(This article first appeared on the Daily Life website www.dailylife.com.au)
As women, we’re often bombarded with music, literature and movies about break-ups with lovers. But when it comes to being dumped by a friend, we often struggle to find a way to articulate how devastated we feel and how to go about reconciling this loss in our lives. I know all too well the pain that comes with losing a friend, for I myself am a veteran of the friendship wars.
A few weeks ago as I left the bathroom at a local pub I ran into a woman who up until 12 months earlier, I would have considered one of my closest friends. I say ‘until’, because now all we could manage to say to each other was ‘Oh. Hi.’
We had never formally discussed our break-up, but the lack of returned phone calls, and the ongoing rain checks had led me to think something was awry. Thanks to Facebook, this suspicion was confirmed when I was treated to a swag of photos from her birthday party – a party that I appeared to be the only person in the world not to have received an invite too.
At 32, I’d been dumped by a friend.
But it’s not the first time this has happened. As I said, I’m a veteran. And like any incurable romantic, I remember my first time keenly. Picture it. Primary school, 1987. I’m enjoying a Le Snack when my best friend casually walks up to me and tells me in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.
In a telling portent of all future relationship breakdowns, I reasoned with myself that it was probably that she loved me too much. That in fact, she was frightened of the intensity of her friendship feelings towards me, and needed to insert a suitable distance so as not to make things ‘weird’. This sort of borderline unhinged optimism continued until a week later when she tried to throw a brick at my head.
I decided it might be best to move on.
For the next few years I lived a ‘best friend-free’ lifestyle, making friends with whom I wanted when I wanted, giving very little regard to the type of friend I was attracting. I went from short-term friendship to short-term friendship, like a used lollipop constantly being returned to its wrapper. I’d been burnt by the hot plate of friendship once before and I wasn’t going to be making that mistake again.
Then I met Ryan.
Picture it. High school drama, 1993. Me, slightly overweight, drenched in the smell of cortisone and acne creams and he, sexually ambivalent and with a TV in his bedroom. It was a friendship we both found rewarding until one day, sitting on his bed watching theX-Files, he pressed pause on the VHS and turned to me.
‘Wanna make out?’ he asked.
I burst out laughing and popped another Caramel Crown.
‘Why are you laughing?’ he asked. ‘Is it because you think I’m gay?’
His tone dictated that this conversation was about to take a stroll towards serious town. Sometimes, you can just tell.
‘Um, no I don’t think that…but, are you?’
He jumped off the bed and began to pace around.
‘No, I’m not gay. Why does everyone think I am?’
‘I don’t know’ I mumbled, wanting to help him but mostly wanting another biscuit.
‘Then why don’t you want to make out with me?’ he implored.
I looked at him and said what seemed to be the most sensitive thing for a girl to say to a boy struggling with his sexual identity and looking to score a quick pash ‘just to make sure’.
‘You don’t have any chest hair. I’m just really all about chest hair at the moment.’
The next day upon arriving at school I found a note taped to my locker. It thanked me for my year of friendship services but regretted to inform me they would no longer be required. Honesty, it seems, is not always the best policy when dealing with a friend.
I thought of Ryan as I stood there, outside that pub bathroom, struggling to think of what unspoken offence I might have caused that would result in my literally being struck from the Facebook invite list. Nothing immediately presented itself. Perhaps I was imagining things? Had she just been busy? Was I being too needy?
But maybe the problem isn’t me. After all, five years after friend-dumping me for not adequately addressing the heinous accusations being leveled at his sexuality, Ryan came out as a homosexual male with a particular fondness for chest hair.
Sometimes, you just have to stop pretending.
‘*****’ Time Out, Sydney
Winner ‘Time Out Critics Choice Award 2012’
There was a surreal moment right at the beginning of the night in which one audience member audibly groaned and started animatedly discussing with her partner whether they should stick around, after Sanz made what would have otherwise appeared to have been a throwaway joke about how her show wasn’t actually about the 80s family movie classic The Neverending Story. But take heart, audience member: you may have been disappointed by the relative lack of sweet, sweet Falkor action, but at least you got to see one of the best shows of the 2012 festival.
