“Hi. It’s me. Yeah. Fine. You’ll never guess who I saw this morning. Taragon. Taragon Fuller. Yeah. She saw me she knew it was me but she just ignored me.”
(at this point I may accidentally have vocalised ‘there’s probably a reason for that luv’ which made the guy sitting opposite smirk)
So I shut the chavvy little girl out; I plugged in my iPod, switched on and cranked up the volume to drown out the rest of the conversation. I looked around the coach. It was plain that other people wished they had a similar retreat from this aural onslaught.
If this girl makes it to her 17th birthday in one piece it will only be because someone teaches her how to conduct a telephone conversation in the correct tones.
B.
Taragon? TARAGON? Give me fucking strength.
Who, pray tell, is Taragon Fuller. Humor me. I’m from out of town. Well, out of country, actually.
Laughing muchly and greatly out loud at Mya’s ejaculation. 🙂
Bulldog: Wish I knew! But she is the person that the very loud maker of phone calls was talking about in a not very discrete manner.
They used to employ tarragon fullers in medieval abbeys and at court. It’s certainly not a job I’d want: tarragon’s a bugger to handle, and can go off with a bang if you’re not careful.
I think this particular Taragon Fuller is probably one cool chica – particularly as she blanked this loud-voiced girl!