My Legendary Girlfriend Read Online Free PDF

about thanking her for her effort, but as Tammy and I couldn’t stand each other I hadn’t bothered. I’d assumed her assistance was some kind of perverse tactic to get one over on me.
    I opened the fridge door and peered in. The light didn’t come on. I suspected it probably hadn’t done so since the Apollo Moon landings. Peering amongst the abandoned items within: marmalade, margarine, tomato ketchup, a five-day-old can of beans and an onion – I spied a jar of olives and smiled heartily to myself.
    Lying on the sofa in the main room, I lanced an olive while attempting to write my name on the cushion with my index finger – all the down strokes followed the flow of the material so half of it was missing. Time flowed by. I ate another olive and stared at the ceiling. More time flowed by. I ate another olive and tried to read my book. Yet more time flowed by. I ate another olive and let the brine drip off the end of the fork onto my chin and dribble down to my neck. At this point I decided it was time for action. I considered all the things that needed doing and chose the least painful: a begging letter to the bank. On a page of notepaper using a green Berol marker pen I’d stolen from school, I wrote:

    Dear student banking advisor,

    Having recently qualified from a teacher training course I’m now ready, at the age of twenty-five (nearly twenty-six) to take my place as a fully functioning member of society. I have a job but am living in London, and it is so ridiculously expensive to live here that I’m not sure why I bother. To this end please would you extend my already extended overdraft a bit more, because otherwise I may faint from starvation in front of a class of fourteen-year-olds.

    Yours forever,

    William Kelly
    I chuckled aloud. I was just about to add ‘PS and don’t think that I’ve forgotten that you stitched me up when I needed you most’, when I noticed the red light of the answering machine blinking away.
    Next to the Walkman, I considered the answering machine to be one of man’s truly great achievements. It allowed you to keep abreast of the latest developments in your social life and screen calls. Brilliant. My love for this particular piece of technology was inspired by a message Aggi left on my Aunt Susan’s when I was house-sitting for her in Primrose Hill during the summer vacation of my second year. At the time, Aunt Susan lived in London, where she was beauty editor on Woman’s Realm or some other similar magazine that had knitting patterns.
    Aunt Susan, it must be said, was more unlike my mother than I thought possible for people who had shared the same womb. Twelve years younger than my mother – almost a generation apart – she had more in common with me. She hated work, was one of the first in her road to have cable television, and adored the third series of Blackadder . She used to tell me that she’d never get married because then she’d have to grow up. The summer after I came to house-sit, however, she got hitched, had my cousin Georgia, gave up journalism and moved back to Nottingham. On the occasion in question, she’d gone on holiday with Uncle-Bill-to-be, and said I could do whatever I wanted with the house as long as the police weren’t involved. Fortunately for her all I did was watch videos, eat crisp sandwiches and walk her dog, Seabohm – hardly activities worthy of the scrutiny of the local constabulary. I’d been out walking the dog on this particular day, when I returned to the house to discover there was a message for me from Aggi:
    You’re not in! This is not how it was supposed to be. All I wanted to say was that I dreamt about you last night. We were in a field and the soundtrack to ‘Singin’ in The Rain’ was playing in the background. We lay on our backs just staring at the moon. I want you to know I won’t stop loving you. I promise you, I won’t.
    I listened to it over and over again. I wanted to keep it forever but it was sandwiched