Sanz is a writer by trade and her last couple of shows – Please Don’t Use My Flannel for That and Not Suitable for Children – were a) very funny, but b) pretty much her reading from things, with the odd audio cue thrown in. Neverending Storage is a far grander creation, with Powerpoint, lots of audio, illustrations, video clips (including, at one point, the single most hilariously incongruent visual to have ever accompanied a list of things money could have been better spent upon than storage) and the odd piece of audience interaction, all tying into Sanz’s litany of romantic disasters illustrated by the increasingly-expensive shipping crate into which she’d rammed the detritus of a relationship seven years ago.
But while the technical side of the show has ramped up, the biggest development is Sanz herself. Gone is the somewhat stiff narrator of her previous shows, replaced by a wry, confident comedian entirely at home on stage. She’s always been a great writer, but Neverending Storage heralds the arrival of Lou Sanz: Performer.
As appeared in The Lifted Brow – The Summer Magazine , January 2012.
Recently, I had the terrifying feeling that I’d run out of things to write about. In my panic, I found myself attempting to convince an ex-boyfriend to get back together with me, say only for three months—you know, just till he hit that bit where he could turn into a cheating wanker and I could become an irrational thespian, shredding his prized Pixies t-shirt by a freeway alongside an open flame.
There’d be no hard feelings and after three months, we could simply walk away with just enough damage done to fuel my work for perhaps the next six to twelve months.
So here he was, two years later, resting his lemon on the side of his earl grey tea. And here I was, in the same café, sipping my coffee as I awaited his reply.
I was pretty confident that I’d sold him on it; he too liked the drama. And I was pretty happy with the whole thing generally. Okay, perhaps it might’ve sounded a touch desperate—some might even have argued pathetic. But come on, I was young. I could earn my dignity back later on.
I watched him carefully. He took a brief sip of the tea and realising it was too hot, put it back down again and took a deep breath instead.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“But some things are going to have to change.”
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the sole of his worn-out Dunlop runner. It had a tear in the side, a result of his trying to brake on a fixie.
I was concerned. This was not part of the plan. I was not here to negotiate.
“But I don’t want things to change,” I said. “I want us to get so caught up in the moment where we think this is a good idea, and then BAM—I call you one day and tell you that dinner is at seven, not eight. And then you tell me that you can’t make it because you’re inside someone else.” I placed my hand on his, encouragingly. “Just like the good old days.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “But it won’t work between us if we repeat the mistakes of the past.”
“It’s not meant to work out between us,” I said. “It’s just meant to be something that holds us over for a bit.”
He tried his tea again. It was still too hot, or perhaps with age he’d become less tolerant of heated beverages. “I’m not a rental property Lou, while you save up for a mortgage.”
“I thought I made it pretty clear that what I proposed was more of a research mission. You know—like going diving for an old wreck, finding some treasure but ultimately deciding to leave it at the bottom of the ocean, rotting.”
Annoyed, he pushed his tea away. I only just managed to save my coffee from falling off the table.
“So you’re okay with raping and pillaging my life for your little stories, but not staying around to raise the child that might result from your careless ways? Is that what you’re saying, Lou?”
“A child?” I said. “I don’t want a child with you, or anyone.”
“Why, Lou? Because the birth of a child might be the moment where you have to really confront the reality of your life?”
“Um, what are you on about?” I said. “This was just an idea. If you don’t want in, then I’ll find someone else.”
A disconcerting smile broke out across his face. “Oh really, Lou? You’ll find another one just like me, another one of your men? Well, I’ve got news for you, Lou. We talk, yes we do.”
“You speak to no one!” I spat back.
“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you, that none of us know of each other, but we do.” He smiled a smile I wanted to punch.
Surely he was bluffing. “But how?”
“We all need our secrets, but if you must know? Facebook. I was reluctant at first to join; to be honest, I was more than happy with my MySpace setup. But public opinion and social convention swayed me and so I joined and at first I thought, and I’ll be honest Lou, I thought it was bullshit, but slowly it opened itself to me, its wondrous delights, its gardens of knowledge, and I came to realise I wasn’t alone, there were others like me, others who’d at some point had to endure you Lou, others who understood.”
It would seem I had been checkmated, and I had never been good at Scrabble.
This whole plan was not working at all as I’d hoped. It was almost beginning to feel like I had been set up, that sabotage was upon me. Or that I’d walked into a self-fulfilling trap.
“Why did you even agree to meet with me today?” I leaned back in my chair, attempted to fake some power.
“I was curious. I wanted to see after all these years what you were willing to lay on the table for me.”
