I don’t know why but I’ve long been attracted to women in the funeral industry. Maybe it’s the black clothing and the necessarily sombre looks? Maybe I associate sex with death? I’m sure an analyst could have a field day with it. Maybe I want to make love in the bowels of a crematorium or in a coffin or something, I’m not sure. This affliction, if such it is, is beginning to get me noticed around several of the funeral shops in the local area and I’m going to have to stop visiting them before I get arrested for stalking. I’ve even started visiting them in disguise but I don’t think they’re fooled.
“How much are your value funerals?” I’ll ask.
“You mean our Customized Plan funerals, sir! Well,….”
“Is there a two-for-one deal?”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir”.
By this time, she’s a little flustered. She’s
blonde, around forty, black skirt and waistcoat over a crisp white blouse. I
visualise its black stockings she’s wearing but it’s more likely tights. It’s
the third time I’ve been in in a fortnight and I don’t think she’s buying the
false beard and the crutches. I look like a size foot four Long John Silver and
I’ve actually got a blow-up parrot which I stupidly forgot to bring.
I hobble out pretending disgruntlement and move on
to the next establishment where the receptionist is small but perfectly
proportioned.
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