Today I met a toothsome Scottish lass by the name of Diane. She had hair the colour of glazed almonds, skin as pale as lily petals, and the kind of hips that would make you deliquesce right out of your kilt. We were both waiting in line to use the loo, when in a moment of mind-numbing randomness she blurted out: “I believe that brevity is the soul of wit!” Caught off guard by her non sequitur, I thoughtlessly responded: “then you should find my performance in bed very amusing”. She erupted in snortful laughter and simmultaneously we recognised in each other the same penchant for the random and absurd that resided in ourselves. It was one of those wonderful moments when mutually insane minds meet—a cosmic connection that laughs in the face of reason. Soon we were seated on the floor next to the toilet having a lengthy conversation about love, life and the silver paper used to make chewing gum wrappers. She went into detail about how she and her father fought constantly, particularly over his stubborn refusal to let go of his prostate cancer. The feud between father and daughter continued until he finally succumbed to the disease. Diane was so upset by her father’s death that she refused to talk to him again. I encouraged her to make reconciliation with her deceased progenitor, to which she responded by suggesting that we make love instead. Twenty minutes later we were both rolling around in a nearby park wearing nothing but our socks and scarves, our bodies entwined like a black and white barbershop pole. Tomorrow we are planning to have a picnic on the green of the St Andrews Old Golf Course where we will sip sherry, dodge oncoming golf balls, and discuss the long forgotten fashion trends of Tsarist Russia.
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