“Lay on the table for you? There will be no laying.” I tried to banish my cleavage; it was no longer my fallback plan. But I was in too deep, and the boobs in this story were out for all to see.
“Perhaps that’s where we need to negotiate Lou.”
I got up to leave.
“Fine, Lou. Walk away. But I have what you want.”
“You asked to see me today because you know that I can offer an unfulfilling relationship like none other.”
He was right. He offered destruction and drama to an unprecedented degree and with only three months to work with he would be pushed to the hilt, perhaps outdoing himself in a way neither of us had thought possible.
He resumed sipping his tea.
“I think you should sit back down, Lou. You’ve created quite the little scene with your unprompted standing.”
He was right. I slumped back into my chair.
“So, Lou, like I said. Things will have to change for this to work. Firstly,” he began. “You will no longer address me as the ‘friend’ in those little blogs you write. You will refer to me by my birth-intended name—”
“No, I can’t do this,” I interrupted.
“It’s not worth it—your gloating, your bullshit. Not even my drive for a decent story is enough to make me do this.”
“But you need me, Lou. Without me you are nothing.”
“Maybe I am, and maybe without you I will never write again. But maybe it’s best to accept that fate instead of this, with you.”
“I made you, Lou. You know that.”
I stood up and he stood up. He matched my standing intensity. But he was not going to win.
“Perhaps you had something to do with who I am today. I’ll give you that,” I said. “Because there’s only so many times you can walk in on your boyfriend surrounded by candlelight and pulling himself off to Andre Rieu without this having some profound effect on you. But right now I’m better off taking my chances by walking into oncoming traffic. It has drama, pain, anguish. It has the will-she-or-won’t-she-survive moment. It has it all. And you, you have nothing.”
And with that I left him, walking swiftly, determined not to look back. And then I heard it, the quick pounding of feet, the calling of my name. I spun around, and I was confronted by an out-of-breath waiter. He was waving an unpaid bill at me, but I was not angry. Ahead of me was the busy street, and the traffic was waiting.
You can purchase the full publication here http://www.theliftedbrow.com/?p=160
I’ll be honest; I’ve never really had a proper Valentine’s Day. It’s through no fault of my own because god knows I’ve tried. Dressing up as boxes of heart shaped candy, yelling at random men in the street ‘ ok who wants to eat me; I have a soft centre, taste of strawberries I’ve been told, or you could pick a flavour, I’m cool with that too…oh god, look at me! Why won’t someone love me!…look at me!’
So like I’ve said, I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.
Having recently been dumped by my boyfriend, less than a week ago to be exact, I’m expecting this Valentine’s Day that I’m going to be single. I hold a Master’s degree in case you’re wondering where my powers of observation about my life come from and yes; sometimes it’s hard to be as perceptive as I am. Burdens hey, we all bare them.
My first understanding of Valentine’s Day came about when I was 7 years old and Matthew Kennedy threw a bottle of perfume at me, hitting my arm and as such unfortunately managing to miss my heart. I still remember the lilt of his words that accompanied his physical abuse ‘my mum made me give you that because I don’t like girls who have moustaches.’
With his jealousy of my ability to grow facial hair 10 years before he sprouted a pube laid to bare across the school playground, I held my head high, kicked him in the head and returned to my game of handball, sore arm and all, cause and though I’m loathed to do it because it calls for a direct quote from Destiny’s Child but ‘I’m a survivor.’ Of course with all the chaos of the day it was easy to lose focus of what was really important; that I got a valentine and as such my self-worth was clearly better than anyone else’s was because even though he didn’t want to admit it, convention dictated that Matthew Kennedy was in love with me.
Years past and I’ve managed to miss Valentine’s Day every time, for varying reasons of course:
– I’m single at the time
– My boyfriend is dating someone else and can’t afford to spring for 2 presents (totally understandable)
– We’ve been on a break
– He was Catholic
– I wasn’t tall enough
I did think perhaps my dry streak might have ended early last year when an old flame rang me to say just say:
‘Hi there sexy’
‘Oh hi there’ I quipped back
‘Hey you know how I could always call you if I had a problem Lou.’
‘Yeah, what’s up?’
‘Well it would appear I have a bit of a blockage.’
‘I’m not a plumber.’
‘It’s not that sort of blockage.’
‘Then get some Metamucil, I mean really we haven’t spoken in months and now you call because you’ve always had a fibre shy diet. This really isn’t my problem. I told you that when we were together’
‘No, it’s not that, I’m just lying here, all pent up and thought I’d call and see if you were good to your word about helping a fella out.’
