I know some of you hate these 750 word stories, so you can hate me, because back several years ago it was me, I think, that submitted the very first one. Sorry for that, but the word count this time starts.....now!
I was 'up north' as us southerners might say, trying to tie up a contract for my company that was proving difficult. But after a tiring day I was pleased to find a friendly pub, which was not surprising, but also a small group of Arsenal supporters waiting for the match to start on the tv, which in that town certainly was. A pint or two and we were all best buddies, and with a third one in front of me, we were potential life long friends.
Twenty minutes in and already two nil up, when a overly hard tackle bought the game to a halt while the referee consulted the tv playback. It was then that the cameras roamed the terraces, picking out interesting characters, cute young kids and of course the pretty girls. It was indeed then that the camera lingered a little longer than normal on one of the private boxes where I had myself spent some happy and fortunately just occasional less happy hours.
"Who's that guy?" Queried the guy next to me.
"Who's the woman with him you mean," countered Jim, behind him, and the group as a whole murmured their general agreement, the woman in question with her long blonde hair, short skirt and legs to die for.
"That's my boss," I found myself telling them, because there he was, not surprisingly as it was his company and they paid for the corporate sponsorship.
"Lucky bastard," commented another one, "She could be a model."
"She is, or rather was," I confirmed his accurate judgement.
It was at the moment that my boss's hand roamed to where it maybe shouldn't have in a public place and the camera crew promptly panned away not wishing to cause embarrassment. However Joe, the guy behind the bar with the tv zapper, clicked it and zapped it back, thinking that his customers would be more interested for a few minutes in my boss feeling up some unknown woman's tit's than the ref's lack of action on the pitch.
"You know her as well?" Queried the chap on my left.
"Yes," I confirmed. "Biblically speaking."
"Your fucking your bosses wife?" Demanded yet another of our group. I think his name was Mike.
"Ex wife" I explained with a sigh.
"What's he doing feeling up his ex wife's tits in public," came the next question, quite reasonably really, though of course my boss would have had no idea that his bit of fun was being televised to all and sundry.
"Not his ex wife," I explained sadly. "My ex wife."
