Monday, July 31, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.
BRITISH for program.
“An exaggerated sigh whooshes passed her lips the moment her feet cross over threshold of her quaint bedsit. With more force than strictly necessary, she slams the front door and sags against it. A few curses follow up her exhalation, but the gist of it is summed up as follows:
‘Happy bleeding Friday to me,’ she groans, massaging out a tender muscle in her left shoulder before shoving off the door (but not before locking it).
Her purse nosedives to meet the worn-out carpet with a heavy thud. She shucks her heels, kicking them in whichever direction they land and shimmies out of her suit jacket.
She makes an appropriate party-esque hooting noise as she pit stops in the kitchenette, scrounging for wine and would even settle for beer. Perhaps even something less fruity and alcoholic, but requires it to be a tad stronger than water. Fresh out of the good stuff and too lazy to venture back out-of-doors, the woman shrugs and pulls out lemonade. She sets the pitcher on the counter and starts stripping until she’s starkers, strutting round her own home without a care in the world.
And she totally flings her bra across the room, muttering “good riddance” under her breath.
She slips into loose-fitted workout pants and two and a half times too big tee shirt (used for such occasions as well as when she’s peaky). Then she’s ambling out of her “bedroom” area toward the cramped sitting portion. She’s fidgeting around in her secondhand love seat when her phone bleats.
‘No,’ she whinges plaintively. She swipes the electronic and opens the text message. ‘Of course I don’t wanna go out!’ She snorts upon reading. ‘I’m down for the rest of the evening. Can’t anyone take a bloody hint?’
Her favourite telly programme is on in five minutes and her bra’s off: are her friends seriously inquiring if she’s interested in coming out? Does it look like she’s going anywhere? No it doesn’t, ta very much.
But how does she phrase that politely enough to still have friends come morning?”