‘You want me to come over and have sex with you?’
‘Oh no need for that, I’m pretty much almost there, we could really just do it over the phone…you know phone it in.’
I have decided though I’m not going to bemoan Valentine’s Day this year; I’m pretty sure my ex isn’t, so no, instead I’m going to do a twist on an old favourite. I’m going to stand out the front of my house tossing bottles of perfume at men as they walk past and fingers crossed I knock one unconscious and finally get the chance to defile someone to country music – like they say ‘fish gotta swim, girl gotta try.’
Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone.
I spent some time in the US this year mainly performing, mainly spending a lot of time on Skype trying to make myself still an attractive propspect to my boyfriend back home at 2am in the morning, mainly trying to smile at the passive aggressive remarks of Midwest men like ‘ you know, your stuff would be funnier if you weren’t a woman…you know your stuff would be funnier if you didn’t have that Australian accent…you know your stuff would be funnier if I found Mexican’s attractive…you know your stuff would be funnier if you didn’t write it yourself…your stuff would be funnier if I wasn’t attracted to you, but only sexually and only if my wife was cool with it’ and mainly trying to explain to other Australians that lived over there, that yes I like it and everything but no, I could never see myself living there. I would watch as their tiny little heads filled with newly formed transatlantic accents exploded all over their skinny black jeans, you know, the ones that belonged to Sid Vicious, the ones he was wearing the day he died. All the kids are wearing them, especially in New York.
And this is where this story is set, in New York City. It’s a bittersweet town for me, after all this is the birthplace and inevitable killing zone of Law & Order – no one called a Grand Jury on that decision and as such I call ‘worst bullshit cancelling in the history of ever’ – yes, worse than the Wonder Years and that short lived law series with Moira Tierney and Rob Morrow which was EXCELLENT!
I was walking through Central Park with my friends Mark and Sam, minding our own business when suddenly a small child flew off his bicycle in front of us. It took Mark a moment to get to him as we waited for the all the other cyclists and pedestrians who were closer to the accident to just walk or ride around him. By the time Mark got to him and helped moved him out the way his mother had ridden up and as any mother should she started consoling her boy who had managed to escape with not even a scratch, but it didn’t stop him from whinging to his mother that he never wanted to ride his bike in the first place and yes, bikes are stupid.
My friend Sam and I watched from a distance. To anyone else we probably looked like two Hispanic nannies neglecting the white babies of the Upper Eastside elite.
‘If anyone asks’ I told Sam ‘we tell em we sold em, sold their little white babies.’
‘Man’ said Sam ‘I wish I’d filmed that on my phone.’
‘That’s what monsters do.’ I told her.
‘God, Lou it’s not like the kid was shot. He fell off his bike. If anything if he had died at least we’d have some footage you know for insurance and stuff.’
I watched as Mark started to drag the bikes of the mother and the son one by one to the side of the park and that’s when I noticed…
‘You know who that is?’ I teased Sam ‘It’s the actress from Will & Grace; you know the one that isn’t Karen.’
Sam took a closer look with the zoom feature on her phone.
‘So it is’ she breathed in ‘it’s the other one.’
Oddly enough only hours before Mark and I had engaged in an exhaustive 15 minute diatribe about how much we hated ‘Will & Grace’. As Mark was gay this was clearly a confronting conversation that needed to be had. I think we had both settled on the uncomfortable truth that ‘Will & Grace’ was really just ‘Ned and Stacey’ except that people knew what ‘Will & Grace’ was.
Tired, Mark put the final bike down next to our feet and we waited patiently as the mother escorted her still whinging trust fund child back to the curb.
Now in most developed countries and I’d argue most countries where humans live, I guess the normal thing to do would be to, as a mother, thank the man who stepped out into oncoming traffic and pulled her son to the side of the road out of harm’s way and then went back and got both bikes, but as were in the US there was a strong chance this wasn’t going to happen and so that’s when things got awkward.
The actress from Will & Grace continued to ignore Mark as he hovered nearby, the English gentlemen in him having trouble coming to grips with the fact he was being completely ignored and would not be receiving the most simple of a thank-you. Fuck, a coin being placed patronizingly in the palm of his hand with instructions to go and by himself the Hispanic cleaners standing next to him some sweets wouldn’t have been nearly as offensive at this moment.
