Wednesday, 22nd March
Is that near Daroobalgie?

Yesterday I arranged to see a flat in Fulham. The chick I spoke to was called Becky. I told Mark that I had a hot date with Becky tomorrow night. Well did that set us off.

Mark said that I was going to get there and she'd be the size of a house.
"I can't get to the door, just let yourself in."
"I can't get up, so just show yourself around. While yer in the kitchen, get me a battered sausage."
"I don't sweat as much during the winter."
"If you rub my thighs with Vaseline, you might be able to help me out of the armchair."
"We share a bathroom, living room and kitchen, but the tv remote is mine."

So I went to Fulham, not knowing what to expect. Becky turned out to be neither supermodel nor jumping castle sized. A former air hostess who could be described as "bubbly", she had a slightly husky voice, but that was more likely to be due to her chain smoking than any raw sexiness.

We got on really well (she didn't try to jump me, although I know that the thought crossed her mind). As she showed me around the flat I was carrying on like a pork chop, and she said "You're quite mad, aren't you?" Ahh, such an astute judge of character. She made me a drink of cordial, we sat in the living area and I entertained her with stories about Neighbours.

Then she tells me that she sort of promised the flat to someone else. Oh well. I didn't finish my cordial. Becky asked me if I wanted to finish it. I said no thanks, "any more and I'm anybody's!"

She's missing out on a top flatmate.