Through your premature sunglasses you see me approaching. Put on your cool face. Vent some smoke in my general direction. Laugh or smile, it's your choice, at the thing your friend just said.
How I hate thee.
Where were you in the winter? Autumn even?
No place for you then to be sat outside, amidst the wind and the rain and the sleet and the other stuff that falls from the sky that isn't sunbeams.
What's wrong with inside the pub eh? The creak of a chair. The crackle of a fire. A raft of winter coats slouching upon not enough coat hangers.
Get back. Back to whence you dwell in the winter months. Hibernating under cocktail umbrellas like little moths, waiting to dust yourself down once more for the summer months.
I swat thee.
2 comments:
brilliant. my feelings exactly. now that i've thought about it like that.
Aah cheers, one of them pet hates I have to rant about every now and then.
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