Ms. Victoria Jane Ward
Wine o’clock – Best night ever again until it no longer was. Sod off James – the millstone around my neck – was the general consensus amongst mi mates and it didn’t take much coercing for me to adopt their way of thinking (well deindividuation is a real problem amongst group members) and on that note I cannot really be held responsible for the catastrophe that happened next. So after telling James to simmer darn when he reprimanded me again for going OTT during happy hour, and after being urged to sup it darn by mi mates, I started to loosen up; that is I found the girl that had been stifled for the last year. I guess it’s on a par with an animal that has been locked up for way too long and is then released into the wild. My skirt hitched up to my boobs as I dared to show some leg (because even if I do say so myself I have a lovely set of pins), my sensible, scissor sharp hair ruffled into a messy doo by Sarah who had used the greying, cracked block of soap from the loo to give it ‘some oomph’, my blouse unbuttoned, again by Sarah, to reveal my pert D cups, I was getting back to me. I was having the best time. Flannigan’s attempted conditioning of my behaviour was no longer of any concern to me once the Working Men’s Club’s cheap house white started taking its unpredictable effect (it was probably watered down with wazz – either that or somebody had dropped acid in it again and trust me that is never a good idea when you have repressed issues). I was dancing around like a fairy on crack; reminiscing, back in my raving days, Old Skool style. You never quite lose the ability to dance like you’re stacking boxes on a shelf; all I needed was a whistle. I had been so caught up in my awesome moves that I even forgot to make Horrid Harriet jealous by dry humping James’s leg all night and rubbing it in her face (well not my actual leg) that I had bagged the affluent one. Me who grew up in a corporation house with council pop – quid’s in! James has money you see (well his mot
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