his beloved Ed. He will have to be told of the schoolboy infatuation – and probably the reason for it. Then there's Charlie who I don't want to face and more than likely he won't want to face me. We are in a truce situation, a status quo of who's in the worst predicament.... And then there's my meeting with Anneliese. What time did she say? 8.00 a.m. in the Biology lab. Well tough titty Mrs Vogue Magazine Cover Foxy McCloudy, I'm not going in today to listen to you rant on about how I insulted your beloved husband.

'You look a little rough dear.'

Mrs Hicks is standing on the doorstep dressed in a micro mini see-through negligee like a badly drawn pair of net curtains, a copy of the Financial Times tucked under one arm a horse whip under the other.

'Did you have a good night? Great party dear. It's amazing how a social event of that nature can help iron out so many of life's little problems.' She turns quickly speaking over her shoulder to someone inside and smirks triumphantly as the insurance salesman from upstairs comes charging out straightening his tie and tucking in his shirt tails before bolting down the stairs three at a time.

My lips pucker into what I hope is an understanding smile but I know is more likely to be a grimace and walk carefully down to the car park with my unmarked exercise books shredding the biodegradable carrier bag.

The body in the shower stopped me from washing away the stains of last night and I have only managed to drag a comb through my hair. I feel disgusting and I know I look worse as I stagger in a poorly co-ordinated gait, listing towards the bag of books knocking against my leg and out into the cold air. Things will only get better today as I am already at rock bottom...that is until I look at the gap next to Brutus's MG (Motor Gayus as we like to call it) where BeeBop Deluxe should be resting on her balding tyres... Did I say should be? My head swivels slowly, brain following several metres behind as I try to remember where I parked my faithful but highly abused set of wheels.

Oh My God!!! She's been stolen!! My car!! The little midget transporter which has the pretensions of being a four seater saloon....I know I abused her big time but right now, I need her... I absolutely have to have her to get me to work....I'm already late, The traffic will be terrible but ....oh Heckfaced Heck...stolen....why? A poxy rust trimmed pea green wheelbarrow which started only when she was in the mood....why would anyone pick her when Brutus's smart little number is reliably waiting for a potential joyrider. Oh Evil world! What have I done to deserve such abuse? ..... Buggery fuck. I shall have to call the police.