She arrives back from the Village Pub late on the Friday night. I am already a bit cross with her, as I had been playing snooker on the Thursday and had planned to watch the rugby at the Village Pub on the Saturday. You would think that she would not go out on the Friday so that we could spend some time together. She is selfish.
Mrs Short Tony and Mrs Big A follow her into the kitchen and start rootling through her hair with the hands that don’t hold freshly-poured glasses of wine.
“What’s going on?” I enquire.
“Headlice,” I am told.
I don’t know about other people, but I had always thought that it was normal to go for a kebab or whatever on a Friday night after the Village Pub, rather than holding some sort of headlice clinic. Feminine hilarity ensues as they start scratching away at her scalp. I am annoyingly sober.
“Er – did you have a good time?”
“If she has them, the likelihood is that you do as well.”
I am assaulted by a drunk woman with a comb and latex gloves. Given that I have an average-sized head and short hair the inspection is over very quickly.
“You’ve not got them. Just her.”
The LTLP has fleas!!! She looks really pissed off at this. But I haven’t, so it is all right.