Love. It's a wonderful, wonderful thing. Birds sing, happy smiley bees flit about your head, and you bang your end on doors even though you are a good foot away at the time. Love, everybody! But love! You're English (or Canadian, but imagine, eh?) you couldn't possibly tell her your true feelings because she'd laugh, tell all her friends that you're a first order spacker and the humiliation will kill you... Oh!
Unrequited love, then. It's shit, isn't it?
For me, it was my dentist Mrs Allison. Not my regular dentist, mind you, although she was not without her latex-gloved charms - Mrs Allison was the pneumatic *cough* relief dentist that came in on Fridays to do root canal work. Heaven.
Mrs Allison, you see, possessed the most enormous pair of lady-bumps that squished into the side of your head while she hammered away at your tooth with a Black and Decker cordless drill every Friday for two months. Bargain basement thrills, they were too, and the best sixteen pounds I ever spent. These days, no dentist in the country would press their cleavage into your face for less than a couple of hundred.
Just Fridays? I'd have given her a filling any day of the week.
It was, looking back on those halcyon days of oral torture mixed with the finest sensual pleasure, an experience that has made me the fine, upstanding individual with a grey tooth that I am today.
I'm over it now. Why bother with pointless, doomed crushes when you can ride round and round on the Circle Line all day with a mirror superglued to the toe of your shoe?
OK officer, I'll come quietly.
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