Zena's entry:
I’m going teetotal, me, on the wagon.
Love of my life, Mathilda Parker. Beautiful inside and out with a tongue stud that shows when she laughs. I do things for Matty, opening doors and that, which I never done for Sal or Tam. She can cook too, shepherds pie with peas, I like that. We was getting engaged.
Sal never cooked, we was busy doing other stuff if you get my drift, and Tamsin, well, she’s a real stunner. Yesterday Matty’s busy so I go down the pub, all happy like, and who should be there but Sal and Tam. I talk to them but that’s it, honest. We walk back and they’re sort of propping me up three abreast, if you’ll pardon the expression. I laughed till I cried, wiped me eyes on Sal’s tissue, I was that happy.
Anyway Sal drops off at her house and Tam and me walk toward hers. She’s giving me a congratulations peck on the cheek when who drives by but Matty’s dad with Mat in the back, and Matty’s opened the window and yelled, “You b***dy scumbag, Rob Carver!” My legs was too wobbly to run after so I shouts, “Mat! I love you!”. Right in the street!
Tamsin runs indoors so I remember that tattoo parlour, dirt cheap place, and ask the bloke for ‘Mat’ in capital letters in a heart on me bicep, and draw it for him on Sally’s tissue.
I was rough this morning, but I’m halfway to Matty’s to win her back when the hangover lifts a bit and I scrabble to look at my tattoo again, memories of lager and tissue telling me something isn’t right.
Yeah, I’m going teetotal. That tattoo would’ve won her over all right. If only he hadn’t put it on back-to-front.
Sally's entry:
The t-shirt was a shimmeringly sexy silver. He lifted it out of the silk-covered box, fine tissue paper whispering, and held it up against the light. He admired its diaphanous, metallic folds and the way it caught the light. So this was haute couture, he thought, with a shiver of delight. It wasn’t as if he made a habit of spending three-figure sums on a single t-shirt, after all.
It was only when he began to put it on that he realised one entire side of the t-shirt was transparent. He stared at it, uncomprehending. This he had not bargained for.
There was nothing for it but to keep his fingers crossed and put it on. Not wanting to show off his less-than-muscular chest, or his slightly fluffy belly-button, he opted for the transparent back option. Yes - that must be it.
Off he went, down the street, feeling like a million dollars. He began to strut, seeing pure envy in the surreptitious stares people gave him as he walked by.
It was only halfway down the street that he realised people had begun pointing at him, sniggering behind their hands. Before long, some were openly laughing out loud.
It was his back they were pointing at. He began to feel uncomfortable, uneasy. Unable to bear it any more, he found a plate-glass window and slowly, nonchalantly, turned his back on it. Trying to look unconcerned, he looked over his shoulder.
The back of the t-shirt wasn’t transparent at all, but a hologram. A big fluorescent pink arrow winked downwards, with the words “Big, bold and beautiful”. He was painfully sure it wasn’t intended to point at his backside.
He blushed furiously, hotly, wishing the ground would swallow him up.
If only he hadn’t put it on back-to-front.
Chris's entry:
What's in a name?
Jeff Marquez, resplendent in cream blazer and chinos, handed five £20 notes to his nephew as they walked towards the racetrack.
“As it’s your first day at the races, young Matt, I want you to remember the 3 golden rules: first, don't put all your money on one race. Second, if you know nothing about horses, find one whose name gives you confidence. And third, have fun! Now,I have to leave you briefly to meet someone, but I'll be back for the second race, ok?”
Matt scanned the list of runners for the first race, and quickly picked out one whose name seemed to absolutely guarantee triumph over adversity. Confidence? This horse could not lose. It would come from the rear of the field, storm through, and win by a nose or more. Forgetting his uncle’s advice, Matt bet the entire £100.
He had been partly right. His horse was in last place... and there it stayed. Mooching from the trackside, Matt tore up his betting slip and wondered what to say to his uncle. If only the horse had won... if only he hadn't bet the whole £100... if only he had not put in on Back-to-front.
[Christine frowned, and mused over the last sentence. Where was the emphasis here? Surely, this was a definite instance of an unstressed auxiliary verb with a purely grammatical function? Her hands hovered briefly over the keyboard for a moment, then she retyped...]
... if only he hadn't put it on Back-to-front.
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