I never did the lottery or the football pools before them. I'm not a lucky person. If I was ever going to have a bit of money, it was going to be through hard work.
My missus is just the opposite. It would be unkind and untrue to describe her as a bit of an airhead. She isn't; she is cleverer than me. If your yardstick is academic qualification, you are a lot cleverer than me. Let's just say she has a more hopeful disposition than mine.
When we met, I was working as a plumber; that was back in Thatcher's Britain. I had to leave the town I was brought up in to find work. I cadged some money from my old man, went to live for a short period of my life in Hades (some call it London), and then moved to Brighton. Wages were better in London, but Brighton was so much nicer.
At the time I was living in my van, I owed money, and that had to be paid off before I could spend anything on myself. That was the way I was then, and I still am now. I try not to spend money I don't have.
Twice in London, I had to miss work, a gross sin in my book. I had to visit the tool shop and empty my bank account of its recent savings because some evil bastard had broken into my van and nicked everything. I was in the pub both times.
Brighton wages were nearly as good, and there was a very comely barmaid who I was very taken with. She pulled a lovely pint of beer in "The Lord Palmerston." After a few not-too-heavy-handed putdowns, I managed to pull the barmaid.
Her name is Seph. Short for Persephone I love her name, but she hates it. So it's Seph! Living in a van full of radiators, spanners, hammers, etc., it's easy to let your personal hygiene standards slip. Normally, I would boil up a pan of water. I had a tarpaulin I threw over the open back doors of the van so I could hide away and have a strip-down wash in the street.
It took me about minus 10 outside; at the time, there was around six inches of snow on the ground. Being a bit stinky didn't seem too bad, and stripping off in the street wasn't high on my list of priorities.
It was Poet's Day! Poet's Day for building workers is every Friday. P.O.E.T.S. day; piss off early tomorrow's Saturday. I was looking at getting pissed, trying and probably failing to chat Seph up again, maybe a game of pool, and back to my little house on wheels for a wank while cherishing a mind photograph of Seph's deep and beconing cleavage. You never have to look your best to masturbate. Tomorrow, I'll take my hangover to the local swimming pools. Reappearing like a new man, bright, shiny, and freshly scrubbed
I walked into the Palmerston and called over to Seph for a pint. She shook her head. Three of the guys were playing pool. So I asked if they wanted a game of pairs. Seph came over without a pint for me. You are not playing pool today. It's my birthday; I'm not working, and you are taking me out. Did I say I pulled her?
The Palmerston was a big pub. Above the bar, lounge, and snug, there was a big party room with a very good dance floor. Above that, through a locked door marked private, was a steep, creaky stair to an attic flat where Seph lived. She worked Fridays to Sundays for Arnold, the landlord, for a pittance, but she had a Brighton town centre flat. She had a till allowance as well, but I think I drank most of that; even then, she was looking after me!
"God, you stink like a badger," she said as she kissed me. "This key is my flat door. Go and have a bath and change your clothes." She looked at my feet with a varied, worried look and said, "And shoes". Dunlop Green Flash pumps didn't really count as shoes then; I don't suppose they do now either. If you smell remotely human when you come down, you can still be my beau tonight. If you still stink like a pig, I'm eating cake on my own."
"Where are we going?"
"You're taking me dancing to Sherry's." Sherry's was a ballroom in Brighton, now very sadly closed. "Mud are playing a rock and roll revival. Take me there and buy me a brandy and babycham or two, and you may get to play with the twins."
The twins were Seph's impressive boobs. Impressive is the right word; with her back to you, you can still see them. Seph is fetish cartoon proportions. I, along with all the non-gay men in Brighton, had at least one wank a week thinking of her. Personally, I felt I was insulting her if I didn't get seven a week. I used to have to crack my sleeping bag to get out of it in the mornings back then.
Arnold had christened them the twins. Arnold had suffered a knee in the nuts several times when he tried to grab a feel. Seph is lovely, but she does not mess around with liberty takers one bit. It didn't take a genius to figure out why a dirty old perv like Arnold had employed her.
It took a fair few before Arnold got the message: A persistent old bastard is Arnold. Then he realised there was a definite look but don't touch rule operating. Arnold shot me an envious look and said, "You are a fucking lucky bastard". He said.
"Oi stinky," she shouted across the busy pub. "If you can dance properly, I may just give you a hand job while you play with them. Go and have a bath, and be quick about it. No wanking, though; I'm not spending half an hour or more getting you off. You have to buy me dinner before we dance."
