As the after-effects of an almighty toot begin to fade, there is the temptation to question one's behaviour while under the influence. One becomes conscious of having made something of an ass of oneself. Embarassment and shame come a-calling.
Then something quite unusual happens.
A telephone call out of the blue. From two girls I had engaged in conversation while riding the omnibus to Blyth, one a local, the other hailing from London. It is clear that whatever state I had been in at the time of our meeting, it is a mere bagatelle compared to the "wired to the moon" degree of intoxication and inebriation my erstwhile companions are currently enjoying.
"I want ya cock!" "Ya fucken fit as fuck!" and "Give us a shag!" are just some of the imprecations being bellowed at me down the wire. Were the situations reversed, this would probably constitute an obscene phone call. Instead, I find it all rather jolly. It seems only right and proper that those who live by juiced-up pestering see it from the other side. What's good for the gander and all that rot, eh?
Also, for all their crazy talk of chillums and ecstasy, the fact remains that I have had ladies ringing me up informing me of the fact that I am "fit as fuck". Giddy up, what?
Until later mes amis, keep it orthodox.