Cheap Thrills

I stopped in at Boxer Girl's on Saturday arvo. She had a few people over watching the footy. I was out in the kitchen doing the cryptic crossword like the exciting person I am when Boxer Girl's mum toddled out for a chat. I'm not sure how it came about, but I realised The Old Girl was referring to me as middle-aged. Boxer Girl remonstrated with her mother. BG's friend, One-Eye, said, "Oh nice one. I suppose when I have my 50th this year you'll send me a sympathy card?"

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One-Eye was screaming at the telly, something about the Eagles for whom she has a slight and controlled passion, when her husband wandered in pointing with mock alarm to a red patch on his nose. He failed to elicit much sympathy from One-Eye.

"You've probably got some dreadful disease that'll end up killing you."

"Yeah, and there's only one person who could have given it to me."

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It was time for me to go. I got a big laugh with my exit line.

"Good to see you all again," I said. "I'd better be off. I have to get home and, like Mrs Slocombe would say, feed mah pussies."

Drunks make the best audience. When they're not chucking stuff at you.