Last night I told James I didn’t feel like going to the Pampered Chef party a neighbour had invited me to. “I’m tired and I’ve got toothache,” I wined. “But I’ll have to go because that sounds so lame.”
“I’ll help you,” James volunteered, taking one eye off Sky Sports News. “I’ll go round and smooth things over.”
Ofcourse I should have known better. I really should have phoned up and been honest. But weak as I am, I sat back and waited for James to come back… and waited… and waited.
Five hours later I woke up to hear someone falling over the wheelie bin, which wasn’t anywhere near our front door. Then James banged on the door before he tried the handle and fell through it.
“I’ve really helped you out this time,” he slurred, the buttons on his fly undone. “Three hours I spent at that tupperware party sitting next to a load of lezzers. The food was rubbish and they ran out of tinnies, but don’t worry, I’ve brought you back a souvenir. Fuck knows what it is, but I doubt they’ll miss it.”
Yes, he really smoothed things over for me.