Lost!

It was a warm, balmy evening last night, so Georgina and I decided to go out on the town. We got all dressed up in our finest rags – Georgina wore those long, dangly diamond earrings – and set off from our room in the residential hotel where we live determined to have a grand old time. We saw loads of people we knew on the stairwell on the way down to the lobby. There was that dude who was in my class in the 4th year at Chis & Sid and a few guys from the navy but the first people we spoke to were Aaron and his girlfriend (who was that girl?) who were both naked under their open trenchcoats. As far as I recall, this was the first time that I had ever dreamt about Aaron and it was definitely the first time I had seen him naked.

We quickly noticed that everyone was naked under their trenchcoats but this didn’t trouble us in the slightest. We were determined to have a grand old time.

When the barman at the restaurant where we stopped for a cocktail explained that it was National Naked Under a Trenchcoat Day, we were a little bit disappointed that we hadn’t known but we were having such a fun time that we soon forgot about it. This was the first time we gone out on our own in, like, forever.

When we returned to the hotel, the trenchcoat people were still there and we stopped to share some gossip. As I walked up the stairs chatting with Marty, I heard a huge cheer from behind me. Georgina had removed all her clothing and tossed it to me with a wink and a smile. I was so proud! Proud like the time I watched my new wife go skinny dipping on a deserted Jamaican beach while I kept a look out and watched the sun rise. “Looks like she is having fun!” said Marty as we continued up the stairs. When I turned back to admire my wife one more time, she had disappeared!

I looked everywhere for her, searching frantically from room to room. “Have you seen Georgina? Have you seen Georgina?” “We thought she was with you”, replied her shocked mother (she shocks easily).

I set out into the dawn of a deserted London to look for her. London had, of course, turned into a demolition site by now and the roar of the bulldozers and the tattered remnants of the wind-blown porno mags made my search seem very poignant. With my heart in my weary boots, I wandered from street to street angrily kicking aside the discarded bus tickets until – “Beep! Beep! Beep!” – the warning alarm of the reversing bulldozer transformed into the even sadder tone of my alarm clock telling me it was time to get up and go to work.

What a sad, sad start to the day.

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Ragged Clown

Based in San Jose, California

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