This was shaping up to be an expensive day out, but back then I would have happily blown a week's wages to get to play with her tits. I still would.
I didn't get to open the box that night. But I saw a side of Seph that hooked me, so I took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. If there was ever a defining point, that was it. I fell head over heels in love with her.
Opening the box as she put it took another three months of Brandy and Babychams dancing and lots of grovelling and munching the beaver. That night I was sent off to sleep on the couch; it was a put-you-up fold-out job. But before she sent me off, it was time for my reward for being her best dance partner ever. Apart from the night I really pissed her off, I never slept in the van again. That couch was as close as I got to sleeping with her for quite a while, though.
She flashed me a big, shit-eating grin. Stand up, she said, and I did; we were both stark naked. She sat on the bed with me, her thighs facing her. She took my nob and wrapped it in her tits. I didn't last five seconds. I blew my jiz all over her face, hair, and tits. She laughed like it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. To be fair to me, she had been rubbing them all over me all night.
"Have you no self-control at all?" She asked me, all giggly, like a schoolgirl.
I nearly collapsed. She made me put her bra back on and kiss them goodbye.
I can dance properly. We danced well together. We danced our way through an engagement party downstairs, up the church aisle, and to the wedding party again downstairs. And in and out of the maternity ward twice.
I worked hard, and we bought our first home, a flat, just out of town. Then, when Irene, our first daughter, arrived, we bought a two-bedroom house. When Lilly came into the world, we moved to a three-bedroom house in one of the South Downs villages. I worked hard, and then when the guy I worked for retired, I bought his order book. I took on an apprentice and a couple of guys, and we all made a good living.
Seph has always liked her puss eaten. It's not a problem; I love eating it. I love rimming her brownie, for that matter. Over the years, we have developed a bit of a feminist edge to our sex lives. I like that as well. We would have delved deeper, I'm sure, if not for the kids.
It's hard to be your woman's arse-licking, whipped body slave when your three-year-old wants Daddy to cuddle her, read her a bedtime story, and then read her another one after the headboard of our bed banging on her wall has woken her up at midnight. Then Daddy has to make sure the monster her sister told her about, who lives under her bed, can't get out to eat her bottom. Irene did have a sense of humour once; fuck only knows what happened to it. More recently, we just didn't have the time to spend with each other.
The key to moving up was Seph again. She took on my most hated job, doing my books. We were a team, and as a team, we worked well. Then one day, years after the events above, I met a guy who wanted me to plumb out and do the heating in a three-flat conversion.
That went well. Then a 5-flat development, then a 7-starter home job. Then he got me involved in supplying, fixing, and financing the plumbing and heating on a 35-home development. I borrowed the house set from some more guys. The bastard stitched me up. I should have seen it coming, but I didn't.
I managed to pay everyone who worked for me. My suppliers bankrupted me, and my pension and house were gone. All I had left was Seph and the girls; thank God she stood by me. My eldest girl was married, and she and her man were doing OK. My youngest. The one with the brains was away at university and was hopefully going places. We didn't let them know the half of it.
I was now 45 years old, so I bought a new tool bag and got a job. I'm a plumber; I worked hard again, and I had almost paid the banks off when, one Friday, Poet's Day, I got a message from Seph's phone. Meet me in the Palmerston Stinky.
When I walked into the pub, Arnold was sitting and talking to Seph. "Is he trying to grab your fun bags again, love?" I said as I sat down. "No, I'm trying to sell her a pub. I'm retiring, Vinny. You two would be good at this. "Too bad, Arnold," Seph said, "we are retiring as well."
"Yeh, in about 25 years, if I last that long. We have no money, Arnold; no good trying to flog us anything." Arnold went back to his bar.
"Do you want a drink, love?"
"No, not really." I was still very depressed at that time; Seph knew it.
"You will! I've got something to show you."
"Pint, please, Arny," I called over. I sat down with Seph; she had a grin on her face, like I'd just lost a bet and my face was going to be her seat for an hour. "I said as much."
"It's better than that," said Seph. "Well, it's for me, but your face is going to think it came from furniture land."
Read this and keep a straight face. Seph handed me a letter from the bank. "Is it bad or very bad, love?"
"Just read it."
The letter outlined how the 13.4 million pound check from Camalot had now been placed into our joint account, and we could draw on it as of now.
