By ninth week of last term my purse was as empty as my timetable. My housemate and I looked dolefully at each other. Could we ward away Tuesday night boredom with only a fiver? We would try.
Our chosen bar was apparently as strapped for cash as I was: Taylor Swift warbled on a loop at three different volumes in an attempt to create the illusion of musical variety. I tottered towards an edifice that promised to be selling vodka, and leaned in to scream my question at a passing bartender: “What’s the MOST ALCOHOL that I can get for the LEAST MONEY??!” He cocked an eyebrow at this tight-arsed twit. “If you give me a kiss, you can have the house special for free.” The monster of my impending sobriety deftly flicked away any polite inhibitions I reckon I might have maybe felt, and I immediately lunged towards his cheek.
Mr Bartender didn’t look at all surprised. He was no stranger to the opportunistic flirt. It had got boring. Perhaps… could he push this one further? Ah, Mr Bartender, you had met your match. My desire for sordid sexual anecdotes knows no bounds. Star-crossed lovers, we tumbled joyously into an appropriately tawdry staffroom, and got down to work.
Foolishly engrossed in the task at hand, neither of us had counted on the very distinct possibility of company. The door burst open. Ever so slowly, I disentangled myself from Mr Bartender’s nether-regions and turned to look at the intruder. A very flustered manager observed us incredulously for a painfully long three seconds. As he opened his mouth to speak, I searched fruitlessly through my bank of Polite Excuses. I needn’t have worried. “Don’t keep him all night, eh?”, he said before leaving. A club manager turned reluctant madame. Mr Bartender was as spooked as I was, but we’d be damned if a little trifle like a P45 was going to cockblock us tonight.
Having finished and tidied up, Mr Bartender offered me that promised drink. I looked thoughtfully at my vodka and cranberry. How would the world’s oldest profession look on my CV?
