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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Comedy · #1795621
Today Fifi Jo is meandering the streets after a night out, but will she make it home?
One Monday morning - somewhere in your city....


I meander along Main Street eating a croissant and looking into shop windows admiring my reflection. Feeling very 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' until I discover my beehive looks more like a birds nest, my dress has hand prints about the cleavage and a tyre mark across the hem, one kitten heel has broken off and my croissant is actually cold toast. I stick out my expensively buffed and polished hand for a cab to immediately stop in front of me as per my status decrees, but just get weird looks from a teenager on a skateboard. Consider this mode of transportation for a moment but will not allow myself to stoop to riding in anything without tinted windows, or indeed an engine.


Arrive home after endless walk of shame.


Pass out.


I am awoken in my front garden flower bed by buzzing sounds, to discover birds nest hairdo is now a real beehive.


Vow never to drink a carafe of cherry vodka followed by 6 Jagerbomb shooters EVER AGAIN!


I ring work and explain I will not be in today, as am suffering from RSI of wrist. Boss explains cannot get Repetitive Strain Injury from dancing on tables, and that as I start work at 9.00am he had understandably figured out I wasn't coming in. He then takes great pains in chuckling down the phone that I had missed out on Cheryl from HR's birthday mudcake and gift giving afternoon. Why he thinks I care to see a 65 year old woman opening naughty underwear presents and crying about the lack of love life on which to use them is beyond me. Reminded myself to get the $1.50 back that I had put in.


As don't own fridge decide to trundle down to local wine bar for 'Happy Hour' pick-me-up and free nibbles between 5.00 - 6.00pm.


Couple at table next to me complain of lack of food whilst wait-staff explain that they usually order enough to last the full hour. Luckily I can stay svelt no matter how much I eat thanks to my Swedish genes (12 generations past) and the lack of money spent on actually buying anything edible.


Call from best friend needing assistance with two American sailors, a jug of alcopop and a "rather posh penthouse with real art" in City.


I walk along Main Street in Backwater Suburb eating a croissant and looking into shop windows admiring my reflection....
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