worries. If that’s adding to your stress, I can drive you up there. Now, ring the police.”
Flo is an angel. We’re chalk and cheese, I know I’m ditzy and she’s anything but, but our friendship works. I would jump in front of a speeding train to save her and I know she would do the same for me. It was Flo that got me my job at Penny Pinchers. I love her to bits.
I rang the police, but I was a bit flustered after that ordeal, so Flo rang the insurance company for me. They said they would get me a courtesy car within twenty four hours. Flo said the man was lovely. I should have spoke to him myself. After giving me a lift home, Flo returned a couple of hours later to give me a lift to my induction at the gym. She also said she’d pick me up for work the next day too.
Turns out Martin at the gym was fit. Fit in every sense of the word. Fit spelt f-u-c-k-i-n-g-g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s. You should have seen his abs! I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Beautiful. He’s taking me to the cinema on Thursday. Hope it’s not to see some arty farty film like Harry Potter that I have to pretend I understand. Might not be though, he seemed more brawns than brains, which is fine. Smart blokes just treat you like you’re a fool. Anyway, we’re going, let’s see where this one leads. All things considered, it’s not been too bad a day after all.
FLO – May 2011
My car is a pig sty. It’s a Nissan Micra but it should be called Nissan Snout or Nissan Trough or something like that. If you came to my house, you wouldn’t find a spot of dust anywhere, not even on top of the cupboards, but my laws of cleanliness don’t stretch as far as the car. I’m not sure why this is, perhaps it’s because it is always raining in Chorley or for several months of the year, it is dark by the time I get home and I just can’t be bothered heading out with a vacuum cleaner, a tin of polish and a bin bag to clean it out. Car related OCD is a boy thing. The inside of my car does tell a story though, it tells me how much chocolate I’ve consumed, how many sugary drinks I’ve glugged and how many packs of cigarettes I’ve smoked my way through. If I’m going through a spell of trying to pack in the fags, there are fewer cigarette packets but a lot of fingernail clippings and a few cups of coffee torn into tiny pieces. About once a month, I’ll take the levels of crap down from shoulder height to knee height and then the process starts all over again.
Zara would not set foot in my car if she wasn’t in need of a lift. Girlie girls don’t like going into work with smudged chocolate on their arse, it looks too much like crap and no-one is ever going to risk smelling it so they can differentiate. Zara is a bit of an airhead but she likes to look immaculate. This is a girl who sets her alarm for five thirty every morning so that she can shower, wash her hair, blow dry it, do her nails and put her make up on before a day working in one of the tackiest shops in Chorley, Penny Pinchers. I had given her a lift to David Lloyd’s gym the night before and she pulled a few faces as her pink shiny trainers were drowned under four inches of rubbish, so I was not surprised to see Zara walking out to my car the following morning with two beach towels, one to lay over the passenger seat to avoid the aforementioned chocolate arse and the other to lay over the mountain of rubbish so she did not soil her shiny, polished shoes.
“Good morning, Flo! What a lovely morning it is too!”
I grunted my response. It was eight thirty. I had only been awake for ten minutes. Bags of shite were more attractive than me at that time of the day. I am a self-confessed irritable bitch until lunch time, but Zara is always a ray of sunshine, twenty four hours a day, unless she has boyfriend or car catastrophes anyway, which both happen far too regularly. There’s always a
Flo is an angel. We’re chalk and cheese, I know I’m ditzy and she’s anything but, but our friendship works. I would jump in front of a speeding train to save her and I know she would do the same for me. It was Flo that got me my job at Penny Pinchers. I love her to bits.
I rang the police, but I was a bit flustered after that ordeal, so Flo rang the insurance company for me. They said they would get me a courtesy car within twenty four hours. Flo said the man was lovely. I should have spoke to him myself. After giving me a lift home, Flo returned a couple of hours later to give me a lift to my induction at the gym. She also said she’d pick me up for work the next day too.
Turns out Martin at the gym was fit. Fit in every sense of the word. Fit spelt f-u-c-k-i-n-g-g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s. You should have seen his abs! I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Beautiful. He’s taking me to the cinema on Thursday. Hope it’s not to see some arty farty film like Harry Potter that I have to pretend I understand. Might not be though, he seemed more brawns than brains, which is fine. Smart blokes just treat you like you’re a fool. Anyway, we’re going, let’s see where this one leads. All things considered, it’s not been too bad a day after all.
FLO – May 2011
My car is a pig sty. It’s a Nissan Micra but it should be called Nissan Snout or Nissan Trough or something like that. If you came to my house, you wouldn’t find a spot of dust anywhere, not even on top of the cupboards, but my laws of cleanliness don’t stretch as far as the car. I’m not sure why this is, perhaps it’s because it is always raining in Chorley or for several months of the year, it is dark by the time I get home and I just can’t be bothered heading out with a vacuum cleaner, a tin of polish and a bin bag to clean it out. Car related OCD is a boy thing. The inside of my car does tell a story though, it tells me how much chocolate I’ve consumed, how many sugary drinks I’ve glugged and how many packs of cigarettes I’ve smoked my way through. If I’m going through a spell of trying to pack in the fags, there are fewer cigarette packets but a lot of fingernail clippings and a few cups of coffee torn into tiny pieces. About once a month, I’ll take the levels of crap down from shoulder height to knee height and then the process starts all over again.
Zara would not set foot in my car if she wasn’t in need of a lift. Girlie girls don’t like going into work with smudged chocolate on their arse, it looks too much like crap and no-one is ever going to risk smelling it so they can differentiate. Zara is a bit of an airhead but she likes to look immaculate. This is a girl who sets her alarm for five thirty every morning so that she can shower, wash her hair, blow dry it, do her nails and put her make up on before a day working in one of the tackiest shops in Chorley, Penny Pinchers. I had given her a lift to David Lloyd’s gym the night before and she pulled a few faces as her pink shiny trainers were drowned under four inches of rubbish, so I was not surprised to see Zara walking out to my car the following morning with two beach towels, one to lay over the passenger seat to avoid the aforementioned chocolate arse and the other to lay over the mountain of rubbish so she did not soil her shiny, polished shoes.
“Good morning, Flo! What a lovely morning it is too!”
I grunted my response. It was eight thirty. I had only been awake for ten minutes. Bags of shite were more attractive than me at that time of the day. I am a self-confessed irritable bitch until lunch time, but Zara is always a ray of sunshine, twenty four hours a day, unless she has boyfriend or car catastrophes anyway, which both happen far too regularly. There’s always a
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