Flighty
flirting
I woke up from a strange dream about ramshackle country piles, drop-top cars, the Jeremy Clarkson God of Motoring and flirty posh birds thinking about... flirting.
I don't really indulge anymore, no opportunities, but I used to get a real kick out of it. I love a good flirt. Flirty girls are the best. Many years ago, I worked with a world class flirt. If flirting was Formula 1, then she was Spoonface; if flirting was football, she was Brazil; if flirting was herbs, she was basil.
She had the power, the force. I first met her before she even came to work in my office, when she still worked behind the Boots photographic counter. I went in there one lunchtime to have some film developed - the one hour service - and I spent the whole hour thinking about her. Hazel was her name. She was no particular beauty, a freckle-faced Irish-looking girl with brown hair and green eyes. Her skirt was very tight, I noticed that about her. But she had the brightest of smiles and the sweetest of natures.
She switched it on immediately. I walked away from the counter with my colleague and we looked at each other: she was fantastic.
Then she came and worked in the office. I was gobsmacked: "It's you!"
Of course, she had no recollection of me. She was the same way with everyone, total flirt. I loved working with her. She had a boyfriend, of course. Those are the best kinds of flirts; she was very intimate, there were no barriers or taboos, far as she was concerned. So she knew everything about you, your love life, talked about everything, gave advice. We even socialised, I knew her boyfriend/husband. She got married and got knocked up and she was still at the top of her game.
Whatever happened to her, I wonder?
I woke up from a strange dream about ramshackle country piles, drop-top cars, the Jeremy Clarkson God of Motoring and flirty posh birds thinking about... flirting.
I don't really indulge anymore, no opportunities, but I used to get a real kick out of it. I love a good flirt. Flirty girls are the best. Many years ago, I worked with a world class flirt. If flirting was Formula 1, then she was Spoonface; if flirting was football, she was Brazil; if flirting was herbs, she was basil.
She had the power, the force. I first met her before she even came to work in my office, when she still worked behind the Boots photographic counter. I went in there one lunchtime to have some film developed - the one hour service - and I spent the whole hour thinking about her. Hazel was her name. She was no particular beauty, a freckle-faced Irish-looking girl with brown hair and green eyes. Her skirt was very tight, I noticed that about her. But she had the brightest of smiles and the sweetest of natures.
She switched it on immediately. I walked away from the counter with my colleague and we looked at each other: she was fantastic.
Then she came and worked in the office. I was gobsmacked: "It's you!"
Of course, she had no recollection of me. She was the same way with everyone, total flirt. I loved working with her. She had a boyfriend, of course. Those are the best kinds of flirts; she was very intimate, there were no barriers or taboos, far as she was concerned. So she knew everything about you, your love life, talked about everything, gave advice. We even socialised, I knew her boyfriend/husband. She got married and got knocked up and she was still at the top of her game.
Whatever happened to her, I wonder?
posted by Anonymous at
Thursday, January 27, 2005
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