A Right Sort
There I was, out and about with Mart in Clerkenwell flapping about in the sunshine minding my own business, when we spot this rather lovely thing:
Jesus. Nearly wet myself, so we went in for a closer look.
If pigeons could wank I’d have been in a right mess. Fucking gorgeous she was, till she opened her beak. Oh dear. I asked her what her name was and out came this high pitched noise. No words, just noise. Unintelligible and painful to the ears. May as well have been another language.
I said ‘Pardon?’ and asked her to repeat herself, which she did, and the same thing happened. Using my inbuilt word decoder I think she said her name was Stacey, but I can’t be sure. Realising that she really was only one for the eye, we moved on. Can’t be doing with that. No matter how brief or limited, some level of conversation is essential I reckon, although this is something Mart disagrees with, but that’s probably because conversation isn’t his strong point either.
That said, I couldn’t help feeling a tad disappointed. Oh well.