So, I’m unemployed again…brilliant. The fear and anticipation in the lead up to the end of the last job has been met with total despair. Not one of the people I had fervently e mailed from behind reception while trying to perform my job wanted to employ me, and I feared once more that my fate truly was to end up living off my parents at home like a washed up old teradactyl.
I considered my usual tactic for self pity which involves lying on the sofa for so long that an imprint of my body mass is formed. This imprint grows as I drown my sorrows in quavers, peperamis and smoked ham and mustard sandwiches from Tescos. But not this time, I knew that the only person who could drag me out of a pity coma so great, was Shelf.
Whilst reading through the backlog of 22 and on the shelf I noticed that I haven’t aforementioned that I actually live in Scotland. I was also educated there until the age of thirteen and have had to partake in such activities as ‘tossing the caber’ (throwing a log) or 'hurling the haggis’ which is actually a lot like the hammer which they throw at the olympic games. Throughout the horror of living in a country famed for its love of a drink designed to taste like rusty nails and its ability to batter anything, I had one life line. SHELF
Shelf’s name derives from her early acquisition of the biggest breasts I have ever seen. Not only that but when our mothers decided that we should earn a bit of extra pocket money through waitressing they made us wear green tunics which were buttoned up to the neck, meaning that every time shelf turned sideways..you could…well, see her shelf.
However, an enormous rack is not what saved me from the land of tartan and turnips, it is what that rack attracted that made our lives so much more entertaining…
Shelf is a generous soul and one fateful night she went to Garibaldi’s unaccompanied. (Gari B’s as it is referred to by the jailbait which frequents it is a night club which was and still is in possession of a light up dance floor, a mirrored ceiling AND a pole) It was this night that she met two army veterans.
“We’ve just got back from Afghanistan and its been so long since we’ve felt a woman’s touch,” they proclaimed, poor charitable shelf was at a loss. She chose the brother who looked the most pitiful and and became the founding member of, “hand jobs for heroes.” The night after, once shelf had shamefully confessed to her antics we ran into the same brothers. I was awkwardly introduced to both before one turned to shelf and said, “Oh, so its you who’s picking up the bill for my dad’s suit to be dry cleaned.” Needless to say, Shelf’s face read FUCK! and we made a swift exit.
From this moment on, my destiny was sealed. I began performing the role of wing woman extraordinaire and have developed an uncanny knack for knowing exactly where to find Shelf. This was most recently made clear when I went to pick her up from a bar. I sent in a friend who knew nothing of shelf’s colourful past who returned empty handed, convinced that she must have left…in I went. I headed straight downstairs to find her copping off with a waiter in the kitchens.
I must now deliver some sad news. Shelf is no more. A breast reduction has reduced Shelf to the less remarkable nickname of 'sill.’ Shelf still lives on in spirit however and I don’t doubt for a second that I will have to pull her out of the clutches of many more unsuitable men before she finally settles on her charity of choice.
Watch this space.