thought about it.. did it.. shouldn't have..

For three days I have agonised over the mystery of the unknown ‘Sonia.’ Who was this alluring beauty that had seen fit to adorn my person with her name and details in finest red Avon?
Was she a tortured Iberian princess, freed from the bounds of a bullish husband by a night of lust with the Chesworth lothario? Was she one of the dancers at ‘The Cellar’ who saw me cut my moves on the dancefloor and knew that, somehow, she must have me?
Or was she like most of my past conquests – a rotund scabfest with the sexiness of petrol and the spatial awareness of a pissed frog?
Something in me felt that I just had to know, but every time I reached for the telephone my hand froze in apprehension.
My main fear was that it was all a set-up; that Hannah or one of her friends had taken advantage of my spirit-induced coma to scribble the name of a phone-box prostitute on me ‘for future hilarity.’
Every sane part of my conscience (and the two people I talked it over with at work last night) told me to just ignore it, and move on.
Then, in a moment of tired weakness, I called her.
She is a 45-year-old bakers wife, currently awaiting an operation for gallstones, and when I said “I think we may have, um, slept together at the weekend” she replied “Oh, Jesus Christ. Which one were you?”
I am never drinking again.

RC 13-2-09
0905 GMT