There are few stories I can relay this week
which do not begin with the words "My mate Stuart and this old dear....", as I have a friend who is becoming a bit of a granny grabber. However, the one tale I do have is quite tenuous at best, although it sort of fits both this week and last weeks questions, so you'll have to bear with me.

A few short weeks ago, myself and a few friends travelled to Edinburgh to watch Scotland's rugby team put up an epic performance against the South Africans, almost beating the best country in the world! The day went well, we had a few nice chats with some South African supporters, not like football where we'd all have been hurling molotov cocktails at each other.

The game finished, we had lost. My mates were all pretty drunk by now, but I haven't been feeling too well recently so had only had a single pint. We staggered off, had a steak dinner and ended up in some swanky Edinburgh bar. After being forcibly removed from some reserved seats, all the while going "ooooooh re-SERRRR-ved!", we found some more reserved seats, scrunched up the reserved sign and settled in. I was dressed like a tramp compared to the suited and booted clientelle and felt a trifle uncomfortable, so I discarded my scotland cowboy hat and decided drink was the answer. We all trotted off to the bar and stumbled upon possibly the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld.

There she stood. About my height. five foot seven since you ask, long blonde hair, perfect curved figure wrapped in a tight short black dress. I only saw her from the back at first but was instantly struck dumb. I came to my senses with my friend shouting "What do you want?" at me and pointing at the bar, and for some reason, shy little me nodded in her direction and said, rather louder than I had intended to, "her". She heard me. She turned, her beautiful face even more stunning than I had expected, and giggled at me. For some reason, the usual shameful feeling of being a tiny slug in the glow of a huge sun did not appear, despite the fact I was still mostly sober. She was in her early twenties, and she gave me a little knowing look and a smile that would melt ice.

My friend returned to the task of buying drinks and she had again turned to face the bar. Thinking my brush with beauty over, I started talking to my other friend, who stands a good 8 inches taller than me, and said "You know, I think I'll go into hospital and get my legs broke and reset, you know, so I can be taller!" Quick as a flash, this beautiful creature spun round and said "Oooooh, I'd love to do that as well I hate being short!"

She's. Speaking. To. Me.

My mind tried desperately to pull up from the deathspin it had just gone into. I have to find words, ANY words just so long as they aren't crushingly embarrassing. "You aren't short though, not for a girl" I managed, trying to sound as flattering as a half melted slug can. She then kicked off one shoe and stepped down to her true height of around five foot two. Which as everyone knows, is just perfection.

I was in love.

"Wow" I gasped. "How big are those heels?" She stooped and presented me with her shoe. I fought the urge to dash off into the night with it. I also realised that giving it a huge comedy sniff was probably not going to go down well. I settled on stating that I had a similar pair at home but not in that colour, and she giggled. This is amazing! I am speaking to a stunner and I haven't caught fire yet. My mate then attempted to sabotage me by saying he could smell feet, but even that didn't work, nothing could stop the events that were unfolding. I had met the future Mrs. Bag and nobody could.....

"'Scuse me, mate". A shoulder scraped along my face and I found myself eyeball to neck with someone. Some escapee from the local old folks home had stolen a suit and wandered in. But what's this? He's kissing MY FUTURE WIFE? The man must have been all of 55. He turned with her waist held firmly in his grasp, expensive suit wafting stylish cologne in my face. He gave me a slightly smug look and walked off with my future in his arms. The bastard.

It gave me hope though. If I can somehow afford an expensive suit and a sports car, it won't matter how old I get. the man looked like Ronnie Wood's grampa.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 17:07, Reply)