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I'm meant to be meeting some women about a mile east of here in around ten minutes, for a drink. The drink will take place about a mile west of here.
It seems silly to go one way then back the other, and this logical flaw in the plan is making me drag my feet in getting ready. Actually, that's a little specious: I know full well I'm the world's worst time keeper (witness: my oldest friends always always arrange meetings places that offer chairs, refreshments and magazines for the wait.) In fact, am sitting about, blogging, in a work suit and a crumpled white shirt, and sneezing copiously. Then wondering if I can get away without washing the 'snailtrails' off. Ew. Not the best midweek drink outfit I've ever seen, however well trimmed me pants are.
I warned them I might be late, also (another poor justification for dawdling) and rentawitch promised to text me their location if I didn't make the first assignation spot in time.
Five minutes till I'm sposed to be there. Hmm.
I could get changed. Into something clean, say.
Look snotty, crumpled and spod-like, or look better dressed but possibly miss the whole thing?
Tomorrow, somebody I know (I dare not say their name, for fear of embarrassing them to David Kelly proportions) is going to go to the Singalonga Sounda Music with me. I shall spend my Friday night in the company of singing drunken transvestite nuns! How do you solve a problem like Maria, indeed.
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