I travelled to London with a girl, with the intention of going to Slimelight {a nightclub I attended the previous night}. Our aim was to work out who was the gender they appeared to be and who was a transvestite, of the people on the train and the clientele. (How we planned to do this, I don’t want to know.)
I had another corridor mate called Catherine, in addition to the one I already have. The two of them were planning to go to the room of a friend of theirs to watch a stupid action film. Real Catherine asked if I wanted to go with them. “No, but thanks for inviting me,” I said.
“It was Other Catherine’s idea,” she told me.
“Well, thank her for inviting me on my behalf, ok?”
I took my birth control pills out of my wallet. There were two left, for a Wednesday and a Friday. I assumed it was Tuesday and that Thursday’s must have gone astray, but I wasn’t too worried: I knew what to do.
I was standing outside the Gulbenkian Theatre (which is at my university), trying to get people to do certain things, such as watching television programmes.
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