Wolf – Red Card?

wolf

It didn’t take much, it was the smallest of small things, or so I thought at the time, but then she was gone.

Was it me?

Was my understanding so different to hers that what I perceived as trivial, she perceived as a sacking offence?

A straight red-card, sent off the field of play for ungentlemanly conduct without as much as a goodnight kiss.

I thought about it later, obviously not that night as I was drunk at the time, chatting to someone on the last train home and driving up the short journey from the station because the normal laws that apply to everyone else don’t apply to me.

What?

Does that offend you?

Do you think I’m some sort of arrogant psycho?

Or are you such a hopelessly pathetic individual that you let stupid things like the law dictate what you do, when you’re capable of doing what you want to do regardless of the laws imposed on you by the rest of society?

You see, that’s why you’re you and I’m me.

But let me explain, it’s about balance really, when the law is an ass, ignore it.

If I was that bad that I couldn’t drive, then I wouldn’t, but I wasn’t, so I did.

But let me tell you a wee secret, a not very politically correct one.

I like driving when I’m drunk.

Yep, there you go, speeding down a deserted country road at night with the head-lights on full-beam, the over-hanging trees casting scary shadows or creating a tunnel effect, the stereo playing at full volume and imagining that I’m in some 80s pop video that I can’t remember the name of.

Hoo-ha! Hoo-ha! Welcome to the Pleasure Dome.

Sometimes, if a song that I particularly enjoy is playing, I drive past my house just to listen to it a little longer, Shine On You Crazy Diamond, just before the bass riff kicks in, who wants to stop driving at that point?

Anyway, the next day I wake up on the sofa as usual, still wearing last night’s clothes, the mug of tea I made when I got in sitting on the coffee table beside me untouched.

Jeez, what is it like having a bloody body clock, Sunday morning and I’m awake before alarm time, even although it isn’t set at weekends.

My heads fuzzy, but not painful, I really didn’t have that much, just cocktails and a few beers, then wine with dinner, some more beers and another cocktail or two to finish.

Is that a lot?

I don’t drink during the week, so that was probably my weekly allowance in one go.

The docs say that binge drinking is dangerous, wake up doc, life is dangerous, just try crossing the road when some nutter in a BMW is flying along at 60 in a 30.

So a wee bit of bingeing doesn’t do any real harm, so what if it cuts a little bit off the end of your life, by the time you get to that age you’re probably fucked and want out of it anyway.

So drink up and shut up. Or if you don’t drink, just shut up.

My hangover is kicking in and I can do without your criticism, thank you very much.

Then I remember last night and relive the moment that I told her to “Fuck off”.

Yep, that’s what I told her and yes I know that it was very uncouth and very ungentlemanly of me.

But you see I didn’t mean for her to leave, she’s just a bit sensitive in that way being such a fucking princess.

As you probably know “Fuck off” doesn’t always mean that you want the person to leave as in “Get to Fuck” wherever that is.

My “Fuck off” in context was more a “Get real” or “You’re talking shit” kind of comment.

I didn’t actually mean for her to leave me sitting at the table on my own. Sitting there looking stupid as faces peer at you and the waiters whisper.

Here’s a question for you … If you earn significantly more than the girl or guy that you’ve been seeing, should you always pay for dinner?

Yep, that’s my point exactly.

Besides I’d paid for our previous 3 meals out, even the cheap one mid-week when she could have taken a turn and made a contribution which would have been noted and appreciated.

So when she said “Are you going to pay for this?”

An ungracious presumption on her part, I would never ask someone else to pay for my meal.

You can see how the conversation went, particularly as she brought up the difference in earnings.

Was I right to say “Fuck off” to that comment?

Okay, I could’ve have handled it better, but even if the point was badly made, it is still factually correct.

I pick up my mobile but there’s no messages.

Hmmm, I wonder if I’ll hear from her again or if that’s another one gone?


 

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