I flop down on the landing step. I’m not moving until my flatmate has given me an answer to the question which women have been asking since the dawn of time; well, the dawn of smoke signals.
‘Look, he probably had three of you on the go.’
Next time I’ll ask for sugar in my truth.
An Even Simpler Philosophy
I’m um-ing and ah-ing over whether or not to see the guy again. My flatmate, king of subtlety, has reached the end of his tether.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘It’s very simple. Do you want to rip the guy’s clothes off?’
‘Right, then don’t go out with him again.’