Libraries are hotbeds of sexual tension. Urgencies are repressed next to the photocopier, there are muffled fumblings in the archives, the Shelf Stacker has dreams about shagging Tracy the Tesco checkout girl.
And that's just the Large Print section, next to the Gujarati Shelf and the revolving ancient CD's which used to be slightly popular whirligig thingumabob (or is it a tumbrel?)
I wish my local library didn't insist on employing auld bints in polyester slacks. Bad perms strolling around vagrants smelling of pee while leafing through Gardener's Weekly is not my idea of sexual Nirvana.
I think I'll go for the Late Returns harridan who winks at me with her one good eye, which isn't glass:
She's gagging for it.
Cheers to Eleven Years
1 day ago