Now granted, if the kid was injured and being tumbled into an ambulance I think we’d all settle on a compassionately raised eye-brow enough of a thank-you, but he was fine, my friend was exhausted from helping out and you know what, fuck all the excuse making, it would just be the polite fucking thing to do ‘Ms Not Karen from Will & Grace.’
I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and let the bikes drop to the ground. And that was when we got her attention.
‘Come on’ I said ‘Let’s go, she’s not going to say thanks to you Mark because she thinks she’s on TV.’
And that was the truth, there was something in her eyes that said ‘Yep, you know who I am and so you’re going to get all fan obsessed and I shouldn’t have to thank you from saving my child, I’m on TV.’ To which my eyes said something back like ‘yeah and your last show was cancelled and you’re wearing a bum bag and people with bum bags can’t afford to not say thank you to the man who saved your kid from being run over.’
After that Mark and I found ourselves having a cocktail somewhere as we normally did after 10am on a weekday. We settled into a hotel bar in the Meat Packing district and started to while away our day and bitch about said television star.
‘Karen wouldn’t have done that’ I told Mark.
‘Of course not. In fact if it had been Karen we’d be having these cocktails with her right now.’
‘Yes and her husband Nick Offerman.’
‘Yes, yes she is.’
When it was time to head home to drink more wine I stopped into the bathroom. It was one of those set ups with 10 sinks and only one toilet.
As the toilet door didn’t have an engaged sign I opened it expecting to find an unoccupied toilet. How wrong I was.
‘Get out!’ screamed a fully clothed, pants zipped up and all woman of about my age standing next to the toilet.
‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, the door wasn’t locked you see’… I mumbled my way to shutting the door. “I’m sorry but the door was open.’
I waited outside the toilet and tried to distract myself from what was not going on inside. She hadn’t locked the door, it was still clearly unlocked and from what I could tell she was just standing in there.
‘Are you ok?’ I called out ‘Do you need me to get you some help or something’? Maybe she was from a squatting country and confused. I was trying to help.
Finally the door flung open and the women ran to the sink to wash her hands, probably from the all the over top of her clothes masturbation she’d been up to.
‘I can’t believe you just walked in on me’ she ranted ‘I mean I was in there.’
‘Yes, I said, but in my defence the door was unlocked – ‘
‘Is that how you go to the toilet in Sydney?’ she accused me.
‘Ok, Australia isn’t just Sydney, but yes, we go to the bathroom by opening unlocked doors.’
Clearly distressed she ran the water over her hands for far too long and yet for whatever reason I still couldn’t compel myself to go to the toilet.
‘It’s just so rude’ she continued ‘I mean not to even be able to go to the bathroom without some Australian girl just walking in.’
‘You left the door unlocked’ I mumbled back wondering if what had really happened was I’d stumbled across her attempt to cruise women in bathrooms stalls.
Suddenly an older looking version of the women walked into the bathroom.
‘Is everything ok? She asked the irrational toilet woman ‘you’ve been gone and awfully long time.’
‘This Australian woman just walked in on me in the bathroom!’
‘I did not, well not really, she left the door unlocked. I just opened the door and it’s not she was doing anything, she was just standing there, fully clothed.’
‘Fully clothed?’ Asked the women who I was pretty sure was her legal guardian.
‘Pants up I mean’.
‘You did it again? She turned to her daughter who hid her head away.
Ok, so this was clearly a thing.
‘So you left the door opened on purpose?!’
‘No, you walked in on me.’
Her mother turned to me ‘really, you Australian’s are so rude.’
‘But I didn’t do anything wrong’ I yelled back. ‘Clearly your daughter has a thing for baiting women into bathrooms.’
‘How dare you!’ Her mother spat at me ‘it pains me to say to it, but the truth is the last good Australian died the day Steve Irwin died.’
And with that she bundled up her daughter and left the bathroom.
Unable to pee anymore I left the bathroom shortly after. Mark was waiting for me.
‘You took long enough’ he moaned ‘is it a vagina thing?’
‘Well yes’ I said ‘you could definitely say it was cunt related.’
Here is a reading of my story ‘The Girl Who Looked Like a Man’ from my show ‘Not Suitable for Children’.
This is a reading from my new show ‘Not Suitable for Children’. A collection of children’s stories not at all suitable for children.
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
Last night I was woken by an anxious friend calling me from overseas concerned that her boyfriend was on the verge of cheating on her.
‘It’s horrible, like I know he’s not right now cause he’s making me a smoothie but when he asked if I wanted avocado I just thought of my god that’s her vagina and him making me the smoothie well that’s just him metaphorically f**king her.’
‘With the avocado?’
‘No, she is the avocado. Don’t you see?’
‘He’s not going to cheat on you with an avocado, there’s not enough room’ I mumbled as I rolled onto my side and was greeted with my flashing clock and the reminder it was 3am – clearly finest advice given hour.
‘It’s my own fault you know, I hired her for this campaign and she’s his ‘free walk around the park.’ Oh my god, I’m Jennifer Aniston. I can literally feel the pity of others dripping off me.’
‘Not that this is important, but you do know it’s free to walk around a park?’
‘Not in LA Lou.’
My pillow fell on my face but to my shock and horror I was still able to breathe…f**k I can’t even muffle myself properly at this hour…
‘So what she’s his ‘if I could cheat on you it would be with her’?! Everyone knows they’re just the thing of fiction, something couples do to add meaning to a relationship.’
‘You so know this is how it started with Brad and Angelina.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Him and Jen were just kicking back at their house in Malibu and Jen’s all like she’d so go Captain Picard – ‘
‘-Captain Picard, from Star Trek?’
‘- yes Lou, he’s very commanding and anyway I thought you liked bald?’
‘I’ve done bald, but it never set a precedent.’
‘That’s a shame; I think you and the Captain would work well together.’
‘He’s not real’
‘Those things from your past you’ve called relationships aren’t what we’d call real either but let’s not split hairs, I was talking about Jen and Brad.’
‘Yes, back to those close friends of ours.’
‘Don’t get sarky.’
‘And so am I Lou, from this constant fight to keep my man.’
My pillow smelled nice, I could feel my oxygen levels running low…
‘Well they were just hanging and she’s like her night on the town would be Captain Picard and Brad laughs and knocks back some carb-free popcorn and Jen tickles him until he admits he’d so go Lara Croft from Tomb Raider and then they both laugh cause they know they’ll never cheat on each other cause their cheats are fictional characters and then Jen’s like ‘hey Brad, we just got this script, it’s called Mr & Mrs Smith I’m thinking of producing it post Friends and then BOOM he’s suddenly adopting Asians.’
I hung up, still alive.
Now a few years back when I was living in London I’d had this same conversation with my then boyfriend who at every turn made it very clear he was never out to impress me.
‘Any page 3 girl’ he said. ‘You know just for something different.’
‘Different how?’ I asked
‘You know naked with boobs.’
‘Oh as opposed to myself?’
‘Well I can see you naked any time I want so it doesn’t count.’
‘I can guarantee you from this point on you will not be able to see me naked anytime you want.’
‘You going all frigid or something?’
‘Yes, that’s it. I’m going all frigid or something.’
The conversation had been prompted when my ‘night off’ guy had moved into the same street as us, Matt Day, previously of A Country Practice…ok, so it had been a long time between long term relationships and I hadn’t gotten around to updating my list. It happens to the best of us.
‘You have to change your guy’ my boyfriend stated.
‘Cause he now lives next door.’
‘You’re more inclined to have sex with him if the he’s next door. It’s a presented opportunity now.’
‘I don’t want to have sex with him.’
‘It doesn’t matter if you do or you don’t.’
‘I think you’ll find it does both legally and human rights wise’
He closed his copy of the Mirror, Sandra from Cheshire’s breasts saw the light of day no more…
‘No. You see if we’re together forever then he’s your only way out, whereas I get page 3 ladies and Julie Sawahla but only from her Press Gang days, you’ve should’ve given yourself more options.’
‘So you’re saying I either sleep with Matt Day, cause that’s bound to happen at some point when he walks past our flat with his baby and wife, or never sleep with anyone but you ever again?’
‘Yes. It’s really a concept that doesn’t involve that much thought Lou.’
‘There’s a lot things in this room at the moment that don’t require much thought…’
We’re not together anymore. 15 years on (yes, it was that long ago I made him my ‘get out of jail free card’) and Matt Day is still a hottie, but as my relationship ended and I matured with age I was very aware of the severe limitations I’d placed on myself with only one option, now I have more, starting with Ron Weasley and ending with Shaun Micallef (yeah, I just haven’t made my career more awkward). That is why there is now a chair on my front porch, just in case they move in down the street.